Eleventh Hour (22 page)

The men in the room nearly expired on the spot. Nick laughed. “That was very well done. I’ll bet you Detective Flynn has already forgotten the handcuffs.”

Belinda just smiled. “Frank, why don’t you get us all a soda?”

When everyone was seated on the stark white leather chairs, love seats, and huge long sofa, facing a fireplace Nick couldn’t ever imagine using in LA, Sherlock said, “Belinda, please tell us why you met Weldon DeLoach two and a half weeks ago at the Gameland Bowling Alley, why you were dressed like a man, and where you went.”

Frank Pauley jumped to his feet and walked fast to a huge set of floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Actually, since the entire living room that faced out toward the ocean was glass, he had no place else to go.

Belinda drank down her soda and said after a moment, “Isn’t it strange how easily you can get tripped up?”

“Yeah, but that’s how we make our living,” Delion said. “What were you doing meeting Weldon DeLoach? Why were you dressed like the perfect description of our murderer?”

Frank whirled around. “I knew it, I just knew it. Weldon is crazy about you, wants to make you a star and—”

Four wives, Nick thought, getting a glimmer of reality in the glass house.

Belinda smiled toward her husband, who looked ready to break into small pieces he was standing so rigid. She didn’t seem at all perturbed. “Actually, sweetie, he’s not. Weldon isn’t my type, you are. Now, Weldon and I had arranged to meet that night, at the bowling alley, and I was to pick him up. We went to La Pomme in Westwood, sat at a booth and brainstormed story ideas. He wanted my role in
The
Consultant
to be bigger.” She shrugged. “Yes, I was dressed like a man. Weldon asked me to, told me what to wear, what disguise to use. Of course, now that’s academic since Weldon is nowhere to be found and the show’s been yanked.”

Sherlock said, “Weldon wanted to change your role to a man’s? This doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, Belinda.”

“He was thinking about another idea, a woman who was a spy and had the international community believing she was a man. He wanted to see if I was a good enough actress to fool people into believing I was a man. Nothing more than that. I think I did well. Nobody gave me a second look. Weldon laughed and laughed, he was so tickled. You know, Frank, how he acts when he’s excited.”

“How did you carry it off?” Sherlock said. “You’re beautiful and you’ve got lots of hair.”

“Well, you see, I used to do makeup back in the bad old days, and I’m really good at it. That disguise wasn’t much of a challenge.”

Nick felt her heart crash to the floor. It sounded so reasonable the way Belinda, the actress, told it, even the wretched disguise. Thing was, Nick believed her.

“She’s a hell of an actress,” Flynn said to the group as he walked to his car in the large circular driveway. “We can’t forget that. God, she’s gorgeous, isn’t she?”

TWENTY-TWO

CHICAGO

Nicola arrived home with a bad headache after a two-hour, very contentious staff meeting at the university. At least she no longer felt like she’d been starved and kicked around. It had been three days since the food poisoning. A week since she’d begun to see everything in a different light.

She dropped her mail on the small table in her entrance hall, went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of diet tonic water, and got three aspirins from the medicine cabinet.

When at last she sorted through her mail, she found a single letter without a return address. Her name was written in bold cursive. The handwriting looked vaguely familiar.

Nicola picked up her two-hundred-year-old Chinese dragon letter opener that John had given her for Christmas and slit the envelope open. She pulled out three sheets of closely written pages. She read:
Dear Nicola, I bet you’re surprised to hear from me.

Me who? Nicola skipped to the last page of the letter and read the clean-cut, crisp signature:
Cleo
Rothman.
No, it was impossible. Why would Cleo write to her after three years of silence?

There’s no easy way to say this, Nicola, but since I was always very fond of you, I’ll just come out
with it. Don’t marry John or you’ll be very sorry. He isn’t what he seems. You believe, like
everyone else, that I skipped town with Tod Gambol, don’t you? I didn’t. I have no idea where
Tod Gambol is, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he was dead. I ran, Nicola, I ran. John was going to
kill me. You want to know why? Because he believed that I was sleeping with Elliott Benson, that
longtime crony of the mayor’s and friend of John’s. Are they really friends? I don’t know.

