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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 deal: 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