Eleventh Hour
Page 65
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Sherlock said, “Surely if Belinda is involved, her husband has to at least suspect something.”
“Agreed,” Flynn said. “Now, Belinda Gates. She came to LA five years ago, got some minor roles, did some commercials, a couple of soft porn flicks, even did makeup for several sitcoms. Landing Pauley really made her career.
“From what we can tell, Linus Wolfinger is indeed a boy wonder. An arrogant little prick, evidently likes boys, but that’s gossip, not fact. He came from nothing; an orphan in and out of foster homes. Put himself through college—UC Santa Barbara—went to work in various production jobs at Premier Studios a year after he graduated, and somehow managed to impress Burdock at the tender age of barely twenty-three, and the rest, as they say, is history. There’s nothing on him, just one damned speeding ticket—and that was on the first day he was driving his new Porsche.”
“What was he doing that year after he graduated?” Savich asked.
Flynn’s eyes lit up. “Don’t know yet. We’re checking it.” He pulled a small black book from his inside jacket pocket and wrote in it. “One thing’s for sure, no one involved in The Consultant will be making a move without our being aware of it.” Then he smiled at everybody. “How about some dessert?”
Flynn and Delion ordered slices of apple pie, with French vanilla ice cream. When the two servings of dessert arrived, Flynn looked around the table. “All you pantywaist Feds, you nibble around like birds. No wonder you need the locals—we provide not only the brains, but the bulk.”
Sherlock, head cocked to the side, her red hair corkscrewing out, said, “You mean that’s our problem? A simple lack of sugar? I never thought of it like that.” She grabbed up her fork and cut a big piece of apple pie from Flynn’s slice.
Nick laughed. Dane joined in. It felt good.
Frank Pauley and Belinda Gates actually did live in a glass house, Dane thought, staring up at the monstrosity atop a cliff off Mulholland Drive. It was filled with lights, and if someone was wandering around inside naked, people five miles away could enjoy the view.
Five cops and one civilian trooped up to the gigantic double wooden doors. Flynn knocked.
A woman answered the door wearing a French maid’s outfit, replete with stiletto heels and stockings with seams up the back. She had a sexy little white cap on her head. The only thing was, she had to be at least fifty and a good twenty pounds overweight, her dark hair sprinkled with gray and cut butch.
Everyone managed to keep it together, even when she asked them to follow her into the living room.
“Sir, you have visitors. I believe they’re all police officers.” Then she nodded, perfectly serious, to each of them in turn and glided out on those three-inch black heels.
Once the door closed behind her, Delion said to Frank Pauley, “Nice house.”
“Thanks. My second wife was an architect. She designed it and it was built to her specifications. Since my third wife and Belinda both really liked it, I haven’t made any changes.” He cleared his throat. “The only thing is, Belinda picks the staff and doesn’t like anyone to be younger than fifty, and so we have FiFi Ann, who really is a very nice person, frighteningly efficient, and something of an exhibitionist.”
“FiFi Ann?” Sherlock said, an eyebrow up a good inch.
“She decided that was the name she wanted. She’s a former actress. She, ah, picked out her French maid’s outfit herself, said she wanted to adjust her image. Now, why are you all here at nine o’clock at night?”
“We would like to speak to Belinda,” Sherlock said. “Is she here?”
“Certainly. Her partying days are over unless she’s on my arm.” Pauley walked to the phone, punched a couple of buttons, and called, “Cops in the living room. Come save me.”
“Cute,” Flynn said.
Belinda came in not five minutes later, wearing black leggings and a sweatshirt, no sneakers. Her face was shiny with sweat, her hair plastered to her head. She was wiping her face with a towel.
“Hi, Agent Sherlock, Agent Savich. Frank, you don’t need help from them. They’ve got a little kid who’s adorable. Who are these other folks?”
Introductions were made. As usual, Dane included Nick, making her seem to be just another Federal agent.
“Are you here to arrest Frank?” Belinda said.
Flynn reached for the handcuffs in his back pocket, pulled them out, and waved them toward Pauley. “You want me to take him to the floor, ma’am? We officers of the law like to be obliging.”
