Nick pictured Albia Rothman in her mind, slowly shook her head. “I just don’t know. I remember once in a meeting, though, Albia didn’t agree with a political stand John wanted to take. She laid out her reasons, but he didn’t change his mind. I remember thinking that I agreed with her. I also remember the look she gave him was vicious, but she didn’t argue with him anymore.”
“You said that Albia was married once, for just a short time?” Savich asked.
“That’s right,” Nick said. “Oh, God, her husband died very suddenly, if I’m remembering right. You don’t think—no, oh no.” Nick dashed her fingers through her hair. “This is very difficult. I’ve believed it was John from the very beginning. When he came at me that last night, his fingers curved toward my neck—and I swear to you, I saw murder in his eyes—I knew he was guilty. Not a single doubt in my mind. I was terrified. The thing is—why would he come after me if it was Albia who killed the women?”
“Maybe he didn’t mean to hurt you,” Sherlock said. “Maybe he just wanted that letter from his ex-wife. And he wanted it very badly, enough to attack you to get it. Nick, his career is on the line here. All he cares about can come tumbling down around his ears. He had to get ahold of that letter. Now that raises a good question, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does,” Dane said. “Did he already know that Cleo was long dead?”
“No,” Nick said. “He was saying that there was no way Cleo would ever hurt him like that, no way at all. Oh, I don’t know. This is too much. You guys really believe then that it was Albia Rothman who tried to kill me in Los Angeles?”
“Probably,” Sherlock said. “I’d for sure bet she arranged setting fire to your condo. As for the man on the Harley, maybe she hired someone she trusted, someone from Chicago.”
Nick was shaking her head. “Actually, I figured it all out in a dream a couple of nights ago. The guy in the car who tried to run me down, the guy who set fire to my condo, the guy on the Harley—I realized that they were all the same man. I’m really sure of that.”
Dane said, “That makes sense. Maybe a lover, someone she felt she could really trust.”
“Maybe,” Savich said. “And once Linus sent your photo to the media, and she saw you on TV, recognized you, she knew just where you were. It wouldn’t be hard to locate where you were staying, and to have you followed. And when the Harley attempt failed, she just didn’t have time to execute another plan.”
Nick leaned over and took a bite out of Dane’s sandwich.
Savich said, grinning as he sat forward, “That’s interesting behavior, Nick. First you bite Dane’s shoulder and now his sandwich. This appears to me to be serious aggression. Can you handle this, Dane?”
“I’ll manage,” Dane said, and smiled at Nick even as he touched his fingers to his shoulder. “She’s too skinny. Let her bite anything she wants.”
“Hmmm,” said Sherlock, and gave her husband a look that nearly had him shaking. It was the same look she’d given him the night before, just before she kissed every inch of him and sent him to heaven.
“That’s enough of that,” Savich said, both to his wife and to Dane. “Let’s get back to Cleo Rothman. She’s been dead three years. I’ll wager that senior aide, Tod Gambol, is dead as well. Now, who else could have sent you that letter, other than Albia Rothman? Is there anyone else remotely possible that you can think of, Nick?”
Nick shook her head. “I can’t think of anyone else. But listen to me, all of you. I was absolutely certain that it was Cleo’s handwriting.”
Sherlock shrugged. “That’s no big problem. It just means that Albia had copies of Cleo’s letters, memos, whatever, and copied them. It’s a real pity that John Rothman destroyed the letter. We could have run tests, figured out who wrote it, once and for all. Maybe she wrote you the letter to scare you off. Maybe she didn’t want to kill you, maybe she did. Maybe she’ll end up telling us. But she wanted you gone, thus the letter and the story about the journal.”
“You don’t believe there’s a journal?” Nick asked.
“Oh no,” Dane said. “It never made any sense that John Rothman would leave a journal in which he confessed to a murder, in his study safe, and the damned safe is left open accidentally. Nope, Albia made up the journal to terrify you, to get you the hell out of Dodge.”
Savich said, “Regardless, it wasn’t Senator Rothman who wrote the letter. He’d have to be beyond nuts to do that. Albia wrote it because she wanted you to break things off with her bro. When it didn’t work, she got real serious about killing you.”
Sherlock said, “Well, Rothman could be nuts, but listen, Nick, if it turns out that it’s his sister who’s behind all this, do you still want to marry the senator?”
Nick didn’t pause for a second. “I have other plans.”
Dane said, “She can’t marry the senator. She bit my shoulder a second time. Not to mention my sandwich. I figure that’s a really big step toward commitment.”
“Sounds long term to me,” Savich said.
