Eleventh Hour (36 page)

Nick said, “Cleo wrote that you confessed to murdering Melissa.”

“Murdered Melissa? That is absurd. I wish I hadn’t destroyed that damned letter. Listen, Nick, whoever wrote you that letter, it wasn’t Cleo.”

“We know that now,” Savich said. “Cleo’s been dead since she supposedly left you.”

No one said anything. Dane opened the journal, a rich dark brown leather with a clasp that wasn’t locked. He skimmed through it.

Rothman said, “As you can see, Agent Carver, it’s more a recording of events and appointments, nothing at all sinister.” He paused, said, “No, Cleo didn’t write you that letter, Nicola. God, she was dead, dead all along, and no one knew.” He put his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving, struggling to keep control.

No one said a word until he got himself together again, drank some of his coffee. “I apologize.”

He said finally, “What the hell is going on here?”

“Haven’t you wondered who wrote me that letter since Cleo has been dead for three years?” Nick asked.

He splayed his hands in front of him, didn’t say anything.

“You kept insisting that last night, John, that Cleo hadn’t written the letter, that it was impossible. It occurred to me that you must have known she was dead, that it was impossible for her to have written to me, that it had to be someone else.”

“No, I had no idea Cleo was dead. What I simply couldn’t believe was that Cleo would slander me like that, that she would make up that story about a journal and what I’d written. There was no way she could have believed that I killed Melissa, would have killed
her
as well, and now even you. All because of some rumor that you were sleeping with Elliott Benson?”

“That all three of us slept with Elliott Benson, beginning with Melissa back in college.”

He shook his head. “That’s absurd. Elliott is a friend, not an enemy. He’s a man I trust, a man I’ve always trusted.”

Nick looked away from the man she’d planned to marry just one month before. Now he and Elliott Benson were the best of friends? She didn’t know, just didn’t know.

She rose and walked to the huge window that gave onto Lake Michigan. The water was whipped up by a strong wind. She could tell it was cold and blustery from there, on the twenty-second floor of the Grayson Building. She said over her shoulder, not looking back, “I never heard any rumor about me and Elliott, did you, John?”

To her surprise, he slowly nodded, saw she still wasn’t looking at him, and said aloud, “Yes, I did hear some rumors. I actually spoke to Elliott about them, and he denied them, of course. I remember I was about to leave when I turned and saw that he was smirking behind his hand. Then it was gone, and I believed I must have imagined it. Elliott would never hurt me.” He rubbed his knuckles then, and Savich knew that the restrained aristocratic senator had been thinking about hitting Elliott Benson. Because he believed he was the enemy? Did he believe that Nick would do such a thing?

“Why do you think he would slander Dr. Campion?” Sherlock asked. “If, of course, he actually did.”

“I don’t know. He’s occupied a unique position in my life, sometimes a friend, sometimes an enemy. It’s been that way since we were in high school. I do know he wanted to sleep with Cleo, I know that for a fact. But she didn’t want him. She told me about it.” He paused, looked down at his hands, at his fingers rubbing against his palms. “But of course there was Tod Gambol.”

“Who still hasn’t been located,” Dane said.

The senator said, “Maybe Tod’s the one who killed her. Or maybe it was Elliott and he’s the one who started the rumor about Nicola because he wanted her to leave me. Maybe I’ve been wrong about him all these years. But would he go that far? Jesus, I don’t know. Do you know why he would say such a thing, Nicola?”

“No, I have no idea. Did you believe him when he denied the rumor about me, John?”

“Good God, yes, naturally.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Of course.” But he dropped his eyes. He said, “Those references to my journal, to what I’d supposedly written, listen to me. I didn’t write any of that, so that means she lied, but now we know it wasn’t Cleo who lied, it was someone else.”

“Yes,” Savich said. “Yes, we think that just might be the case, Senator.”

Senator Rothman looked pathetically eager. “Really? And just what exactly do you think, Agent?”

“We need to speak to you and your sister, Albia Rothman, sir,” Sherlock said. “Could you perhaps arrange a meeting?”

“I’m sure Albia would want very much to see you again, Nick. Why don’t all of you come to dinner tonight at my home?”

“That would be fine,” Nick said. “Thank you, John.”

“What’s this about Albia? You think she’s got something to do with this? You think she wrote the letter to Nicola, made up that journal?” His face was flushed. “That’s nonsense, absolute rubbish.”