Actually, I’ve heard the rumors that you’re also sleeping with Elliott. Does John know about
them? I’d bet on it. Maybe you’ve already realized that whatever woman John has, Elliott has to
take away from him. You know, I heard he’s really good in bed. Are you sleeping with him,
Nicola? It doesn’t really matter because John undoubtedly believes you are.

You’re thinking I’m nuts, but let me tell you what happened three years ago. John was in
Washington and I needed something that was in his library. I saw that his safe was open. He’s the
only one who knows the combination. I was curious so I looked inside. I found a journal, John’s
journal, and I took it. I’ve copied a couple of pages for you so you can see what he really is,
Nicola. I don’t know if he killed his mother, but I do know that he killed Melissa, the girl in college
that John wanted to marry until he found out she’d slept with his best friend. And guess what? His
best friend was Elliott Benson. How many other women has he killed?

Here are the journal pages, Nicola. You can read for yourself, and not just take my word for it.

Have things already started happening to you?

Run, Nicola, run. John is quite insane. Stay alive.

Cleo Rothman

Slowly, Nicola picked up the final two pages in the letter. John’s journal. She read.

Enough, Nicola thought when she finished reading. It was enough. She grabbed her coat and was out the door and on her way to John’s condominium in three minutes flat.

She was going to get the truth, tonight.

LOS ANGELES

The star of
The Consultant
, Joe Kleypas, lived on Glenview Drive in a small redwood-and-glass house set on stilts in the Hollywood Hills, surrounded by dead brush, almost-dead mesquite bushes, and straggly pines. After the third knock, Kleypas came to the door wearing only pale blue drawstring sweatpants that had seen better days. He’d tied them loosely, letting them hang low on his belly, showing off his famous abs, which looked like he’d polished them to a high shine. His hair stood up in spikes, and he looked close to snarling. He was also drunk. He weaved just a bit in the doorway, waved a glass at them that was half-full of either water or straight vodka. “My, my, what have we here?”

Sherlock stuck her FBI shield in his face.

He took another drink and sneered even more. “Oh yeah, you’re the Keystone cops.”

“That’s right,” Savich said. “We’re the Federal Keystone cops. We want to talk to you, Mr. Kleypas.”

“Federal Keystone cops. Hey, that’s funny.”

“It’s Mr. and Ms. Federal Keystone cops to you,” Dane said.

“Very funny, hot shot.” Joe Kleypas had planted himself firmly in the doorway, his arms crossed over his bare chest, a well-worked-out bare chest. Nick wondered how Dane would look if he polished his abs.

She wondered if you just walked into a drugstore and asked for ab polish.

Kleypas said, “I already talked to Detective Flynn. I don’t want to speak to any more Keystone cops, even Federal ones. Just get the fuck out of here now, all of you. Hey, you’re awful pretty, you an actress? You want, maybe we could go someplace, have a little drink. My bedroom’s got a good view of the canyon, the sheets aren’t too bad.”

Neither Sherlock nor Nick knew which one of them had struck his fancy. Nick said, “That’s nice, but not today, thank you.”

Joe Kleypas shrugged and his abs rippled a bit. “Then all of you can get out. Get out of my face.” He drank down the rest of his drink, hiccuped, gave a slight shudder. Not good, Sherlock thought. The man looked about ready to explode.

They’d been told he had a violent temper. A mean drunk—no worse sort of man than that, Sherlock thought, and took another couple of easy steps back in case he did something stupid, like let loose on Dane or Dillon. Sherlock said low to Nick, “Let’s go sit in the car,” and tugged on her arm. “We’re a distraction. Let the guys handle it.” They watched Savich very smoothly force Kleypas back into his house and follow him. Dane closed the door behind them.

When Dane and Savich came out some fifteen minutes later, both of them looking disgusted, Sherlock said, “Dillon, please tell me he confessed. It really would make my day.”

“Yeah, he did confess,” Dane said, “to about a dozen different love-guests, all in the last month, most of the ladies married. He prefers married ladies; he told us that about four times. I think he’d like the two of you to add to his list. Charming guy. Oh yeah, he was drinking straight vodka.”

“Dillon, look at your knuckles,” Sherlock said, and grabbed his hand. “You hurt yourself. I don’t like this.”

“I didn’t like his mouth,” Savich said, shrugging, and flexed his hands. “He came at me, and I ended up shutting it.” Nick saw him rub his knuckles, a very slight smile on his face. “Nothing out of his mouth but foul language.”

