Eleventh Hour

recording of events and appointments, nothing at all sinister.” He paused, said, “No, Cleo didn’t write you that letter, Nicola. God, she was dead, dead all along, and no one knew.” He put his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving, struggling to keep control.
    No one said a word until he got himself together again, drank some of his coffee. “I apologize.”
    He said finally, “What the hell is going on here?”
    “Haven’t you wondered who wrote me that letter since Cleo has been dead for three years?” Nick asked.
    He splayed his hands in front of him, didn’t say anything.
    “You kept insisting that last night, John, that Cleo hadn’t written the letter, that it was impossible. It occurred to me that you must have known she was dead, that it was impossible for her to have written to me, that it had to be someone else.”
    “No, I had no idea Cleo was dead. What I simply couldn’t believe was that Cleo would slander me like that, that she would make up that story about a journal and what I’d written. There was no way she could have believed that I killed Melissa, would have killed her as well, and now even you. All because of some rumor that you were sleeping with Elliott Benson?”
    “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.