“What time, John?” Nick asked.

They were all seated at the magnificent dining room table, which was set for six. Senator Rothman sat at the head of the table and Albia at the other end.

Dane thought she was a beautiful woman, as charming as her brother, though perhaps a touch more calculated. It was obvious to him that her brother hadn’t mentioned the letter or the journal to her.

Albia Rothman had cried when she first saw Nick, hugged her, told her over and over how very worried they’d been about her, that she was utterly distraught that Nick had believed such horrible things about John.

“My dear, I cannot tell you how much both John and I worried about you. We talked and talked but nothing seemed to make any sense to us. Then you were on TV with this man here—this Federal agent

—and you were some sort of eyewitness in that script murder. However did all that come about? We heard that the murderer killed himself. It must have been a horrible time for you, Nicola.”

“Yes, it was very bad, Albia,” Nick said.

Nick’s voice was soft, a slight musical lilt to it. Dane saw that she wasn’t wearing anything he’d bought her. She and Sherlock had gone shopping at Saks on Michigan Avenue, and both of them looked expensive, and, to Dane’s eye, utterly beautiful. Nick’s black dress was short, showing off very nice long legs, but conservative, very appropriate for these surroundings. Once again, he thought she fit perfectly in this environment. He could easily picture her as a powerful senator’s wife. It made him sick to his stomach. He realized, as he looked at her, that he never would have met her if Michael hadn’t died.

It was over the artistically arranged Caesar salad with glazed pecans set precisely atop the lettuce, nestled in among croutons, that Nick said, “Albia, did you write the letter to me? The letter that Cleo supposedly wrote?”

Albia Rothman raised a perfectly arched brow. She looked markedly like her brother with that expression. She frowned, just a bit, hardly furrowing her brow, and shook her head. “No, I don’t know anything about a letter. What letter are you speaking about?”

Nick said, “John didn’t mention the letter I received from Cleo, warning me that he was trying to kill me, that he’d also tried to kill her and that was why she ran away?”

“Good God, what a novel idea. A letter from Cleo? How very preposterous. John try to kill Cleo? Kill you? That is utterly absurd. John, what is going on here?”

Senator Rothman merely shrugged, methodically picked a pecan out of his salad, never looking at them. “

The FBI agents are the ones with all the answers here, not I.”

“You realize, I hope,” Albia said to the table at large, “how very absurd that is. John is a very kind, intelligent man, a man to admire, a man who will make this country a better place.”

Dane said, “Ms. Rothman, let’s get back to whether you were the one who wrote Nick the letter.”

“That means you were trying to warn me, Albia,” Nick said. “You were trying to help me. Or were you trying to get rid of me?”

“Do eat your salad, Nicola. I didn’t come here to discuss this nonsense.”

Savich said, “We need your help, Ms. Rothman.”

Albia said as she carefully laid down her salad fork, “If your friends—these Federal officers—are pushing you to do this, Nicola, then I do believe that I don’t even wish to stay.” She rose as she spoke, said to her brother, “John, I’m leaving. I have no intention of trying to digest my dinner with these people accusing you of murdering women. If I were you, I’d call Rockland and have him come represent you. I would also consider asking them to leave. Nicola, you have really disappointed me.”

And she walked out of the dining room.

John Rothman said nothing until he heard the front door close quietly in the distance. “Well, whatever it is you were trying to achieve, that was disgraceful. Good evening to all of you.”

Senator John Rothman rose, tossed his napkin over his uneaten salad, and walked gracefully out of the dining room.

They all stared at one another when they heard the front door close a second time.

“Well,” Dane said, “I do enjoy the unexpected. The salad is delicious.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

Dane said, “Jimmy Maitland asked us to a meeting with the police commissioner and several other nervous politicians, all of it regarding the Rothman case. Nick, you’re not invited to this meeting. You’re going to stay with Sherlock. She’s agreed that you’re more important than this meeting, so just Savich and I will go. You’re to go nowhere alone, you got me?”

“I got you, but it’s not fair to Sherlock.”

Savich said, “Think of this as a good-old-boys butt-covering meeting. The SAC of the Chicago field office will be there, maybe even the mayor. It’s all under wraps, at least it will be until the six-o’clock news.”

