Eleventh Hour
Page 115
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“I didn’t write you anything, Nicola.”
Nick let it go for the moment. What had she expected? A confession? She said after a moment of silence, “I can’t believe Cleo ever slept with Elliott Benson. Nor with Tod Gambol. She loved John.”
“Oh, but Cleo was a little harlot. John wouldn’t believe me until I finally showed him photos that I had a private investigator take of her and Elliott, all cozied up in his small house on Crane Island. It’s all private, you know, the nearest neighbor is a good half mile away. I might add that he and John both have used that house. If they happen to have each other’s woman at that house, they make sure to leave a small token, a small trace of it. Perhaps you’ve been there, Nicola?”
Nick shook her head. “I don’t believe it. I knew her. I really liked Cleo. She loved John, I’m sure of that.” She realized that only about fifteen feet separated them. She said, “Albia, it’s time to admit that you wrote me the letter, that you made up that journal confession to save me, to make me leave Chicago and leave John. You did it to help me, didn’t you? Please tell me. You wanted to protect me, didn’t you?”
Albia shrugged. “Yes, all right, no reason to lie about it now. Yes, I wrote you the letter, for all the good it did. You’re back and now you want everyone to pay. John didn’t try to kill you, Nicola.”
Nick’s heart was thudding so loudly she believed that surely Albia would hear it, that Albia must know she was so scared she was ready to pee in her pants. The words just came out, she couldn’t stop them. “If it wasn’t John, then was it you, Albia?”
A perfectly arched eyebrow went up a good inch. “Me? Goodness, no.”
“You hired someone to try to run me down, to burn down my condo, with me in it.”
“It strikes me, though, that just maybe you were the one to set fire to your own condo.”
Nick laughed, couldn’t help it. “That’s idiocy.”
Albia shrugged. She took a step back, leaned against the window, crossed her arms over her chest. She looked mildly amused. “So it was your lover who tried to kill you. It was Elliott Benson. I called him, you know. He told me all about you, told me that poor John had picked the wrong woman yet again. And he laughed then, a very pleased laugh.”
“Albia, who killed Cleo?”
“Tod Gambol. After all, he was the one to run away, wasn’t he? As I said, Cleo was a slut. John has always been so innocent, so trusting, so unsuspecting. They say people always search out the same sort of person again and again, doesn’t matter if that person is rotten. John’s the classic example. Melissa, Cleo. Then he chose you, and just look at what you did.”
“I didn’t do anything, Albia. Did you have the same man come to LA to kill me while he was riding a Harley?”
“I’m really tired of all this nonsense, Nicola. All this will blow over. John didn’t kill Cleo, he didn’t try to kill you, and neither did I. I want you to leave now. I honestly believe you should take yourself as far away as possible. I did my best to get you away from here. You should get away again, Nicola.”
“No, I’m staying this time, Albia. I want to know who’s trying to kill me.”
Albia examined a beautifully manicured nail a moment. “You’re not very bright, given all your education. I have no idea about any of this. However, I saw last night at that ridiculous dinner you and your FBI friends set up how you and that one agent were looking at each other. You’ve already taken another lover. John saw it as well. He knows you’re sleeping with that Federal cop. That’s really sad, Nicola. You’re not at all worthy of someone as fine as John Rothman.”
“Probably, from your point of view, no woman is good enough for him, Albia.”
“Well, that’s probably true. I’ve taken care of him since our mother died.”
“I’ve wondered if your mother really died accidentally?”
“What a ridiculous thing to say. You’re nothing but a little bitch with a big mouth. I’m glad you’ll soon be out of our lives. And you will be, one way or another.” And with that, Albia walked across the room, pressed her finger against one of the wall panels, and watched it silently open. Then she was gone, just like that, gone without another word.
Nick looked at that blank wall. What was Albia going to do? Figure out how to kill her again? Obviously she couldn’t do it here, not with so many people just a short distance away. She wasn’t stupid. Where was the man she must have hired? Nick’s heart was still pounding. She felt a headache building over her left eye. It was time to fetch Sherlock, time to see Dane, to tell him everything Albia had said, which wasn’t much of anything except for all this stuff about Elliott Benson.
