Eleventh Hour

“What happened?”

“I waved the letter in his face, asked him how many women he’d killed. He denied everything, said the letter couldn’t be from Cleo, he just wouldn’t believe that, demanded that I give it to him. Then he came at me and I thought he was going to strangle me. He got the letter, shredded it, and threw it into the fire, then turned on me. I pulled my gun out and told him I was leaving. That night, I woke up because I heard someone in my condo. I saw this guy from the balcony, running away, and realized that he’d set my condo on fire. I got myself out in time, but it was too close. I got away with my purse and that was it. I ended up in a shelter. Since I’d lost everything, since I didn’t have a shred of proof, since I knew he’d try to kill me, just like he did Melissa, just like he’d wanted to kill Cleo, I decided being homeless wasn’t such a bad thing. Talk about disappearing-and it would give me time to figure out what to do. That’s how I ended up in San Francisco, how I just happened to be waiting in the church for Father Michael Joseph.”

“So you went to San Francisco and just hid underground. You knew you couldn’t remain hidden there, Nick. What were you going to do?”

“I hadn’t yet decided. Believe me, I was in no hurry. Despite where I was, I felt safe until this happened.”

“Who is Albia?”

“She’s John Rothman’s older sister. They’re very close, always have been.”

“What is she like?”

“Albia is some seven years older than John. After their mother died in an auto accident, Albia more or less became his mother. As I said, they’re very close. Once I asked her about the family, and she told me about their mother, that she’d died tragically, that their father had died about five years ago of a heart attack.”

“Lots of automobile accidents in this man’s life.”

“Tell me about it.”

“So Albia didn’t tell you about her mother being unfaithful to her father?”

“No, would you?”

“Maybe not.”

“But there was something. At Albia’s birthday dinner, before I got really sick, I gave her a scarf. She started to talk about how their mother had had a scarf like that and then she looked like she’d swallowed something bad. She shut up like a clam. They explained it to me that it was a touchy subject.”

“No explanation at all.”

“Not really.”

“Nothing much there. Is that it?”

“No, there’s more, and this is something I know. I remember John told me he was in love with Cleo within minutes of meeting her. When she left him, he was devastated, just couldn’t believe it. He wondered and wondered why she hadn’t spoken to him, told him what was wrong, but she’d just up and left.”

“Hmmm,” Dane said again.

She said, “You know, Dane, it was really hard for me to believe that John began murdering women just because his mother cheated on his father. Do you think it’s remotely possible that he might have killed his own mother?”

“I think it’s possible that someone did.”

“But who else could it have been?”

He just shook his head. “There’s lots here to process, Nick. Let’s get Savich and Sherlock involved. MAX found out that you’re Dr. Nicola Campion quickly enough. They’re primed to help.”

“I think that’s a great idea.”

The four of them met in the Holiday Inn coffee shop.

Dane said, “Maybe you guys could consider stopping off in Chicago with us before going back to Washington.”

“Actually,” Savich said, “Sherlock was just about ready to call you, Nick, get all the details out of your mouth and not from MAX.”

“It’s a real mess,” Nick said. She talked and talked, slowly covered again all that had happened, answered many of the same questions, though many of them had a different slant, refreshing her memory for different things. She realized she was being questioned by experts. It was quite painless, actually. Finally, both Savich and Sherlock fell silent. Savich was holding his wife’s hand, stroking his thumb over her palm, slowly and gently.

Nick watched Savich sip his tea, frown. He said as he gently sloshed the tea around in the cup, “It’s very flat, no taste at all.”

Sherlock patted his hand. “I think we should start traveling with the tea you like.”

Dane, impatient, said, “Well? What do you guys think?”

Savich smiled at Nick and said, “I want to cogitate on all of this for a while. But first, I need to make a phone call.”

He pulled out his cell phone, dialed, waited. “Hello, George? It’s Savich, and I need a bit of help.”

“Who’s George?” Nick whispered to Dane.

Sherlock said, “It’s Captain George Brady, Chicago Police Department.”

Savich waited, listened, then said into the cell phone, “Here’s the deal, George. I need you to tell me about Cleo Rothman.”

Two minutes later, Savich pressed the off button on the phone. He looked at each of them in turn, then said directly to Nick, “I’m sorry, Nick, but Cleo Rothman wasn’t killed a couple of weeks ago.”

Nick said, “What do you mean? I don’t understand. I got the letter from her not more than a month ago.”

Savich said, “Captain Brady said the medical examiner was just about ready to announce his findings. Fact is, Cleo Rothman was murdered at least three years ago.”

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