Eleventh Hour

THIRTY-FIVE

They spent the entire late afternoon and evening in meetings with Jimmy Maitland, Savich’s boss and an assistant director of the FBI, Gil Rainy from the LA field office, and LAPD Chief William Morgan and his staff, including Detective Flynn. They had time for only a brief good-bye to Inspector Delion before he flew back to San Francisco late that evening.

The DA wasn’t going to press charges against Weldon DeLoach, recognized that the man had lost his son and would probably be persona non grata in Hollywood. Besides, Weldon was going to show them where his father had buried all the discarded bloody clothes from so many years ago. That was, they decided, enough punishment for any man. As for Captain DeLoach, they’d tried to get details from him, but he’d acted utterly demented. Was it a game? No one knew. The fact was, though, he was dying. No one could see putting the old buzzard in jail, but the questions would continue to be asked. They would see if any were ever answered.

With Jimmy Maitland’s blessing, the four of them flew to Chicago the following morning. They survived the usual hassles that accompanied traveling by air now that the world had changed. Their FBI shields were studied, their paperwork read three times, their fingerprints closely scrutinized until, at last, they were cleared through.

They rented two cars and suffered through the snarled traffic-which still didn’t measure up to Los Angeles traffic-and it took them a good forty-five minutes to reach The Four Seasons. It was a treat, Savich told them, and one that Jimmy Maitland had approved. He’d told Savich they’d done such a good job with the script murderer that the sky was the limit, given, of course, that they realized the sky consisted of two regular rooms, which were still very nice in The Four Seasons. They managed to snag two adjoining rooms.

They ordered up room service first thing. Over club sandwiches, Savich’s minus the turkey and bacon, he said, “Okay, I’ve given this lots of thought, talked it over with Sherlock and Dane on the airplane. Here’s what we think, Nick: It’s just possible that Senator John Rothman isn’t the murderer here.”

It was like someone punched her in the gut. She lost her breath. She gaped at the three of them, all of them nodding at her, said, “No, that’s just not possible.”

“Think a minute,” Savich said, very gently, because he knew that her entire world was based on her belief that this one man had tried to murder her. “John Rothman is a very powerful man, true, with lots of clout, lots of friends who owe him favors, but despite that, he’s got a lot on the line. Not just his political career, but his life. His life, Nick. For a man like him, with his skills, his place in the world, to really be that screwed up because his mom had an affair when he was a teenager, it just doesn’t make sense, for any of us.” He smiled at her. “Fact is, we’re thinking that it just might be Albia Rothman.”

Dane smiled, didn’t say a word, just took another bite of his sandwich, which was quite good.

“Albia,” Nick said, her voice blank, sandwich forgotten. “What on earth do you mean?”

“Well,” Savich said, “to be honest here, it socked me in the face when you first mentioned her. That’s why I said I wanted to think about it, discuss it with Sherlock and Dane. I’m not saying that we shouldn’t immediately speak to John Rothman, because we have been known to be wrong before. Just maybe we’ll change our minds. But I want us to give serious consideration to his sister as well.”

Nick could only stare at each of them in turn. She drew a deep breath, took a bite of her sandwich, chewed, then said finally, “I’m not following you guys at all here.”

Dane said, “Here’s the deal: Older sister and younger brother are both hurt badly because of mother’s infidelity. Older sister believes to her soul that she’s her little brother’s protector. Maybe she kills her mother, or maybe not, maybe her death just makes it all that much worse. She becomes her younger brother’s biggest supporter, realizes she can’t bear to ever let him go to another woman, and so when he meets someone in college, she kills her, making it look like an accident.”

Nick was shaking her head. “But how can you possibly know if any of that is even close to the truth? It was all this Elliott Benson, this friend of John’s who’s always gone after the women John loved or wanted.

“Also, there’s the inescapable fact that John married Cleo. They were married for five years. Why wouldn’t Albia have killed her before John could marry her if she wanted to keep him to herself? To keep him safe from other women?”

Sherlock said, “It’s likely that Albia simply didn’t have enough opportunity before they married. We’ll see about that. I’ll bet you the last quarter of my club sandwich, though, that it was probably a whirlwind romance, and Albia didn’t have a chance to stop him from marrying. So Albia had to bide her time, had to go underground with her feelings. After all, she couldn’t just knock off his new wife; there would be too many questions raised. And certainly the last thing she’d want is to have her brother a suspect in the death of his wife, supposed accident or not.”

Dane said, “Here’s the clincher. You said that Cleo was the one who told you about Elliott Benson. Well, Cleo didn’t write that letter. It’s got to be Albia.”

Nick looked thoughtful, her eyes on the crust of her club sandwich, all that was left. She said at last, “I know Albia, or at least I thought I did. She’s always been kind to me, not chummy, because she’s not like that with anyone. She’s very dignified, very together, restrained.”

Dane said, “Would she go to the mat for her brother, do you think?”

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 something 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.