Eleventh Hour

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