Eleventh Hour

your lover who tried to kill you. It was Elliott Benson. I called him, you know. He told me all about you, told me that poor John had picked the wrong woman yet again. And he laughed then, a very pleased laugh.”
    “Albia, who killed Cleo?”
    “Tod Gambol. After all, he was the one to run away, wasn’t he? As I said, Cleo was a slut. John has always been so innocent, so trusting, so unsuspecting. They say people always search out the same sort of person again and again, doesn’t matter if that person is rotten. John’s the classic example. Melissa, Cleo. Then he chose you, and just look at what you did.”
    “I didn’t do anything, Albia. Did you have the same man come to LA to kill me while he was riding a Harley?”
    “I’m really tired of all this nonsense, Nicola. All this will blow over. John didn’t kill Cleo, he didn’t try to kill you, and neither did I. I want you to leave now. I honestly believe you should take yourself as far away as possible. I did my best to get you away from here. You should get away again, Nicola.”
    “No, I’m staying this time, Albia. I want to know who’s trying to kill me.”
    Albia examined a beautifully manicured nail a moment. “You’re not very bright, given all your education. I have no idea about any of this. However, I saw last night at that ridiculous dinner you and your FBI friends set up how you and that one agent were looking at each other. You’ve already taken another lover. John saw it as well. He knows you’re sleeping with that Federal cop. That’s really sad, Nicola. You’re not at all worthy of someone as fine as John Rothman.”
    “Probably, from your point of view, no woman is good enough for him, Albia.”
    “Well, that’s probably true. I’ve taken care of him since our mother died.”
    “I’ve wondered if your mother really died accidentally?”
    “What a ridiculous thing to say. You’re nothing but a little bitch with a big mouth. I’m glad you’ll soon be out of our lives. And you will be, one way or another.” And with that, Albia walked across the room, pressed her finger against one of the wall panels, and watched it silently open. Then she was gone, just like that, gone without another word.
    Nick looked at that blank wall. What was Albia going to do? Figure out how to kill her again? Obviously she couldn’t do it here, not with so many people just a short distance away. She wasn’t stupid. Where was the man she must have hired? Nick’s heart was still pounding. She felt a headache building over her left eye. It was time to fetch Sherlock, time to see Dane, to tell him everything Albia had said, which wasn’t much of anything except for all this stuff about Elliott Benson.
    First, though, she wanted to see what was behind that hidden panel. She walked to the wall, found the nearly flat button, and pressed it. The panel slid silently open. There was a dim passage that ran about six feet directly away from her then turned sharply to the right. She wanted to know what that turn led to, but there was no way she was going into that passage. She and Sherlock would check it out together. She turned to press the panel button when a large hand clapped down hard over her mouth. She fought but it was no good. She had no leverage and the man was much larger than she was, and very strong. He dragged her out of the office and into the passage. Her heart nearly dropped to her stomach when she heard the planel slide shut, and there was nothing but a tomb of darkness and a man dragging her away from safety.
    The man stopped abruptly at the end of the passage and turned sharply right. Suddenly there were soft glowing lights set above an elevator door.
    “She had to take a look just like you thought she would,” the man said, and pushed her away to hit the wall, hard.
    Albia was holding an elegant silver derringer, and it was aimed right at her chest.
    “Hello, Nicola. How nice of you to open the panel.”
    Her throat was clogged with fear. The man—she recognized him. He was wearing the same black leather jacket. Dark opaque sunglasses hung out of the breast pocket. His hands were large, fingers blunt—strong hands. It was the same man who’d been riding the Harley in L.A.
    She turned and ran.
    He was on her in an instant, grabbed her arms and twisted them up and back, hard, and she groaned with the pain.
    He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “It’s too late now, love.”
    “Darling, bring her here.”
    He dragged her