Eleventh Hour

particular mess.”
    “It is a mess,” said John Rothman. He ran his fingers through his beautifully styled salt-and-pepper hair.
    Dane, who’d said nothing, stood quietly behind Nick, eyeing this elegant aristocrat. He wanted to kick the man’s teeth down his throat.
    “John,” Nick said, “do you remember that night I asked you how many women you killed?”
    Dead silence.
    “Yes, of course I would remember when the woman I love accuses me of being a serial killer. I assume all these Federal agents are familiar with what you think of me, Nicola?”
    She nodded. She realized in that moment that she was now perfectly safe. No one could hurt her again. She drew herself up even taller.
    “Did you know there was an attempt on my life in Los Angeles?”
    “Of course not. How could I possibly know that?” He paused a moment, then said, “Should I have my lawyer present?”
    “I don’t believe so,” Savich said. “Why don’t we all sit down and talk this over?”
    The lovely pale brown brocade grouping was expensive and charming. The coffee served in the Georgian coffeepot was fresh and quite excellent. It was Nicola who served them. Dane saw that she was very comfortable in these surroundings, pouring the damned coffee from that exquisite silver coffeepot. He’d be willing to bet Paul Revere had made the thing. He didn’t know if he ever wanted to see Nick in the senator’s penthouse, damn that man’s sincere and honest eyes.
    Dane sat forward, clasping his hands between his legs. “Nick has told us that your mother died in a car accident some three months after she confessed infidelity to your father. You were sixteen at the time. Is this correct?”
    Rothman said slowly, “Why are you asking about my mother? It is absolutely none of your business. It’s no one’s business. It has nothing to do with anything.”
    “Senator, we’re here as friends of Nick,” Sherlock said. “Of course, our superiors also know that we’re here. We rather hoped we could clear everything up today, informally.” She gave him her patented smile, which no human being alive could resist. He found himself smiling back at her, taking in her brilliant curly red hair. He said, “I appreciate that, Agent. But of course I haven’t killed anyone. I don’t know what’s going on, any more than you do. Nicola, I told you that my mother was dead, that she died in a car accident. But what does that have to do with anything? Why the questions about my mother?”
    “It was in Cleo’s letter,” Nick said. “The one you tore out of my hand and hurled into the fireplace.”
    Senator Rothman looked utterly bewildered.
    “You do remember shredding the letter and throwing it into the fireplace, John?”
    “Yes, of course. I was very upset that night. A letter from Cleo—I simply couldn’t accept that. Throwing the letter into the fire, it was an impulse, and one that I now regret.”
    Dane hated it, but he believed Senator Rothman. He’d really hoped, in a deep, black spot in his heart, that the senator was so guilty he’d stink of it, but he didn’t.
    Dane said, “Senator Rothman, perhaps we can end this very simply. Could you please show us your journal?”
    Senator Rothman looked blank.
    “You do have a journal, don’t you, sir?” Sherlock said.
    “Yes, of course, but it’s more like a recording of events over the years, nothing personal, if you know what I mean. Actually, I haven’t written in it in a very long time.”
    “May we please see it, sir,” Dane said.
    Senator Rothman rose, walked to his exquisite bird’s-eye maple desk, opened the second drawer, and pulled it out. He handed the journal-sized notebook to Dane.
    Sherlock said, “You don’t keep it at home in the safe in your study?”
    “Oh no, I’ve always kept it here. I’m hardly home enough to leave it there. As I said, I haven’t written in it in a very long time, since before Cleo left—no, before someone murdered Cleo.” He winced.
    Nick said, “Cleo wrote that you confessed to murdering Melissa.”
    “Murdered Melissa? That is absurd. I wish I hadn’t destroyed that damned letter. Listen, Nick, whoever wrote you that letter, it wasn’t Cleo.”
    “We know that now,” Savich said. “Cleo’s been dead since she supposedly left you.”
    No one said anything. Dane opened the journal, a rich dark brown leather with a clasp that wasn’t locked. He skimmed through it.
    Rothman said, “As you can see, Agent Carver, it’s more a