Sherlock patted Nick’s arm and smiled up at her husband. “Last night I was feeling just a touch let down, what with all the excitement over. Well, not let down in certain things, just the contrary, as a matter of fact.” She gave Savich another look to make him shake, then shook her head, cleared her throat. “And now we have a bit more to keep us occupied. Then it’s home to Sean. We’ve been away from our boy too long. He’s very likely got his grandmother dancing jigs for his entertainment. Okay, what do you say, guys? Let’s wrap this thing up today.”
“She’s an adrenaline junkie,” Savich said, and hugged his wife against his side, kissed her ear. “Hey, after we see Senator Rothman, how about we go work out?”
Sherlock said, “The way this works is that Dillon will work out until he’s nearly dead, then he’ll smile at me and have the whole thing figured out.”
Dane said, “You mean it’s plain old sweat that solves your cases? Not sugar?”
“No sugar. Just sweat and pain,” Savich said. “Let me call Jimmy Maitland, tell him what we’re up to, see if he wants to notify the police commissioner here in Chicago. Sherlock, why don’t you call Senator Rothman’s office, see if he’s in. I’d really like to pop in on him, just like we did with Linus Wolfinger.”
Nick sat back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. She looked from one to the other and marveled. “I just don’t believe you guys.”
They all ended up going to Hoolihan’s Gym on the corner of Rusk and Pine because Senator Rothman was in Washington and not due to arrive at his office until late afternoon.
At the gym, they watched Assistant FBI Director Jimmy Maitland on the big overhead TV, flanked by the local FBI field office people, local LAPD, and the press, in Los Angeles.
Savich said, “I told Mr. Maitland that we didn’t want to be part of the hoopla. He’s really good at handling that sort of thing.”
They watched the media pushing and shoving, all of them yelling questions at once. At least six reporters wanted to know where Dane, Sherlock, and Savich were. One even asked about the homeless woman—the supposed eyewitness—who hadn’t managed to identify Linus Wolfinger.
Nick booed the TV.
Jimmy Maitland said, fanning his hand, “Sorry, people, but the special agents in question are already involved in another case. As for the homeless woman, she did just fine. She put her life on the line for us. Next question.”
Delion had gone back to Los Angeles for the press conference, after being the main rep for a huge media ordeal in San Francisco at City Hall. Both Delion and Flynn were there now, standing together, smiling, Flynn’s hand moving up and down like he was dribbling a basketball, freely telling the main facts of the case. All questions about Captain DeLoach were referred to the DA.
A spokesperson from Premier Studios expressed owner Miles Burdock’s shock, surprise, and deep regret. He informed everyone that The Consultant would eventually be rescheduled. No one wanted the stars to be penalized for som
ething they’d known nothing about.
He didn’t say it was just possible that everyone would want to watch the show now, that it would get its highest ratings ever. He didn’t say he was planning to use the profits the show generated to help cover the host of lawsuits the studio was sure to face from their scripts being used as models for murder by their own chief executive.
Belinda Gates and Joe Kleypas stood behind the spokesperson. It was obvious they were very pleased. The spokesperson announced finally that Frank Pauley would be assuming Linus Wolfinger’s position as president of Premier Studios.
The four watching at Hoolihan’s Gym in Chicago high-fived one another when the press conference was over. “Belinda was the only one who ever helped us,” Sherlock said, “but even she let us down.”
Savich said to his wife, “That reminds me. I haven’t pulled those rollers out of your hair yet,” and kissed her.
“I’ll buy some tomorrow,” Sherlock said.
THIRTY-SIX
An hour later the four of them were at Senator Rothman’s office on Briarly Avenue in downtown Chicago. Press were hovering about in herds. “I feel sorry for the poor soul who just happens to be walking near here today,” Nick said, and led them to the back of the building. “It looks like the reporters haven’t found out about this back entrance just yet.”
Savich said, “It won’t take them long. I saw security people in the lobby. At least they can keep the vultures out of the building.”
The secretary, Mrs. Mazer, jumped to her feet when she saw Nick and yelled, “Oh goodness me, you’re all right! Oh, Dr. Campion, the senator will be so pleased to see you. Even though he hasn’t said anything, I know he’s been dreadfully worried, particularly after we all saw you on television and realized you were involved in that horrible script murder case. We all thought you were visiting your family. Oh, come in, come in. Who are these folks with you?”
“It’s good to see you, Mrs. Mazer. Is John free for a moment?”
“Oh, yes, certainly. He will be so pleased to see you.” She paused a moment, looking at Dane, Sherlock, and Savich, a gray eyebrow arched.
“It’s all right. They’re with me, Mrs. Mazer.”
Mrs. Mazer said nothing more, opened the senator’s door, then stepped aside.
Senator John Rothman was standing in the middle of his large office when Nick walked first into the room. She stopped, said, “Thank you for seeing me, John.”
He stood stiff as a lamppost. “Nicola,” he said politely. “Who are these people?”
Nick introduced each of them in turn. “Did you see the press conference?”