“Agreed,” Flynn said. “Now, Belinda Gates. She came to LA five years ago, got some minor roles, did some commercials, a couple of soft porn flicks, even did makeup for several sitcoms. Landing Pauley really made her career.
“From what we can tell, Linus Wolfinger is indeed a boy wonder. An arrogant little prick, evidently likes boys, but that’s gossip, not fact. He came from nothing; an orphan in and out of foster homes. Put himself through college—UC Santa Barbara—went to work in various production jobs at Premier Studios a year after he graduated, and somehow managed to impress Burdock at the tender age of barely twenty-three, and the rest, as they say, is history. There’s nothing on him, just one damned speeding ticket—and that was on the first day he was driving his new Porsche.”
“What was he doing that year after he graduated?” Savich asked.
Flynn’s eyes lit up. “Don’t know yet. We’re checking it.” He pulled a small black book from his inside jacket pocket and wrote in it. “One thing’s for sure, no one involved in The Consultant will be making a move without our being aware of it.” Then he smiled at everybody. “How about some dessert?”
Flynn and Delion ordered slices of apple pie, with French vanilla ice cream. When the two servings of dessert arrived, Flynn looked around the table. “All you pantywaist Feds, you nibble around like birds. No wonder you need the locals—we provide not only the brains, but the bulk.”
Sherlock, head cocked to the side, her red hair corkscrewing out, said, “You mean that’s our problem? A simple lack of sugar? I never thought of it like that.” She grabbed up her fork and cut a big piece of apple pie from Flynn’s slice.
Nick laughed. Dane joined in. It felt good.
Frank Pauley and Belinda Gates actually did live in a glass house, Dane thought, staring up at the monstrosity atop a cliff off Mulholland Drive. It was filled with lights, and if someone was wandering around inside naked, people five miles away could enjoy the view.
Five cops and one civilian trooped up to the gigantic double wooden doors. Flynn knocked.
A woman answered the door wearing a French maid’s outfit, replete with stiletto heels and stockings with seams up the back. She had a sexy little white cap on her head. The only thing was, she had to be at least fifty and a good twenty pounds overweight, her dark hair sprinkled with gray and cut butch.
Everyone managed to keep it together, even when she asked them to follow her into the living room.
“Sir, you have visitors. I believe they’re all police officers.” Then she nodded, perfectly serious, to each of them in turn and glided out on those three-inch black heels.
Once the door closed behind her, Delion said to Frank Pauley, “Nice house.”
“Thanks. My second wife was an architect. She designed it and it was built to her specifications. Since my third wife and Belinda both really liked it, I haven’t made any changes.” He cleared his throat. “The only thing is, Belinda picks the staff and doesn’t like anyone to be younger than fifty, and so we have FiFi Ann, who really is a very nice person, frighteningly efficient, and something of an exhibitionist.”
“FiFi Ann?” Sherlock said, an eyebrow up a good inch.
“She decided that was the name she wanted. She’s a former actress. She, ah, picked out her French maid’s outfit herself, said she wanted to adjust her image. Now, why are you all here at nine o’clock at night?”
“We would like to speak to Belinda,” Sherlock said. “Is she here?”
“Certainly. Her partying days are over unless she’s on my arm.” Pauley walked to the phone, punched a couple of buttons, and called, “Cops in the living room. Come save me.”
“Cute,” Flynn said.
Belinda came in not five minutes later, wearing black leggings and a sweatshirt, no sneakers. Her face was shiny with sweat, her hair plastered to her head. She was wiping her face with a towel.
“Hi, Agent Sherlock, Agent Savich. Frank, you don’t need help from them. They’ve got a little kid who’s adorable. Who are these other folks?”
Introductions were made. As usual, Dane included Nick, making her seem to be just another Federal agent.
“Are you here to arrest Frank?” Belinda said.
Flynn reached for the handcuffs in his back pocket, pulled them out, and waved them toward Pauley. “You want me to take him to the floor, ma’am? We officers of the law like to be obliging.”
