Eleventh Hour

Savich thought that was probably true. The good Lord knew that if he chanced to look at Sherlock—it didn’t matter where they were or what they were doing—the chances were he wanted her right at that very minute. He remembered just the week before they hadn’t even made it into the house. They’d made love against the garage wall. But to have sex color every encounter, to make it the cornerstone of your success, to have sex as a major building block to help you get what you wanted and to get you plugged in—no, he really couldn’t relate to that.

Belinda said, “I know that all makes it sound like Jon is a real Hollywood predator, and he is, but I’m using ‘predator’ in the good sense.”

Sherlock laughed. “I’ve never before heard a person described as a predator in a good sense.”

“As sort of the real insider,” Belinda said, no offense taken. Then she frowned. “But then there’s another side to Jon. He’s got a mean streak, and it’s really deep inside him.”

Sherlock said, “Tell us about this mean streak. We haven’t seen it.”

“Well, when I stopped sleeping with him, I was the one to break it off—not him. Normally it’s Jon who wants to move on, but the word is that he does it very smoothly, doesn’t leave a woman wanting to cut his—Well, doesn’t leave a woman wanting revenge. Nope, he manages to keep his women as friends.

“Don’t get me wrong, he would have been the one to move on from me, too, but it just so happened that I met Frank.” Belinda leaned closer. “It still scares me when I think about it. I told Jon the truth. I remember he just stood there, right in front of me, and his hands were fists at his sides. He didn’t hit me. He just said in this really soft voice that I was a bitch and no woman dumped him. I think he slashed my tires, but since I didn’t see him actually do it, I can’t prove it. I’d call that pretty mean.”

“I would, too,” Sherlock said. “But that isn’t the end of it, is it?”

“Right. Then there was Marla James, a young, real pretty girl who actually had some talent. I don’t know what went on between them, but whatever happened, Jon saw to it that she was kicked off her show. I heard she was pregnant—by Jon? I don’t know, but she left LA.”

Sherlock took down all the facts Belinda knew about Marla James.

“Then there was the guy who aced Jon out of an AD spot—that’s assistant director—on this new show he really wanted. That was Tough Guy, lasted four years. Anyway, the guy ended up with two broken legs, couldn’t do the job. Jon got it. Was he responsible? You betcha, but there wasn’t any proof.”

Savich said, “Are you upset that The Consultant has been stopped?”

Belinda smiled, shrugged, pulled out another roller, and scratched her scalp. “Poor Frank, he’s the one who’s really upset. This was his baby. He has a lot of ego on the line here.”

Sherlock said, “Can you think of anyone who would be pleased to see the show closed down?”

Belinda pulled out the final roller, dropped it, and all three of them watched it roll across the floor.

“Pleased enough to murder people according to a pre-written script? Now that’s something I haven’t thought about,” she said, frowned at the fallen roller, then ignored it. All the rollers were arranged like little smokestacks in front of her. She ran her fingers through her hair, over and over again. Her hair, Sherlock decided, didn’t need to be combed. It looked tousled and thick and utterly beautiful, more shades of blond than she could count.

“You know,” Belinda said, her voice low, all confidential now, “Wolfinger’s bodyguard. He’s this big guy, never says a word. His name’s Arnold Loftus. I think he and Wolfinger sleep together.”

“You’re saying that Wolfinger is gay?” Savich said.

Belinda just shrugged.

A boy with a bad complexion stuck his head in. “They need you on the set, Ms. Gates.”

Belinda took one final swipe at her hair, nodded at herself in the mirror, rose, and smiled at them. “Sean’s his name? I’d like to have a little boy,” she said, nodded to both of them, and walked out of the green room.

Savich said, “I got turned on watching her with those rollers, Sherlock. What do you say we buy some of our own?”

“Some really big ones?”

“Oh yes,” he said, “bigger than the ones we used before,” and Sherlock laughed.

CHICAGO

“My poor darling, how are you feeling?”