Eleventh Hour

“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.