“Now he can repent at his leisure,” Sherlock said comfortably, and patted her husband’s arm. She knew Dane wouldn’t tell a soul that his boss had decked a big Hollywood jerk with shiny abs. She must remember to buy some iodine; she had some Band-Aids in her purse. She always carried them for Sean.

Dillon must really have been mad to hit him with his fists.

After Sherlock finished doctoring him, Savich, with a grin at his hands that now sported two Flintstones Band-Aids, pulled the Taurus out of the narrow driveway that sat atop stilts a good thirty feet from the canyon floor, and said, “Kleypas is one miserable lad, but he’s more pathetic than dangerous. He’s too busy drinking to be doing much of anything else.”

“The word over at the studio,” Dane said, “is that Kleypas is having trouble getting work because of that drinking problem.
The Consultant
was more or less his last chance. He’s really bummed that it’s been pulled. He’d be the last one to submarine the show.”

The following morning, Nick was blow-drying her hair—another item Dane had bought for her—half an eye on the local TV news. She dropped the hair dryer and yelled, “Oh, no!”

It bounced against the wooden dresser, then clattered to the floor.

Dane was through the door in a flash, zipping up his pants.

“What is it—” He came to a fast stop. She was standing there, clutching her middle, staring at the TV.

She didn’t say a word, just pointed.

There she was, in living color, walking beside him down Pico Boulevard toward their parked car. There was a close-up of her face and the newscaster said in a chirpy voice, a voice so carefree and pleased he could have been talking about how he’d gotten laid the previous night, “This is Ms. Nick Jones, the San Francisco police department’s key witness in the Prime-Time Killer murders. Sources tell us that Ms.

Jones was living in a homeless shelter in San Francisco and just happened to see the killer at Saint Bartholomew’s Church.”

“Well, damn,” Dane said. “I’m not surprised that they’ve got something, but all this? They’ve got everything, including your name and a shot of you.” He saw that Nick was as white as the bathroom tile.

He walked over to her and pulled her against him. “It will be all right,” he said against her still-damp hair.

“You’ve got the fastest guns in Hollywood on your side. We’ll keep clear of the reporters. It’ll be okay.”

She laughed, a desperate laugh that felt like a punch to his gut. She raised her head to look at him and splayed her palms on his bare chest. “I’ve got to get out of here, Dane. There’s no choice for me now.”

“No. I said I’ll protect you and I will. You want more Feds around? Fine, I’ll speak to Savich. He’ll arrange it.”

“It was luck that saved me at Father Michael Joseph’s funeral, not you.”

“You’re right about that, Nick.” Dane hated to admit it. “I’ll get more folks to guard you,” he said again.

She just shook her head. Then, to his astonishment, she leaned her head forward and lightly bit his shoulder. Then she pulled away from him. “I hope I didn’t break that very nice hair dryer you bought for me.”

“You’re not going to run, Nick.”

She gave him a long look, then nodded as she said, “Very well,” and of course he knew she was lying.

She didn’t do it very well.

He said nothing, just rubbed where she’d bitten him and left her room to finish dressing. He realized he’d never been bitten before. Did it qualify as a hickey?

Forty-five minutes later, they were in the Los Angeles field office, in the conference room with the SAC, Special Agent in Charge Gil Rainy. Sherlock said, “Sure the press found out about the murders being based on the first two episodes, but how did they find out about Nick? Not just her name, but that she was homeless.”

“Maybe the murderer himself,” Dane said. “He wants to flush her out, put her in the limelight.”

Delion said, “Already the media idiots—oops, I’m being redundant—have labeled the murderer the Prime-Time Killer. I swear, even if it cost lives, the media would spit it all out, no hesitation at all.”

Rainy said, “I bet they sat around and brainstormed to come up with the cute handle. But, bottom line, the leak isn’t any big deal. The murderer already knows about her so who cares if everyone else does, too? Still, it’s like the media wants to offer her up as the sacrificial goat.”

Savich said, “I called Jimmy Maitland and told him what they showed, asked him to rattle some cages, find out how this happened. The thing is—where did they get the photo of Nick and Dane? To be honest, it seems to me like a plant. I think someone sent the photo in along with specifics.”