Eleventh Hour (37 page)

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 write 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.”

“Albia, who killed Cleo?”

“Tod Gambol. After all, he was the one to run away, wasn’t he? As I said, Cleo was a slut. John has always been so innocent, so trusting, so unsuspecting. They say people always search out the same sort of person again and again, doesn’t matter if that person is rotten. John’s the classic example. Melissa, Cleo. Then he chose you, and just look at what you did.”

“I didn’t do anything, Albia. Did you have the same man come to LA to kill me while he was riding a Harley?”

“I’m really tired of all this nonsense, Nicola. All this will blow over. John didn’t kill Cleo, he didn’t try to kill you, and neither did I. I want you to leave now. I honestly believe you should take yourself as far away as possible. I did my best to get you away from here. You should get away again, Nicola.”

“No, I’m staying this time, Albia. I want to know who’s trying to kill me.”

Albia examined a beautifully manicured nail a moment. “You’re not very bright, given all your education. I have no idea about any of this. However, I saw last night at that ridiculous dinner you and your FBI friends set up how you and that one agent were looking at each other. You’ve already taken another lover. John saw it as well. He knows you’re sleeping with that Federal cop. That’s really sad, Nicola.

You’re not at all worthy of someone as fine as John Rothman.”

“Probably, from your point of view, no woman is good enough for him, Albia.”

“Well, that’s probably true. I’ve taken care of him since our mother died.”

“I’ve wondered if your mother really died accidentally?”

“What a ridiculous thing to say. You’re nothing but a little bitch with a big mouth. I’m glad you’ll soon be out of our lives. And you will be, one way or another.” And with that, Albia walked across the room, pressed her finger against one of the wall panels, and watched it silently open. Then she was gone, just like that, gone without another word.

Nick looked at that blank wall. What was Albia going to do? Figure out how to kill her again? Obviously she couldn’t do it here, not with so many people just a short distance away. She wasn’t stupid. Where was the man she must have hired? Nick’s heart was still pounding. She felt a headache building over her left eye. It was time to fetch Sherlock, time to see Dane, to tell him everything Albia had said, which wasn’t much of anything except for all this stuff about Elliott Benson.

First, though, she wanted to see what was behind that hidden panel. She walked to the wall, found the nearly flat button, and pressed it. The panel slid silently open. There was a dim passage that ran about six feet directly away from her then turned sharply to the right. She wanted to know what that turn led to, but there was no way she was going into that passage. She and Sherlock would check it out together. She turned to press the panel button when a large hand clapped down hard over her mouth. She fought but it was no good. She had no leverage and the man was much larger than she was, and very strong. He dragged her out of the office and into the passage. Her heart nearly dropped to her stomach when she heard the planel slide shut, and there was nothing but a tomb of darkness and a man dragging her away from safety.

The man stopped abruptly at the end of the passage and turned sharply right. Suddenly there were soft glowing lights set above an elevator door.

“She had to take a look just like you thought she would,” the man said, and pushed her away to hit the wall, hard.

Albia was holding an elegant silver derringer, and it was aimed right at her chest.

“Hello, Nicola. How nice of you to open the panel.”

Her throat was clogged with fear. The man—she recognized him. He was wearing the same black leather jacket. Dark opaque sunglasses hung out of the breast pocket. His hands were large, fingers blunt—strong hands. It was the same man who’d been riding the Harley in L.A.

She turned and ran.

He was on her in an instant, grabbed her arms and twisted them up and back, hard, and she groaned with the pain.

He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “It’s too late now, love.”

“Darling, bring her here.”

He dragged her back to where Albia stood, looking unruffled and elegant, still holding that derringer. “

My goodness, Nicola, you are a bad girl, now aren’t you? You’ve been trying very hard to muck things up and I really can’t allow any more, now can I?”

The man eased his hold on her arms. He turned her slowly to face him. He was older, his face seamed from years in the sun. He pushed her face up, his fist beneath her chin. “You’re very pretty. I always thought so, but not so smart, even with all those diplomas you have. But you know what, love? You were lucky, very lucky. I’ve always believed that luck ranked right up there with brains.”

Nick stared up at him. “You’re the man who tried to kill me.”

“Well, yes, I did, and it was quite a blow when I didn’t get you. Albia was very upset with me.”

“Of course I was upset. You know, Nicola, you had more than your share of luck,” Albia said. “Poor little Cleo, she didn’t have even a lick of luck. Just as well that Dwight here sent her to her great reward.

She was looking quite old there at the end. John told me that he used to love to touch her, her skin was so soft, but there, toward the end, he thought she was getting old, her skin becoming coarse.”

“I thought she felt pretty nice,” Dwight said.

Albia laughed. “John is very choosy. He told me he loved touching Nicola, that her skin was so very soft.

He prayed that she wouldn’t become coarse for a long time.”

Nick jerked, felt Dwight’s hand tighten around her arm. “Don’t think about yelling, love, this area is soundproof, the senator’s office as well. No one can hear a thing.”

Nick whispered, “It was you, Albia, all along it was you.”

“Yes, dear. You want to know something? You’re nothing, Nicola, nothing at all. Dwight will make sure that no hunter’s dog finds you. You’ve caused me a lot of trouble, but this will be the end of it. Yes indeed, it’s so fortunate that Dwight was waiting for you to open the panel. I thought you’d come right on in, but you didn’t. Still, it didn’t matter. Now, that’s what I call luck—for me.”