Dane, impatient, said, “Well? What do you guys think?”
Savich smiled at Nick and said, “I want to cogitate on all of this for a while. But first, I need to make a phone call.”
He pulled out his cell phone, dialed, waited. “Hello, George? It’s Savich, and I need a bit of help.”
“Who’s George?” Nick whispered to Dane.
Sherlock said, “It’s Captain George Brady, Chicago Police Department.”
Savich waited, listened, then said into the cell phone, “Here’s the deal, George. I need you to tell me about Cleo Rothman.”
Two minutes later, Savich pressed the off button on the phone. He looked at each of them in turn, then said directly to Nick, “I’m sorry, Nick, but Cleo Rothman wasn’t killed a couple of weeks ago.”
Nick said, “What do you mean? I don’t understand. I got the letter from her not more than a month ago.”
Savich said, “Captain Brady said the medical examiner was just about ready to announce his findings. Fact is, Cleo Rothman was murdered at least three years ago.”
THIRTY-FIVE
They spent the entire late afternoon and evening in meetings with Jimmy Maitland, Savich’s boss and an assistant director of the FBI, Gil Rainy from the LA field office, and LAPD Chief William Morgan and his staff, including Detective Flynn. They had time for only a brief good-bye to Inspector Delion before he flew back to San Francisco late that evening.
The DA wasn’t going to press charges against Weldon DeLoach, recognized that the man had lost his son and would probably be persona non grata in Hollywood. Besides, Weldon was going to show them where his father had buried all the discarded bloody clothes from so many years ago. That was, they decided, enough punishment for any man. As for Captain DeLoach, they’d tried to get details from him, but he’d acted utterly demented. Was it a game? No one knew. The fact was, though, he was dying. No one could see putting the old buzzard in jail, but the questions would continue to be asked. They would see if any were ever answered.
With Jimmy Maitland’s blessing, the four of them flew to Chicago the following morning. They survived the usual hassles that accompanied traveling by air now that the world had changed. Their FBI shields were studied, their paperwork read three times, their fingerprints closely scrutinized until, at last, they were cleared through.
They rented two cars and suffered through the snarled traffic-which still didn’t measure up to Los Angeles traffic-and it took them a good forty-five minutes to reach The Four Seasons. It was a treat, Savich told them, and one that Jimmy Maitland had approved. He’d told Savich they’d done such a good job with the script murderer that the sky was the limit, given, of course, that they realized the sky consisted of two regular rooms, which were still very nice in The Four Seasons. They managed to snag two adjoining rooms.
They ordered up room service first thing. Over club sandwiches, Savich’s minus the turkey and bacon, he said, “Okay, I’ve given this lots of thought, talked it over with Sherlock and Dane on the airplane. Here’s what we think, Nick: It’s just possible that Senator John Rothman isn’t the murderer here.”
It was like someone punched her in the gut. She lost her breath. She gaped at the three of them, all of them nodding at her, said, “No, that’s just not possible.”
“Think a minute,” Savich said, very gently, because he knew that her entire world was based on her belief that this one man had tried to murder her. “John Rothman is a very powerful man, true, with lots of clout, lots of friends who owe him favors, but despite that, he’s got a lot on the line. Not just his political career, but his life. His life, Nick. For a man like him, with his skills, his place in the world, to really be that screwed up because his mom had an affair when he was a teenager, it just doesn’t make sense, for any of us.” He smiled at her. “Fact is, we’re thinking that it just might be Albia Rothman.”
Dane smiled, didn’t say a word, just took another bite of his sandwich, which was quite good.
“Albia,” Nick said, her voice blank, sandwich forgotten. “What on earth do you mean?”
“Well,” Savich said, “to be honest here, it socked me in the face when you first mentioned her. That’s why I said I wanted to think about it, discuss it with Sherlock and Dane. I’m not saying that we shouldn’t immediately speak to John Rothman, because we have been known to be wrong before. Just maybe we’ll change our minds. But I want us to give serious consideration to his sister as well.”
Nick could only stare at each of them in turn. She drew a deep breath, took a bite of her sandwich, chewed, then said finally, “I’m not following you guys at all here.”
Dane said, “Here’s the deaclass="underline" Older sister and younger brother are both hurt badly because of mother’s infidelity. Older sister believes to her soul that she’s her little brother’s protector. Maybe she kills her mother, or maybe not, maybe her death just makes it all that much worse. She becomes her younger brother’s biggest supporter, realizes she can’t bear to ever let him go to another woman, and so when he meets someone in college, she kills her, making it look like an accident.”
Nick was shaking her head. “But how can you possibly know if any of that is even close to the truth? It was all this Elliott Benson, this friend of John’s who’s always gone after the women John loved or wanted.
“Also, there’s the inescapable fact that John married Cleo. They were married for five years. Why wouldn’t Albia have killed her before John could marry her if she wanted to keep him to herself? To keep him safe from other women?”
Sherlock said, “It’s likely that Albia simply didn’t have enough opportunity before they married. We’ll see about that. I’ll bet you the last quarter of my club sandwich, though, that it was probably a whirlwind romance, and Albia didn’t have a chance to stop him from marrying. So Albia had to bide her time, had to go underground with her feelings. After all, she couldn’t just knock off his new wife; there would be too many questions raised. And certainly the last thing she’d want is to have her brother a suspect in the death of his wife, supposed accident or not.”
Dane said, “Here’s the clincher. You said that Cleo was the one who told you about Elliott Benson. Well, Cleo didn’t write that letter. It’s got to be Albia.”
Nick looked thoughtful, her eyes on the crust of her club sandwich, all that was left. She said at last, “I know Albia, or at least I thought I did. She’s always been kind to me, not chummy, because she’s not like that with anyone. She’s very dignified, very together, restrained.”
Dane said, “Would she go to the mat for her brother, do you think?”
Nick pictured Albia Rothman in her mind, slowly shook her head. “I just don’t know. I remember once in a meeting, though, Albia didn’t agree with a political stand John wanted to take. She laid out her reasons, but he didn’t change his mind. I remember thinking that I agreed with her. I also remember the look she gave him was vicious, but she didn’t argue with him anymore.”
“You said that Albia was married once, for just a short time?” Savich asked.
“That’s right,” Nick said. “Oh, God, her husband died very suddenly, if I’m remembering right. You don’t think-no, oh no.” Nick dashed her fingers through her hair. “This is very difficult. I’ve believed it was John from the very beginning. When he came at me that last night, his fingers curved toward my neck-and I swear to you, I saw murder in his eyes-I knew he was guilty. Not a single doubt in my mind. I was terrified. The thing is-why would he come after me if it was Albia who killed the women?”
“Maybe he didn’t mean to hurt you,” Sherlock said. “Maybe he just wanted that letter from his ex-wife. And he wanted it very badly, enough to attack you to get it. Nick, his career is on the line here. All he cares about can come tumbling down around his ears. He had to get ahold of that letter. Now that raises a good question, doesn’t it?”