Eleventh Hour

living,” Delion said. “What were you doing meeting Weldon DeLoach? Why were you dressed like the perfect description of our murderer?”
    Frank whirled around. “I knew it, I just knew it. Weldon is crazy about you, wants to make you a star and—”
    Four wives, Nick thought, getting a glimmer of reality in the glass house.
    Belinda smiled toward her husband, who looked ready to break into small pieces he was standing so rigid. She didn’t seem at all perturbed. “Actually, sweetie, he’s not. Weldon isn’t my type, you are. Now, Weldon and I had arranged to meet that night, at the bowling alley, and I was to pick him up. We went to La Pomme in Westwood, sat at a booth and brainstormed story ideas. He wanted my role in The Consultant to be bigger.” She shrugged. “Yes, I was dressed like a man. Weldon asked me to, told me what to wear, what disguise to use. Of course, now that’s academic since Weldon is nowhere to be found and the show’s been yanked.”
    Sherlock said, “Weldon wanted to change your role to a man’s? This doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, Belinda.”
    “He was thinking about another idea, a woman who was a spy and had the international community believing she was a man. He wanted to see if I was a good enough actress to fool people into believing I was a man. Nothing more than that. I think I did well. Nobody gave me a second look. Weldon laughed and laughed, he was so tickled. You know, Frank, how he acts when he’s excited.”
    “How did you carry it off?” Sherlock said. “You’re beautiful and you’ve got lots of hair.”
    “Well, you see, I used to do makeup back in the bad old days, and I’m really good at it. That disguise wasn’t much of a challenge.”
    Nick felt her heart crash to the floor. It sounded so reasonable the way Belinda, the actress, told it, even the wretched disguise. Thing was, Nick believed her.
    “She’s a hell of an actress,” Flynn said to the group as he walked to his car in the large circular driveway. “We can’t forget that. God, she’s gorgeous, isn’t she?”

TWENTY-TWO
    CHICAGO
    Nicola arrived home with a bad headache after a two-hour, very contentious staff meeting at the university. At least she no longer felt like she’d been starved and kicked around. It had been three days since the food poisoning. A week since she’d begun to see everything in a different light.
    She dropped her mail on the small table in her entrance hall, went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of diet tonic water, and got three aspirins from the medicine cabinet.
    When at last she sorted through her mail, she found a single letter without a return address. Her name was written in bold cursive. The handwriting looked vaguely familiar.
    Nicola picked up her two-hundred-year-old Chinese dragon letter opener that John had given her for Christmas and slit the envelope open. She pulled out three sheets of closely written pages. She read:
    Dear Nicola, I bet you’re surprised to hear from me.
    Me who? Nicola skipped to the last page of the letter and read the clean-cut, crisp signature: Cleo Rothman. No, it was impossible. Why would Cleo write to her after three years of silence?

    There’s no easy way to say this, Nicola, but since I was always very fond of you, I’ll just come out with it. Don’t marry John or you’ll be very sorry. He isn’t what he seems. You believe, like everyone else, that I skipped town with Tod Gambol, don’t you? I didn’t. I have no idea where Tod Gambol is, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he was dead. I ran, Nicola, I ran. John was going to kill me. You want to know why? Because he believed that I was sleeping with Elliott Benson, that longtime crony of the mayor’s and friend of John’s. Are they really friends? I don’t know.
    Actually, I’ve heard the rumors that you’re also sleeping with Elliott. Does John know about them? I’d bet on it. Maybe you’ve already realized that whatever woman John has, Elliott has to take away from him. You know, I heard he’s really good in bed. Are you sleeping with him, Nicola? It doesn’t really matter because John undoubtedly believes you are.
    You’re thinking I’m nuts, but let me tell you what happened three years ago. John was in Washington and I needed something that was in his library. I saw that his safe was open. He’s the only one who knows the combination. I was curious so I looked inside. I found a journal, John’s journal, and I took it. I’ve copied