“They’ve been up forever,” Flynn said. “Neat, isn’t it?”
The head of Premier Studios, who was second only to the owner, mogul Miles Burdock, was on the fifth floor, the executive level of a modern building that didn’t look at all fancy and was close to the entrance of the studio lot.
The Big Cheese’s name was Linus Wolfinger and he wasn’t a man, Pauley told them when he met them in his office on the fourth floor, he was a boy who was only twenty-four years old. He believed himself a genius, and the arrogant Little Shit was right.
“Does this mean you don’t like him?” Delion said.
“You think it’s that noticeable?”
“Nah, I’m just real sensitive to nuances,” Delion said.
“The problem,” Frank Pauley said, waving that hand with the four diamond rings on it, “is that the Little Shit is really good when it comes to picking story concepts, and God knows there are zillions pitched each season. He’s good at picking actors, at picking the right time slots for the shows to air. Sometimes he’s wrong, but not that often. It’s all very depressing, particularly since he has the habit of telling everyone how great he is. Everyone hates his guts.”
“Yeah,” Delion said. “Even as delicate as I am, I can sure see why.”
“Twenty-four? As in only two dozen years old?” Detective Flynn asked.
“Yep, a raw thing to swallow,” Frank Pauley said. “On the other hand, most of the top executives in a studio are only around for the short term-maybe three, four years. You can bet their entire focus is on how much money they can pocket before they’re out. This is a money business. There are simply no other considerations. You’ll have an executive producer getting his paycheck, then he’ll decide to direct a show and that means he gets another paycheck. It’s all ego and money.”
“Why are you telling us all this, Mr. Pauley?” Flynn asked.
Frank Pauley grinned, splayed his hands. “Hey, I’m cooperating. It’s better if you have some clue what motivates people around here.”
“You direct shows, Mr. Pauley?” Nick said.
“You bet. I sometimes also earn a paycheck for inputting on the actual writing of an episode.”
“Three paychecks?” Nick asked.
“Yes, everyone does it who can. You know what’s even better? For direction and writing, I get royalties or residuals. I’ve got no complaints.”
Flynn rolled his eyes, said, “I’ve got to make sure my son is clear on all of this.”
Delion said, “You’re telling us that money, power, and ego-are the bottom line here in sin city? How shocking.”
Pauley smiled. “I hesitate to say this so cynically, but I want to be totally up front with you. This is a very serious mess we’ve got on our hands. If it gets out, and you can bet the bank it will, I don’t want to think what’s going to happen. The media will be brutal. I’ve kept quiet about this, just as you asked. To the best of my knowledge, no one involved in
“What do you mean a ‘regular’ office?” Nick asked.
“You’ll see.”
“Tell us about Miles Burdock,” Delion said.
“He likes everyone to think he’s hands-on, that if he personally doesn’t like a show, it’s gone, but to be honest about it, it’s really Linus Wolfinger who’s got all the power around here. Mr. Burdock has so many irons in the fire-most of them international-and hell, you come right down to it, we’re just a little iron. He really likes Linus Wolfinger, met him here at the studio, watched him over a couple of months while Linus did nearly all the planning and execution of one of our prime-time shows when both the producer and the director proved incompetent. Then he promoted him, put him in charge of the whole magilla just like that.” Frank Pauley snapped his fingers. “It caused quite a furor for a while.”
They went through three secretaries, all over fifty, professionals to their button-down shirts, with not a single long leg showing, and not a single long red nail.
Frank Pauley just waved at them and kept walking down the wide corridor. Flynn said, “I would have bet no self-respecting studio honcho would have secretaries like these.”
“You mean like adult secretaries? Linus fired the other, much younger secretary the day he moved in. Fact is, though, everyone needs slaves who will work eighteen-hour days without much bitching. That means young, and so usually the secretaries aren’t older than thirty. That’s why Linus hired three secretaries. Let me tell you, the place really runs better now.”
Nick said, “How long has Mr. Wolfinger been here?”
“Nearly two years in his current position, maybe six months before that. Let me tell you, it’s been the longest two years in my life.”
A man of about thirty-five, so beefed up he probably couldn’t stand straight, put himself in their faces, barring their way. He looked like he could grind nails with his teeth. “That’s Arnold Loftus, Linus’s bodyguard,” Pauley said under his breath. “He never says anything, and everybody is afraid of him.”
“He’s got lovely red hair,” Nick said.
Pauley gave her an amazed look.
“You’re here to see Mr. Wolfinger?” Arnold Loftus asked, his arms crossed over his huge chest.
“Yes, Arnold, we’re expected,” said Flynn.
Arnold Loftus waved them to a young man of not more than twenty-two who was walking toward them. No, “strutting” was a better word. He was dressed in an Armani suit, gray, beautifully cut. He stopped, and also crossed his arms over his chest. They were coming into his territory.
“Mr. Pauley,” he said, nodding, then he looked at the three men and the woman tagging behind him.
“Jay, we’re here to see Mr. Wolfinger. These are police and FBI. It’s very important. I called you.”
Jay said, “Please be seated. I’ll see if Mr. Wolfinger is ready to see you.”
Six minutes later, just an instant before Delion was ready to put his foot through the door, it opened and the assistant nodded to them. “Mr. Wolfinger is a very busy man, but he’s available to see you now.”
“You’d think he’d be a little more interested, what with the studio lawyers going nuts,” Frank said. “But it’s his way. He always likes to show he’s above everything and everyone.”
They trailed Frank Pauley into Linus Wolfinger’s office.
So this was the Little Shit’s castle, Dane thought, looking around. Pauley was right. This was no ordinary executive office. It didn’t have a scintilla of chrome or glass or leather. It wasn’t piled with scripts, with memorabilia or anything else. It wasn’t anything but a really big square room with a highly polished wooden floor, bare of carpets, windows on two sides with views toward the golf course and the ocean beyond, and a huge desk in the middle. On top of the desk looked to be a fortune in computers. There was a single chair, without a back, behind the desk.
Linus Wolfinger wasn’t looking at his visitors, he was looking at one of the computer screens, and humming the theme from
The assistant cleared his throat, loudly.
Wolfinger looked up, took in all the folks staring at him, and smiled, sort of. He stepped around from behind the huge desk, let them assimilate the fact that he did, indeed, look more like a nerd than not, what with his short- sleeve white shirt, pens in his shirt pocket, a black dickey that covered his neck and disappeared under the shirt, and casual pants that hung off his skinny butt. He said, “I understand from all of our lawyers, Mr. Pauley, that we have a problem with
“Yes,” Frank said. “That appears to be the case.”
“Now, I suppose you’re all police?”
“Yes, and FBI,” Detective Flynn said, “and Ms. Nick Jones.”
Wolfinger pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket and started chewing on it. He said, “Did Frank tell you that the
