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“Why do you think he would slander Dr. Campion?” Sherlock asked. “If, of course, he actually did.”

“I don’t know. He’s occupied a unique position in my life, sometimes a friend, sometimes an enemy. It’s been that way since we were in high school. I do know he wanted to sleep with Cleo, I know that for a fact. But she didn’t want him. She told me about it.” He paused, looked down at his hands, at his fingers rubbing against his palms. “But of course there was Tod Gambol.”

“Who still hasn’t been located,” Dane said.

The senator said, “Maybe Tod’s the one who killed her. Or maybe it was Elliott and he’s the one who started the rumor about Nicola because he wanted her to leave me. Maybe I’ve been wrong about him all these years. But would he go that far? Jesus, I don’t know. Do you know why he would say such a thing, Nicola?”

“No, I have no idea. Did you believe him when he denied the rumor about me, John?”

“Good God, yes, naturally.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Of course.” But he dropped his eyes. He said, “Those references to my journal, to what I’d supposedly written, listen to me. I didn’t write any of that, so that means she lied, but now we know it wasn’t Cleo who lied, it was someone else.”

“Yes,” Savich said. “Yes, we think that just might be the case, Senator.”

Senator Rothman looked pathetically eager. “Really? And just what exactly do you think, Agent?”

“We need to speak to you and your sister, Albia Rothman, sir,” Sherlock said. “Could you perhaps arrange a meeting?”

“I’m sure Albia would want very much to see you again, Nick. Why don’t all of you come to dinner tonight at my home?”

“That would be fine,” Nick said. “Thank you, John.”

“What’s this about Albia? You think she’s got something to do with this? You think she wrote the letter to Nicola, made up that journal?” His face was flushed. “That’s nonsense, absolute rubbish.”

“What time, John?” Nick asked.

They were all seated at the magnificent dining room table, which was set for six. Senator Rothman sat at the head of the table and Albia at the other end.

Dane thought she was a beautiful woman, as charming as her brother, though perhaps a touch more calculated. It was obvious to him that her brother hadn’t mentioned the letter or the journal to her.

Albia Rothman had cried when she first saw Nick, hugged her, told her over and over how very worried they’d been about her, that she was utterly distraught that Nick had believed such horrible things about John.

“My dear, I cannot tell you how much both John and I worried about you. We talked and talked but nothing seemed to make any sense to us. Then you were on TV with this man here—this Federal agent—and you were some sort of eyewitness in that script murder. However did all that come about? We heard that the murderer killed himself. It must have been a horrible time for you, Nicola.”

“Yes, it was very bad, Albia,” Nick said.

Nick’s voice was soft, a slight musical lilt to it. Dane saw that she wasn’t wearing anything he’d bought her. She and Sherlock had gone shopping at Saks on Michigan Avenue, and both of them looked expensive, and, to Dane’s eye, utterly beautiful. Nick’s black dress was short, showing off very nice long legs, but conservative, very appropriate for these surroundings. Once again, he thought she fit perfectly in this environment. He could easily picture her as a powerful senator’s wife. It made him sick to his stomach. He realized, as he looked at her, that he never would have met her if Michael hadn’t died.

It was over the artistically arranged Caesar salad with glazed pecans set precisely atop the lettuce, nestled in among croutons, that Nick said, “Albia, did you write the letter to me? The letter that Cleo supposedly wrote?”

Albia Rothman raised a perfectly arched brow. She looked markedly like her brother with that expression. She frowned, just a bit, hardly furrowing her brow, and shook her head. “No, I don’t know anything about a letter. What letter are you speaking about?”

Nick said, “John didn’t mention