“Oh yes, I saw it all,” Senator Rothman said. “Mrs. Mazer, please close the door and see that I’m not disturbed.”
When the door was quietly and firmly closed, Senator John Rothman turned to Nick. He tried to smile at her, flanked by three FBI agents.
“It’s good to see you, Nicola. Like everyone else in the world, I saw your photo on television. It was a shock, as you can imagine.” He paused a moment, searching her face. “There was the fire in your condo. I was frantic but I couldn’t find you. You simply disappeared. I called the university. The dean told me you’d written a letter stating that you had a family emergency, but that was a lie, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was a lie,” Nick said.
“I had no idea where to find you. I didn’t think it was a good idea to call the FBI and demand information about your whereabouts. And now you’ve come back. Why?”
“First of all, to tell you I’m sorry about Cleo.”
“Yes, I am, too. The thing is, some people believe I killed her, but I didn’t. I’m sure my lawyers think they’ve died and gone to heaven, they’re going to make so much money off this mess. Listen, I didn’t hurt anyone, Nicola.” His eyes never left her face. “I didn’t try to hurt you.”
Finally, he broke the moment, turning, when Savich said, “Senator, as Nick told you, I’m Agent Savich, this is Agent Sherlock, and Agent Carver. Since Nick helped us out on the murder cases in California, we’ve decided to help her out with her involvement in this particular mess.”
“It is a mess,” said John Rothman. He ran his fingers through his beautifully styled salt-and-pepper hair.
Dane, who’d said nothing, stood quietly behind Nick, eyeing this elegant aristocrat. He wanted to kick the man’s teeth down his throat.
“John,” Nick said, “do you remember that night I asked you how many women you killed?”
Dead silence.
“Yes, of course I would remember when the woman I love accuses me of being a serial killer. I assume all these Federal agents are familiar with what you think of me, Nicola?”
She nodded. She realized in that moment that she was now perfectly safe. No one could hurt her again. She drew herself up even taller.
“Did you know there was an attempt on my life in Los Angeles?”
“Of course not. How could I possibly know that?” He paused a moment, then said, “Should I have my lawyer present?”
“I don’t believe so,” Savich said. “Why don’t we all sit down and talk this over?”
The lovely pale brown brocade grouping was expensive and charming. The coffee served in the Georgian coffeepot was fresh and quite excellent. It was Nicola who served them. Dane saw that she was very comfortable in these surroundings, pouring the damned coffee from that exquisite silver coffeepot. He’d be willing to bet Paul Revere had made the thing. He didn’t know if he ever wanted to see Nick in the senator’s penthouse, damn that man’s sincere and honest eyes.
Dane sat forward, clasping his hands between his legs. “Nick has told us that your mother died in a car accident some three months after she confessed infidelity to your father. You were sixteen at the time. Is this correct?”
Rothman said slowly, “Why are you asking about my mother? It is absolutely none of your business. It’s no one’s business. It has nothing to do with anything.”
“Senator, we’re here as friends of Nick,” Sherlock said. “Of course, our superiors also know that we’re here. We rather hoped we could clear everything up today, informally.” She gave him her patented smile, which no human being alive could resist. He found himself smiling back at her, taking in her brilliant curly red hair. He said, “I appreciate that, Agent. But of course I haven’t killed anyone. I don’t know what’s going on, any more than you do. Nicola, I told you that my mother was dead, that she died in a car accident. But what does that have to do with anything? Why the questions about my mother?”
“It was in Cleo’s letter,” Nick said. “The one you tore out of my hand and hurled into the fireplace.”
Senator Rothman looked utterly bewildered.
“You do remember shredding the letter and throwing it into the fireplace, John?”
“Yes, of course. I was very upset that night. A letter from Cleo—I simply couldn’t accept that. Throwing the letter into the fire, it was an impulse, and one that I now regret.”
Dane hated it, but he believed Senator Rothman. He’d really hoped, in a deep, black spot in his heart, that the senator was so guilty he’d stink of it, but he didn’t.
Dane said, “Senator Rothman, perhaps we can end this very simply. Could you please show us your journal?”
Senator Rothman looked blank.
“You do have a journal, don’t you, sir?” Sherlock said.
“Yes, of course, but it’s more like a recording of events over the years, nothing personal, if you know what I mean. Actually, I haven’t written in it in a very long time.”
“May we please see it, sir,” Dane said.
Senator Rothman rose, walked to his exquisite bird’s-eye maple desk, opened the second drawer, and pulled it out. He handed the journal-sized notebook to Dane.
Sherlock said, “You don’t keep it at home in the safe in your study?”
“Oh no, I’ve always kept it here. I’m hardly home enough to leave it there. As I said, I haven’t written in it in a v
ery long time, since before Cleo left—no, before someone murdered Cleo.” He winced.
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.
Eleventh Hour Page 28
