“You’re right,” Pauley said.

Delion said, “Who can tell us what Weldon’s travel schedule’s been the past month?”

“That would be Rocket Hanson. She makes all the arrangements for the writers, and for everybody else for that matter.”

“Rocket?” Nick said. “That’s a wonderful name.”

“Yeah, she was trying to break into films thirty years ago, thought she needed something unusual to get her through the door. It stuck.”

Flynn said, “Has Weldon DeLoach been out of town a lot very recently?”

Franken just shook his head. “I haven’t been working directly with him for several months now. You’ll have to speak to other folks. We e-mail a lot and speak maybe once a week if we’re not working together on a show. I heard someone say he was off to see some relatives, maybe in central California, but I’m not sure about that.”

Dane said, “I don’t suppose the relatives are near Pasadena?”

“I haven’t a clue. Listen, believe me, you’re wrong about Weldon. I know it looks bad, but you’re way off course here.”

Dane asked, “What is Weldon writing now?”

Franken said, “He’s been writing for Boston Pops for about four months now.”

Delion looked pained.

Franken nodded, said, “Yeah, I agree with you, Inspector. It’s a dim-witted show that has somehow caught on. Lots of boobs and white teeth, and one-liners that make even the cameraman wince. It’s embarrassing. Weldon keeps trying to sneak in some weird stuff, like some Martians landing on the Boston mayor’s lawn, just for an off-key laugh, but nobody’s buying it.”

Frank Pauley nodded.

They spoke to a good dozen writers. Nothing promising on any one of the group, just a bunch of really interesting men and women who didn’t have a life, as far as Dane could tell. “Oh yeah, that’s true,” one of the female writers said, laughing. “All we do is sit here and bounce ideas off each other. Lunch is brought in. Porta Pottis are brought in. Soon they’ll be bringing beds in.”

Dane said when they were walking down Pico back to their two cars, “It’s time for a nice big meeting, mixing Feds with locals. There’s lots of folks that need very close attention.”

Flynn nodded, saw some kids shooting baskets, took three steps toward them before he caught himself.

FOURTEEN

ST. BARTHOLOMEW’S
SAN FRANCISCO

Dane and Nick were seated in the second row in St. Bartholomew’s, Nick staring at Father Michael Joseph’s coffin, Dane staring at the wooden cross that rose high behind the nave, both waiting silently for the church to fill up and the service to begin. They’d come back from LA the previous evening for Michael’s funeral.

It was an overcast early afternoon in San Francisco, not unusual for a winter day. It was cold enough for Dane to wear his long camel hair coat, belted at the waist. The heavens should be weeping, Father Binney had said, because Father Michael Joseph had been so cruelly, so madly, slain.

Dane had taken Nick to Macy’s again on Union Square. In two hours flat, he’d come close to maxing out his credit card. She kept saying, “I don’t need this. I don’t. You’re making me run up a huge debt to you. Please, Dane, let’s leave. I have more than enough.”

“Be quiet, you’ve got to have a coat. It’s cold today. You can’t go to the—”

He broke off, just couldn’t say it, so he said finally, “You can’t go to the church without a coat.”

She’d picked out the most inexpensive coat she could find. Dane simply put it back and handed her another one in soft wool. Then he bought her gloves and boots. Two more pair of jeans, one pair of black slacks, two nightgowns, and underwear, the only thing he didn’t help her pick out. He just stood by a mannequin that was dressed in a sinful red thong and a decorative bra, his arms crossed over his chest.

At noon, she’d finally just stopped in the middle of the cosmetics section on the main floor. Salespeople swarmed around them. A woman was closing fast on her to squirt her with perfume, when she said, “This is enough, Dane. No more. I want to go home. I want to change. I want to go to Saint Bartholomew’s and say good-bye to Father Michael Joseph.”

Dane, who’d never in his adult life shopped for more than eight minutes with a woman, said, “You’ve done well—so far. All that’s left is some makeup.”

“I don’t need any makeup.”

“You look as pale as that mannequin in lingerie, the one with the bloodred lips and that red thong that nearly gave me a heart attack. At least some lipstick.”