Eleventh Hour

“That’s nonsense, absolute rubbish.”
    “What time, John?” Nick asked.

    They were all seated at the magnificent dining room table, which was set for six. Senator Rothman sat at the head of the table and Albia at the other end.
    Dane thought she was a beautiful woman, as charming as her brother, though perhaps a touch more calculated. It was obvious to him that her brother hadn’t mentioned the letter or the journal to her.
    Albia Rothman had cried when she first saw Nick, hugged her, told her over and over how very worried they’d been about her, that she was utterly distraught that Nick had believed such horrible things about John.
    “My dear, I cannot tell you how much both John and I worried about you. We talked and talked but nothing seemed to make any sense to us. Then you were on TV with this man here—this Federal agent—and you were some sort of eyewitness in that script murder. However did all that come about? We heard that the murderer killed himself. It must have been a horrible time for you, Nicola.”
    “Yes, it was very bad, Albia,” Nick said.
    Nick’s voice was soft, a slight musical lilt to it. Dane saw that she wasn’t wearing anything he’d bought her. She and Sherlock had gone shopping at Saks on Michigan Avenue, and both of them looked expensive, and, to Dane’s eye, utterly beautiful. Nick’s black dress was short, showing off very nice long legs, but conservative, very appropriate for these surroundings. Once again, he thought she fit perfectly in this environment. He could easily picture her as a powerful senator’s wife. It made him sick to his stomach. He realized, as he looked at her, that he never would have met her if Michael hadn’t died.
    It was over the artistically arranged Caesar salad with glazed pecans set precisely atop the lettuce, nestled in among croutons, that Nick said, “Albia, did you write the letter to me? The letter that Cleo supposedly wrote?”
    Albia Rothman raised a perfectly arched brow. She looked markedly like her brother with that expression. She frowned, just a bit, hardly furrowing her brow, and shook her head. “No, I don’t know anything about a letter. What letter are you speaking about?”
    Nick said, “John didn’t mention the letter I received from Cleo, warning me that he was trying to kill me, that he’d also tried to kill her and that was why she ran away?”
    “Good God, what a novel idea. A letter from Cleo? How very preposterous. John try to kill Cleo? Kill you? That is utterly absurd. John, what is going on here?”
    Senator Rothman merely shrugged, methodically picked a pecan out of his salad, never looking at them. “The FBI agents are the ones with all the answers here, not I.”
    “You realize, I hope,” Albia said to the table at large, “how very absurd that is. John is a very kind, intelligent man, a man to admire, a man who will make this country a better place.”
    Dane said, “Ms. Rothman, let’s get back to whether you were the one who wrote Nick the letter.”
    “That means you were trying to warn me, Albia,” Nick said. “You were trying to help me. Or were you trying to get rid of me?”
    “Do eat your salad, Nicola. I didn’t come here to discuss this nonsense.”
    Savich said, “We need your help, Ms. Rothman.”
    Albia said as she carefully laid down her salad fork, “If your friends—these Federal officers—are pushing you to do this, Nicola, then I do believe that I don’t even wish to stay.” She rose as she spoke, said to her brother, “John, I’m leaving. I have no intention of trying to digest my dinner with these people accusing you of murdering women. If I were you, I’d call Rockland and have him come represent you. I would also consider asking them to leave. Nicola, you have really disappointed me.”
    And she walked out of the dining room.
    John Rothman said nothing until he heard the front door close quietly in the distance. “Well, whatever it is you were trying to achieve, that was disgraceful. Good evening to all of you.”
    Senator John Rothman rose, tossed his napkin over his uneaten salad, and walked gracefully out of the dining room.
    They all stared at one another when they heard the front door close a second time.
    “Well,” Dane said, “I do enjoy the unexpected. The salad is delicious.”

THIRTY-SEVEN
    Dane said, “Jimmy Maitland asked us to a meeting with the police commissioner and several other nervous politicians, all of it regarding the Rothman