The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 6-10 - Catherine Coulter [216]
Sherlock said, “Why weren’t you watching TV with Belinda last night?”
“What? Oh, I was playing poker with some guys in Malibu. It’s a weekly game. There were five of us. You can check it out.”
Savich waved to the very long gray sofa. “Do sit down, Mr. Pauley.” He motioned Sherlock, Dane, and Nick to sit down as well. “Agent Carver was shot yesterday, so he needs to take it easy. It’s likely that the murderer was trying to kill Nick.”
Pauley just stared at Dane, then over at Nick. He said slowly, looking utterly bewildered, “I just don’t understand any of this. It doesn’t make sense. All of this is just plain crazy.”
“I’m starting to agree with you,” Dane said. He was feeling a bit green again. His arm was throbbing, a dull bite that just wouldn’t stop. He cupped his right hand under his elbow, sat back in the comfortable gray leather chair, and held himself perfectly still.
Nick’s hand hovered, then lightly touched his.
“Mr. Pauley,” Sherlock said, “help us get a handle on this, please. When you got home last night from your poker game, did Belinda tell you about the show?”
Pauley looked at his fingernails, then down at the tassels on his Italian loafers. “I didn’t go home last night.”
“Oh?” Savich said. “Just where did you go?”
“We played poker until really late and I had too much to drink. I stayed over at Jimbo’s house.”
Savich raised a dark eyebrow. “Jimbo?”
“That’s James Elliott Croft.”
“The actor?” Nick said.
“Yes. He’s also a lousy poker player. I won three hundred bucks off him.”
Savich said, eyebrow raised higher, “And he still let you stay?”
Pauley said, “Hey, it’s a really big house. I’m a quiet drunk, never bother anyone.”
Sherlock said, not breaking the rhythm that she and Savich had set up, “When you saw Belinda this morning, she told you about the show?”
Pauley shook his head. “No, she was pissed at me because I’d told her I was coming home but I didn’t. She’d left for a run before I even got back from Jimbo’s house.”
Savich said, “So you don’t know why she wouldn’t have called last night, the minute she realized she was watching episode three?”
“No clue. She’s at home right now. I know that Detective Flynn spoke to her. What did he tell you?”
Sherlock gave him a nice smile. “I think I’ll just keep that under my hat.”
“You shouldn’t wear a hat, ever,” Pauley said. “It wouldn’t look good on you.”
“Depends on the hat,” Sherlock said, still with a sunny smile.
The phone rang. Pauley shot a harassed look toward his desk, listened to it ring again. “I told Heather not to disturb me so it must be really important,” he said, and picked up the phone, a fake antique affair in, naturally, gray.
When he hung up, he said, “That was Jon Franken. He says that his own personal copies of the next episodes of The Consultant are gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
“Agent Savich, look, the episodes we taped of The Consultant—they’re videotapes, and all over the place. Anyone who wants a copy can get ahold of it. All the producers, the editing department, the grips, anyone on set could get copies. They’re not locked away. Jon said that someone evidently took his copies.” He sighed. “Everyone knows that actual murders were committed using the scripts from the episodes. Who would steal Jon’s copies?”
“How many of his episodes are missing?” Sherlock said.
“He said the next three. Look, there’s just no way to hide the last three episodes we shot last summer. I’m surprised that Jon even noticed.” He looked like he wanted to howl. Sherlock devoutly hoped he wouldn’t.
“It seems,” Sherlock said, “that the videotape was delivered by Gleason Courier Service. We spoke to the man who delivered