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Wolfinger showed signs of life at that announcement. “Maybe Jon has a point there. Maybe this was just another planned detour for the police, to get you all panicked. What do you think?”

“I think you could be right,” Savich said. “Dane, sit down before you fall down.”

Dane went to one of the two very uncomfortable chairs in the huge, nearly empty office and sat down. He cupped his left arm with his right hand.

“What happened to you?” Jon asked.

Linus said, “A Harley.”

“What?”

But Jon Franken didn’t wait for an answer, just began pacing. “Look, this has got to come to an end. You’ve got to stop the maniac. Everyone is really freaked.”

Savich said, “You told us, Mr. Franken, that Weldon DeLoach is around thirty years old. When you showed us that tape, we all agreed that he looked older, forty at least.”

Jon shrugged. “That’s what he told me. He lives hard, what can I say? This town is really tough on some people, and Weldon’s one of them. You don’t understand—it sounds like a joke, but it’s all too true. People who work in TV die young because they work their butts off—an eighteen-hour day is common. Lots of people just sleep here on the lot, on sets, in trailers. I found one guy sacked out in Scully’s bed on stage five, his foot dangling over the side of the crib at the end of the bed. About Weldon—look, I never had any reason to doubt him. Are you saying he’s a lot older than he told me?”

“He’s forty-one, nearly forty-two,” Sherlock said. “You’ve known him for eight years, right?”

“Yeah, about that. I really never paid much attention. Who cares?”

“A lot of things could hinge on that,” Sherlock said. “We don’t know yet.”

Savich turned back to Linus Wolfinger. “It’s time for a geography lesson, Linus. Bryce Canyon is in Utah, not Wyoming. So, what were you doing during that year?”

Jon Franken looked at Linus. “You don’t know where Bryce Canyon is? Jesus, Linus, you’re supposed to know everything.”

Savich wished that Jon Franken would take himself off.

Linus just smiled and continued to tap his pen. “The agent over there told me how much she loved it and that it was in Wyoming. I wasn’t about to make her look like an ignoramus. It wouldn’t be very polite, now would it?”

Well, shit, Dane thought. The politicians in Washington could learn spin from these characters.

Dane’s cell phone rang just as Nick was seat-belting him into the backseat of Savich’s rental car, a big dark blue Ford Taurus. They were parked on the studio lot because the media couldn’t get into the studio itself, thank God. He listened, didn’t say a word for a good three minutes. Sherlock, Savich, and Nick were all staring at him, waiting.

“All right,” Dane said. “I’ll get back to you within the hour.” He pressed the end button, stared at Savich, and shook his head. “That was Mr. Latterley, the manager of the Lakeview Home for Retired Police Officers—you know, the nursing home where Weldon DeLoach’s father has lived for the past ten years.

“Mr. Latterley says that Weldon DeLoach called this morning. Said he wants to come see his father late this afternoon, and was that all right. He also said that when he’d called before they told him that his father fell out of his wheelchair and hurt himself.”

“But no one told us that Weldon had called before,” Sherlock said.

“That’s right,” Dane said. He sat back, leaned his head against the seat, and closed his eyes. “No one called at all to tell us. You know, of course, that I left my card with every sentient employee at the nursing home.”

Savich didn’t say anything else. He pulled out of the studio and onto Pico Boulevard, crammed with traffic and blaring horns. “First things first,” he said.

Because of heavy traffic, it was forty-five minutes before they exited 405 and wound up Mulholland Drive to Frank Pauley’s glass house. The surrounding hills were dry, too dry.

FiFi Ann, in her French maid’s outfit, the little white cap on her hair, answered the door and stared at Dane’s arm in its blue sling.

“Somebody bring you down, Agent?