“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.
Most important, there was Sherlock, her biggest weapon. She said, “But it’s clear to everyone that since Cleo’s body was found, and she’d been struck with something on the back of the head—there are questions that have to be answered. Cleo was John’s wife. All of us have to face that reality. People think John would have had to know. Some people think John may have killed Cleo, Albia.”
“How did you get in here without the media attacking you?”
“I slipped in through the delivery entrance. It was real close going, but I was lucky. The media guy who was supposed to keep his eye on it was having a coffee break. I saw him go into the deli across the street. John told me about that entrance a long time ago.” Actually, both she and Sherlock had come in through the delivery entrance, but Nick didn’t want to tell Albia about Sherlock just yet. She wanted to make Albia feel safe, make her feel in control. Just maybe she’d say something, admit to something.
Albia said with a shrug of her elegant shoulders, “Vultures, aren’t they? But why did Mrs. Mazer let you in here?”
“I told her I wanted to see John. She suggested I wait in here, that he’d be back soon. Of course, I’ve waited for him many times in his office. I would have thought she’d tell me that you were here, but she didn’t.”
“That’s because,” Albia said, as she took a step toward Nick, “she doesn’t know I’m here.”
Nick forced herself not to move an inch. “How did you get in?”
Albia smiled at her, waved a graceful hand in dismissal. “When John took the lease on this building some ten years ago, he had the architect design a private entrance that led only to this office. Most people in his position have alternate ways of leaving their offices, in circumstances just like this one. I wonder why John didn’t tell you about the private entrance? I wonder—perhaps when it came right down to it, he didn’t really trust you, Nicola. Perhaps he did come to believe that you really were sleeping with Elliott Benson. You know, of course, that Elliott has always wanted any woman that John has, and vice versa, I might add. It’s been a competition between them since before they went to college. And they pretend to be close friends. Did you know that Elliott was in love with Melissa, the girl John was engaged to? Turns out she wanted both of them, stupid girl. She slept with both of them until she died in that car accident. It was a terrible thing for my poor brother.”
“Did he know she was sleeping with Elliott?”
“I have no idea. As for Elliott, I don’t know what he felt about Melissa’s death. It was a very long time before John became seriously interested in another woman. But he did, finally, and he and Cleo married. It wasn’t long before Elliott got to Cleo, screwed her brains out, and everyone knew—but not John, not until after she left. I suppose she was sleeping with Tod Gambol, too, since he left when she did.”
“But everyone knows now that she didn’t run away with anybody, Albia. Someone murdered her. And buried her, hoping her body would never be found.”
“Isn’t that interesting? Nicola, did you sleep with Elliott Benson?”
Nick didn’t answer her immediately. She was remembering how she once wondered how John had arrived at his office without her seeing him. A hidden private exit, what a good idea. Nick said, “Sleep with Elliott Benson? That’s a novel thought. Another man old enough to be my father. Oh, he’s as polished as an Italian count, as sleek as both you and John, but I’ll tell you the truth, Albia. Whenever I see him I am reminded of a Mafia movie character with his pomaded hair and his expensive Italian suits. Whenever he looks at me, speaks to me, I want to go take a bath.”
“Cleo didn’t think he was bad at all. To be honest about this, I didn’t believe so either, at least not at first. Yes, he was my lover for a time as well. Too bad it wasn’t because he adored me, no, he just wanted something else that belonged to John. I suppose I’m included in that group. And, fact is, he’s not a very good lover. Sure, he maintains his body well, and says all the right things, but he’s selfish. He’s used to expensive call girls who lick the bottoms of his feet if that’s what he wants. He has difficulty remembering to give as well as receive when he’s with a woman he isn’t paying. And like I said, the both of them still pretend to be friends. What games men play.”
“Albia, do you think it makes any sense at all to sleep with another man when you’re engaged to be married? Why would you even be engaged if you wanted to sleep around?”
“Any number of women do it all the time. They want the power, the money that marriage would bring them and they want the excitement a lover brings. It’s not a big mystery. Don’t be coy, Nicola.”
Nick walked over to John’s desk, sat down in his big, comfortable leather chair. It steadied her, sitting behind his impressive desk. She picked up a pen and tapped it against the beautiful maple. She remembered Linus Wolfinger doing the same thing until everyone wanted to strangle him. She tapped the pen again, then once again. She said, seeing the look of annoyance on Albia’s face, “Did you spread rumors about me sleeping with Elliott Benson?”
“Of course not. It was common knowledge.”
“I see. How odd that I didn’t know. I do know you are the one who wrote me the letter supposedly from Cleo. It couldn’t be anyone else, and you also wrote with great detail about Melissa.”
Albia was framed by that beautiful window, the sun surrounding her. She looked powerful, otherworldly, her stance, the tilt of her head identical to John’s.
Nick felt the sudden taste of sour bile in her mouth. It tasted like fear, fear of this woman whom everyone saw as an elegant creature they admired and respected, a woman who was powerful in her own right. They didn’t see Albia Rothman as a person who could have started off her adult life murdering someone. For John, for her little brother, whom she adored.
“I didn’t wr
ite you anything, Nicola.”
Nick let it go for the moment. What had she expected? A confession? She said after a moment of silence, “I can’t believe Cleo ever slept with Elliott Benson. Nor with Tod Gambol. She loved John.”
“Oh, but Cleo was a little harlot. John wouldn’t believe me until I finally showed him photos that I had a private investigator take of her and Elliott, all cozied up in his small house on Crane Island. It’s all private, you know, the nearest neighbor is a good half mile away. I might add that he and John both have used that house. If they happen to have each other’s woman at that house, they make sure to leave a small token, a small trace of it. Perhaps you’ve been there, Nicola?”
Nick shook her head. “I don’t believe it. I knew her. I really liked Cleo. She loved John, I’m sure of that.” She realized that only about fifteen feet separated them. She said, “Albia, it’s time to admit that you wrote me the letter, that you made up that journal confession to save me, to make me leave Chicago and leave John. You did it to help me, didn’t you? Please tell me. You wanted to protect me, didn’t you?”
Albia shrugged. “Yes, all right, no reason to lie about it now. Yes, I wrote you the letter, for all the good it did. You’re back and now you want everyone to pay. John didn’t try to kill you, Nicola.”
Nick’s heart was thudding so loudly she believed that surely Albia would hear it, that Albia must know she was so scared she was ready to pee in her pants. The words just came out, she couldn’t stop them. “If it wasn’t John, then was it you, Albia?”
A perfectly arched eyebrow went up a good inch. “Me? Goodness, no.”
“You hired someone to try to run me down, to burn down my condo, with me in it.”
“It strikes me, though, that just maybe you were the one to set fire to your own condo.”
Nick laughed, couldn’t help it. “That’s idiocy.”
Albia shrugged. She took a step back, leaned against the window, crossed her arms over her chest. She looked mildly amused. “So it was your lover who tried to kill you. It was Elliott Benson. I called him, you know. He told me all about you, told me that poor John had picked the wrong woman yet again. And he laughed then, a very pleased laugh.”
The FBI Thrillers Collection Page 59
