Nick said, “Are the episodes to be shown in a certain order?”

“Yes, that’s usually the way it’s done. There’s not too much week-to-week carryover, so it really doesn’t matter, but yes, the episodes would remain in the order they were filmed.”

“Have you seen him, Mr. Franken?” Flynn asked.

“No, he isn’t working right now. He called me a couple of days ago, said his brain was tired and he was taking some time off. He said not to expect him anytime soon. He’s done this before, so no one gets cranked about it, but he never calls in and I don’t think anyone knows where he went. Listen now, even though the first two episodes are Weldon’s, that doesn’t mean he would do something this heinous. It just isn’t him.”

Dane asked, “Is the same episode shown all over the country on the same day at approximately the same time?”

Franken said, “The first two Consultant episodes were shown on Tuesday night everywhere, but Wolfinger slotted them a little differently, depending on the demographics, or maybe because of it, so they’ll probably okay some more scripts. Beginning with the third one, it’s not that heavily Weldon’s work. Do you agree, Frank?”

“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.

ST. BARTHOLOMEW’S

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.”

“I’ll just bet you noticed how pale she was,” Nick said, and turned to the Elizabeth Arden counter.

And so Dane found himself studying three different shades of lipstick before saying, “That one. Just a touch less red. That’s it.”

Dane finally turned in the pew to look over his shoulder. So many people, he thought. Not just priests today, like at the wake, but many parishioners and friends whose lives Michael had touched. Archbishop Lugano and Bishop Koshlap both stopped and spoke to him, each of them placing his hand on Dane’s shoulder, to give comfort, Dane supposed. He was grateful for their caring, but the truth was he felt no comfort.

He watched Bishop Koshlap stand over Michael’s coffin, and he knew his eyes were on Michael’s face. Then he leaned down and kissed his forehead, straightened, crossed himself, and slowly walked away, head bowed.

Dane stared down at his shoes, wondering how well they had hidden the bullet hole through Michael’s forehead.

Michael was gone forever, only his body lying in that casket at the front of the church. A huge sweep of white roses covered the now-closed coffin, ordered by Eloise because Michael had loved white roses. Dane hoped, prayed, that Michael knew the roses were there, that he was smiling if he could see them, that he knew how much his brother and sister, and so many people, loved him.

But Michael wasn’t there and Dane didn’t think he could bear it. He focused on his shoes, trying not to yell his fury, his soul-deep pain out loud.

DeBruler, DeLoach-he just couldn’t get the names out of his mind, even here, at his brother’s funeral mass. A sick joke? His anger shifted to the murderer who was somewhere down in LA, someone connected with that damned TV show. He turned when he heard his sister Eloise’s voice behind him. He rose again, kissed and hugged her, shook her husband’s hand, hugged his nephews. They sat silently in the row behind him.

Archbishop Lugano spoke, his deep voice reaching the farthest corners of the church. He spoke spiritual, moving words, words extolling Michael’s life, his love of God, the meaning of his priesthood, but then there were the inevitable words of forgiveness, of God’s justice, and Dane wanted to shout there would never be any forgiveness for the man who killed his brother. Suddenly, he looked down to see Nick’s hand covering his, her fingers pressing down on him, smoothing out his fist, squeezing his hand. She said nothing, continued to look straight ahead. He looked quickly at her profile, saw tears rolling down her face. He drew in a deep breath and held on to her hand for dear life.