Eleventh Hour by Catherine Coulter Page B

it’s really dark outside. I wasn’t really paying too much attention until there was this creepy guy in a confessional, and I realized he was talking to a priest about what he’d done, taunting him about the people he’d killed, and then when the priest was pleading with him to stop, he laughed and shot him through the forehead. Dane, it wasn’t about murders in Chicago, it was like the murders right here, in San Francisco.”
    Dane rubbed his forehead, dashed his fingers through his hair. He couldn’t get his brain around what she’d just said. It didn’t seem possible. He said finally, “You’re telling me that some asshole murdered my brother because he was following the script of some idiotic TV show?”
    “Yes. When the show was over, I watched all the credits and wrote down everything I could.”
    Dane dragged his fingers through his hair again, drew a deep breath, and said, “I’m going to order some coffee, then you’re going to tell me everything, every little detail. Oh damn, let me call Delion. You’re pretty sure about this?”
    “I’m positive. I just couldn’t believe it. I nearly woke you up, but realized that there wasn’t much of anything you could do at midnight. And you were so tired.”
    “It’s okay.”

    LOS ANGELES
    After arriving at LAX on the 9 a.m. Southwest shuttle from Oakland airport, where Nick was allowed through despite having no ID after Delion filled out papers in triplicate and spoke to two supervisors, Inspector Delion, Special Agent Carver, and the woman they introduced as Ms. Nick Jones, with no designation at all, stepped into Executive Producer Frank Pauley’s corner office with its big glass windows that looked across Pico toward the ocean. You couldn’t see it because the smog was sitting heavy and gray over the city, but you could see the golf course.
    Mr. Pauley was slightly built, tall, pleasant looking, and very pale. Surely that shouldn’t be right, Nick thought. Wasn’t everyone in LA supposed to be tanned from head to toe? He looked to be somewhere in his forties, and had a nice smile, albeit a nervous one when he met them. She couldn’t blame him for that.
    He shook hands all around, offered them coffee, and pointed them to the very long gray sofa that lined half the wall. It must have been at least eighteen feet long. There were chairs facing that sofa, all of them gray, and three coffee tables spaced out to form separate sitting groups.
    Frank Pauley said, waving toward the sofa, “I just took over. I inherited this office and all the gray from the last executive producer. He said he liked a really big casting couch.” He grinned at Nick, who didn’t grin back, and said, “You called, Inspector Delion, because you believe that the murders in The Consultant that played last night are similar to murders that were committed in San Francisco over the last week and a half.”
    “That’s right,” Delion said. “But before we discuss any more of this, we’d like to see the show, compare all the points, make a final determination. Ms. Jones is the only one of us who’s seen it so far.”
    “This is, naturally, very disturbing. Just a moment, please.” Frank Pauley turned to the gray phone, punched in a couple of buttons.
    Nick said, “Thank God you’ve only aired two of the shows.”
    Dane said, “We’ll watch both episodes, Mr. Pauley. If we’ve got a match with San Francisco, we’ll find out whether there have been any crimes that follow the first episode. We have no way of knowing whether the murderer would continue if you stop showing the episodes. But I presume the studio will announce that the show’s been canceled?”
    Frank Pauley cleared his throat. “Let me be up front here. Our lawyers have recommended that we immediately cancel the show and provide you with complete cooperation. Naturally, the studio is appalled that some maniac would do this, if, indeed, we discover that the episode does match the murders in San