Nick let it go for the moment. What had she expected? A confession? She said after a moment of silence, “I can’t believe Cleo ever slept with Elliott Benson. Nor with Tod Gambol. She loved John.”
“Oh, but Cleo was a little harlot. John wouldn’t believe me until I finally showed him photos that I had a private investigator take of her and Elliott, all cozied up in his small house on Crane Island. It’s all private, you know, the nearest neighbor is a good half mile away. I might add that he and John both have used that house. If they happen to have each other’s woman at that house, they make sure to leave a small token, a small trace of it. Perhaps you’ve been there, Nicola?”
Nick shook her head. “I don’t believe it. I knew her. I really liked Cleo. She loved John, I’m sure of that.” She realized that only about fifteen feet separated them. She said, “Albia, it’s time to admit that you wrote me the letter, that you made up that journal confession to save me, to make me leave Chicago and leave John. You did it to help me, didn’t you? Please tell me. You wanted to protect me, didn’t you?”
Albia shrugged. “Yes, all right, no reason to lie about it now. Yes, I wrote you the letter, for all the good it did. You’re back and now you want everyone to pay. John didn’t try to kill you, Nicola.”
Nick’s heart was thudding so loudly she believed that surely Albia would hear it, that Albia must know she was so scared she was ready to pee in her pants. The words just came out, she couldn’t stop them. “If it wasn’t John, then was it you, Albia?”
A perfectly arched eyebrow went up a good inch. “Me? Goodness, no.”
“You hired someone to try to run me down, to burn down my condo, with me in it.”
“It strikes me, though, that just maybe you were the one to set fire to your own condo.”
Nick laughed, couldn’t help it. “That’s idiocy.”
Albia shrugged. She took a step back, leaned against the window, crossed her arms over her chest. She looked mildly amused. “So it was your lover who tried to kill you. It was Elliott Benson. I called him, you know. He told me all about you, told me that poor John had picked the wrong woman yet again. And he laughed then, a very pleased laugh.”
“Albia, who killed Cleo?”
“Tod Gambol. After all, he was the one to run away, wasn’t he? As I said, Cleo was a slut. John has always been so innocent, so trusting, so unsuspecting. They say people always search out the same sort of person again and again, doesn’t matter if that person is rotten. John’s the classic example. Melissa, Cleo. Then he chose you, and just look at what you did.”
“I didn’t do anything, Albia. Did you have the same man come to LA to kill me while he was riding a Harley?”
“I’m really tired of all this nonsense, Nicola. All this will blow over. John didn’t kill Cleo, he didn’t try to kill you, and neither did I. I want you to leave now. I honestly believe you should take yourself as far away as possible. I did my best to get you away from here. You should get away again, Nicola.”
“No, I’m staying this time, Albia. I want to know who’s trying to kill me.”
Albia examined a beautifully manicured nail a moment. “You’re not very bright, given all your education. I have no idea about any of this. However, I saw last night at that ridiculous dinner you and your FBI friends set up how you and that one agent were looking at each other. You’ve already taken another lover. John saw it as well. He knows you’re sleeping with that Federal cop. That’s really sad, Nicola. You’re not at all worthy of someone as fine as John Rothman.”
“Probably, from your point of view, no woman is good enough for him, Albia.”
“Well, that’s probably true. I’ve taken care of him since our mother died.”
“I’ve wondered if your mother really died accidentally?”
“What a ridiculous thing to say. You’re nothing but a little bitch with a big mouth. I’m glad you’ll soon be out of our lives. And you will be, one way or another.” And with that, Albia walked across the room, pressed her finger against one of the wall panels, and watched it silently open. Then she was gone, just like that, gone without another word.
Nick looked at that blank wall. What was Albia going to do? Figure out how to kill her again? Obviously she couldn’t do it here, not with so many people just a short distance away. She wasn’t stupid. Where was the man she must have hired? Nick’s heart was still pounding. She felt a headache building over her left eye. It was time to fetch Sherlock, time to see Dane, to tell him everything Albia had said, which wasn’t much of anything except for all this stuff about Elliott Benson.
