• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“Yes, of course. I was very upset that night. A letter from Cleo—I simply couldn’t accept that. Throwing the letter into the fire, it was an impulse, and one that I now regret.”

Dane hated it, but he believed Senator Rothman. He’d really hoped, in a deep, black spot in his heart, that the senator was so guilty he’d stink of it, but he didn’t.

Dane said, “Senator Rothman, perhaps we can end this very simply. Could you please show us your journal?”

Senator Rothman looked blank.

“You do have a journal, don’t you, sir?” Sherlock said.

“Yes, of course, but it’s more like a recording of events over the years, nothing personal, if you know what I mean. Actually, I haven’t written in it in a very long time.”

“May we please see it, sir,” Dane said.

Senator Rothman rose, walked to his exquisite bird’s-eye maple desk, opened the second drawer, and pulled it out. He handed the journal-sized notebook to Dane.

Sherlock said, “You don’t keep it at home in the safe in your study?”

“Oh no, I’ve always kept it here. I’m hardly home enough to leave it there. As I said, I haven’t written in it in a very long time, since before Cleo left—no, before someone murdered Cleo.” He winced.

Nick said, “Cleo wrote that you confessed to murdering Melissa.”

“Murdered Melissa? That is absurd. I wish I hadn’t destroyed that damned letter. Listen, Nick, whoever wrote you that letter, it wasn’t Cleo.”

“We know that now,” Savich said. “Cleo’s been dead since she supposedly left you.”

No one said anything. Dane opened the journal, a rich dark brown leather with a clasp that wasn’t locked. He skimmed through it.

Rothman said, “As you can see, Agent Carver, it’s more a recording of events and appointments, nothing at all sinister.” He paused, said, “No, Cleo didn’t write you that letter, Nicola. God, she was dead, dead all along, and no one knew.” He put his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving, struggling to keep control.

No one said a word until he got himself together again, drank some of his coffee. “I apologize.”

He said finally, “What the hell is going on here?”

“Haven’t you wondered who wrote me that letter since Cleo has been dead for three years?” Nick asked.

He splayed his hands in front of him, didn’t say anything.

“You kept insisting that last night, John, that Cleo hadn’t written the letter, that it was impossible. It occurred to me that you must have known she was dead, that it was impossible for her to have written to me, that it had to be someone else.”

“No, I had no idea Cleo was dead. What I simply couldn’t believe was that Cleo would slander me like that, that she would make up that story about a journal and what I’d written. There was no way she could have believed that I killed Melissa, would have killed her as well, and now even you. All because of some rumor that you were sleeping with Elliott Benson?”

“That all three of us slept with Elliott Benson, beginning with Melissa back in college.”

He shook his head. “That’s absurd. Elliott is a friend, not an enemy. He’s a man I trust, a man I’ve always trusted.”

Nick looked away from the man she’d planned to marry just one month before. Now he and Elliott Benson were the best of friends? She didn’t know, just didn’t know.

She rose and walked to the huge window that gave onto Lake Michigan. The water was whipped up by a strong wind. She could tell it was cold and blustery from there, on the twenty-second floor of the Grayson Building. She said over her shoulder, not looking back, “I never heard any rumor about me and Elliott, did you, John?”

To her surprise, he slowly nodded, saw she still wasn’t looking at him, and said aloud, “Yes, I did hear some rumors. I actually spoke to Elliott about them, and he denied them, of course. I remember I was about to leave when I turned and saw that he was smirking behind his hand. Then it was gone, and I believed I must have imagined it. Elliott would never hurt me.” He rubbed his knuckles then, and Savich knew that the restrained aristocratic senator had been thinking about hitting Elliott Benson. Because he believed he