Eleventh Hour

here, but you? You ran away, left John without a word, just ran. And now you’re back to try to hang him. He is a good man, a man this country needs. He is a visionary, a man of ideas, and here you are, trying to ruin him. I really won’t have it, Nicola. I won’t.”
    “No one wants to hang John,” Nick said, facing the woman Savich, Sherlock, and Dane believed to be a killer. She wasn’t afraid simply because she wasn’t alone, not really. Sherlock was outside, as were a dozen people. All she had to do was yell and people would come running. No reason to be afraid of Albia. She could take Albia, all sleek in her three-inch high heels and tight skirt. She didn’t have much maneuvering room, but she was in better shape than Albia.
    Most important, there was Sherlock, her biggest weapon. She said, “But it’s clear to everyone that since Cleo’s body was found, and she’d been struck with something on the back of the head—there are questions that have to be answered. Cleo was John’s wife. All of us have to face that reality. People think John would have had to know. Some people think John may have killed Cleo, Albia.”
    “How did you get in here without the media attacking you?”
    “I slipped in through the delivery entrance. It was real close going, but I was lucky. The media guy who was supposed to keep his eye on it was having a coffee break. I saw him go into the deli across the street. John told me about that entrance a long time ago.” Actually, both she and Sherlock had come in through the delivery entrance, but Nick didn’t want to tell Albia about Sherlock just yet. She wanted to make Albia feel safe, make her feel in control. Just maybe she’d say something, admit to something.
    Albia said with a shrug of her elegant shoulders, “Vultures, aren’t they? But why did Mrs. Mazer let you in here?”
    “I told her I wanted to see John. She suggested I wait in here, that he’d be back soon. Of course, I’ve waited for him many times in his office. I would have thought she’d tell me that you were here, but she didn’t.”
    “That’s because,” Albia said, as she took a step toward Nick, “she doesn’t know I’m here.”
    Nick forced herself not to move an inch. “How did you get in?”
    Albia smiled at her, waved a graceful hand in dismissal. “When John took the lease on this building some ten years ago, he had the architect design a private entrance that led only to this office. Most people in his position have alternate ways of leaving their offices, in circumstances just like this one. I wonder why John didn’t tell you about the private entrance? I wonder—perhaps when it came right down to it, he didn’t really trust you, Nicola. Perhaps he did come to believe that you really were sleeping with Elliott Benson. You know, of course, that Elliott has always wanted any woman that John has, and vice versa, I might add. It’s been a competition between them since before they went to college. And they pretend to be close friends. Did you know that Elliott was in love with Melissa, the girl John was engaged to? Turns out she wanted both of them, stupid girl. She slept with both of them until she died in that car accident. It was a terrible thing for my poor brother.”
    “Did he know she was sleeping with Elliott?”
    “I have no idea. As for Elliott, I don’t know what he felt about Melissa’s death. It was a very long time before John became seriously interested in another woman. But he did, finally, and he and Cleo married. It wasn’t long before Elliott got to Cleo, screwed her brains out, and everyone knew—but not John, not until after she left. I suppose she was sleeping with Tod Gambol, too, since he left when she did.”
    “But everyone knows now that she didn’t run away with anybody, Albia. Someone murdered her. And buried her, hoping her body would never be found.”
    “Isn’t that interesting? Nicola, did you sleep with Elliott Benson?”
    Nick didn’t answer her immediately. She was remembering how she once wondered how John had arrived at his office without her seeing him. A hidden private exit, what a good idea. Nick said, “Sleep with Elliott Benson? That’s a novel thought. Another man old enough to be my father. Oh, he’s as polished as an Italian count, as sleek as both you and John, but I’ll tell you the truth, Albia. Whenever I see him I am reminded of a Mafia movie character with his pomaded hair and his expensive Italian suits.