Sherlock said to Nick, “I really don’t enjoy watching a group of men in a pissing contest. But, guys, if anything outrageous is said, I’m sure you’ll tell me about it.” She kissed her husband’s ear and gave him a little wave as he and Dane walked out of The Four Seasons lobby.

“We’ve got better things to do, Nick,” Sherlock said when they’d reached the street. “We’re going to go see Senator Rothman. Oh yes, my husband knows, but he didn’t want Dane to know. Dane is very protective of you, Nick. Actually I’d have to say that he’s terrified that something will happen to you if he doesn’t stick to you like Grandma’s toffee. You could probably have six cops with you and he’d still worry himself sick. But it’ll be all right. You’ve got me.”

Nick grinned, rubbed her hands together. “I can’t imagine anyone needing more protection than you.”

“I sure hope you’re right about that. Okay, let’s go see what we can find out. I’d much rather do this than go to a meeting, anyway.”

Nick watched her check her SIG Sauer, then smiled when Sherlock said, “Dillon always says that if you aren’t one hundred percent sure of what’s going to happen, you just get yourself prepared.”

They were at Senator Rothman’s office by 9:30. Mrs. Mazer raised an eyebrow when she saw the two of them.

“Where are the big boys?”

“They’re out playing with other big boys,” Sherlock said.

Nick smiled, shook Mrs. Mazer’s hand. “It’s just us this morning. I’m here to see John, Mrs. Mazer.”

“He’ll be back in just a bit, maybe twenty minutes or so. I’m sure he’ll want to see you, Dr. Campion. I hope you managed to avoid the media.”

Nick nodded. “Yes, we came in through the back delivery entrance.”

“I’m surprised they haven’t found it by now,” said Mrs. Mazer, and Nick didn’t tell her that the media already had. “Oh dear, all this grief from the media. Senator Rothman is a very fine man, and now there are all these questions about the former Mrs. Rothman.”

“The fact is, Mrs. Mazer,” Nick said, “I’m really not sure about much of anything. But hopefully everything will become clear soon. Do you mind if I wait in his office?”

Mrs. Mazer wondered whether Dr. Campion wanted a few minutes to search the senator’s desk. Who was she to say no? She’d left Dr. Campion alone in the senator’s office many times. She said after a moment, “Why not?”

“Agent Sherlock, would you like to go with Dr. Campion or would you like a magazine?”

“What I would really like is to speak to any staff who might be here.”

“Did Senator Rothman okay it?”

“I’m sure it will be all right,” Sherlock said.

Mrs. Mazer pressed an extension on her phone. She spoke quietly, then raised her head. “Matt Stout is the senator’s senior aide. He’ll be out shortly to speak to you.” She nodded to Nick, pressing a buzzer just beneath her desk. “Dr. Campion, it shouldn’t be long.” Was there a warning in her voice? Nick didn’

t know. A few minutes would be enough.

She said as she opened the office door, “Thank you, Mrs. Mazer.” Nick stepped into the big office, knowing exactly where she was going to start looking. Not in his desk. One day she’d seen him kneeling in front of the drink cart, seen a flash of papers disappear through a small opening in the bottom of the cart. She walked straight to it.

“Hello, Nicola. I’m very surprised to see you here. In the camp of the enemy.”

Nick nearly dropped in her tracks she was so startled. She jerked about, nearly losing her balance, to see Albia Rothman standing by the huge windows, dressed in one of her power suits, a rich charcoal gray wool with a soft white silk blouse. She looked quite elegant, rich, intimidating.

“Albia! Oh my heavens, you scared me. What are you doing here?”

“I think the more significant question is what are you doing here, Nicola? I spend a great deal of time here, but you? You ran away, left John without a word, just ran. And now you’re back to try to hang him. He is a good man, a man this country needs. He is a visionary, a man of ideas, and here you are, trying to ruin him. I really won’t have it, Nicola. I won’t.”

“No one wants to hang John,” Nick said, facing the woman Savich, Sherlock, and Dane believed to be a killer. She wasn’t afraid simply because she wasn’t alone, not really. Sherlock was outside, as were a dozen people. All she had to do was yell and people would come running. No reason to be afraid of Albia. She could take Albia, all sleek in her three-inch high heels and tight skirt. She didn’t have much maneuvering room, but she was in better shape than Albia.