She’d nearly died. For the second time in a week and a half.
SAN FRANCISCO
Nick touched her fingertips to her throat, remembering how it had hurt for a good two days after she’d left the hospital in Chicago. She turned on her side, saw Dane’s outline on that wretched too-short sofa not more than twelve feet from her, sighed, and finally fell asleep in her bed at the Bennington Hotel. She was afraid, afraid those mad, dark eyes would come gleaming out of the darkness at her, just over her head, hovering just out of reach. She prayed she wouldn’t have any more nightmares.
Dane, sprawled on the sofa across the room, never stirred. He awoke with a start at 7 a.m. to see Nick Jones dressed in the blue jeans and white shirt he’d bought her, feet bare, pacing back and forth in front of him. He realized he’d slept hard, which was unexpected since the damned sofa was too short and hard as the floor. The TV was on, he could see the reflection of the colors in the mirror over the vanity table, but there was no sound.
“Thank God you’re awake.”
For as long as he could remember, when Dane woke up, he was instantly alert, and he was now. “What’s the matter, Nick?”
She blew out her breath, splayed her hands in front of her. She took a step closer to him and said, “I know what’s going on. I know.”
ELEVEN
Dane swung his legs over the side of the sofa and stood quickly, the blankets falling to the floor at his feet. “You know what?” His sweatpants were low on his belly, and he quickly pulled them back up. He grabbed her hands, covered them. “What, Nick? What do you know?”
“Yes, okay. Listen, you were out like a light last night. I woke up, then couldn’t go back to sleep and so I watched TV, turned down really low. It’s a show, Dane, a TV show on the Premier Channel, a new one, just started probably a couple of weeks ago. It came on at eleven o’clock, called The Consultant. It was about these murders in Chicago and how this special Federal consultant comes in and solves them. It was kind of X-Files-y, you know, unexplained stuff that gives you goose bumps and makes you look toward the window if 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.”