Eleventh Hour
Page 67
Actually, I’ve heard the rumors that you’re also sleeping with Elliott. Does John know about them? I’d bet on it. Maybe you’ve already realized that whatever woman John has, Elliott has to take away from him. You know, I heard he’s really good in bed. Are you sleeping with him, Nicola? It doesn’t really matter because John undoubtedly believes you are.
You’re thinking I’m nuts, but let me tell you what happened three years ago. John was in Washington and I needed something that was in his library. I saw that his safe was open. He’s the only one who knows the combination. I was curious so I looked inside. I found a journal, John’s journal, and I took it. I’ve copied a couple of pages for you so you can see what he really is, Nicola. I don’t know if he killed his mother, but I do know that he killed Melissa, the girl in college that John wanted to marry until he found out she’d slept with his best friend. And guess what? His best friend was Elliott Benson. How many other women has he killed?
Here are the journal pages, Nicola. You can read for yourself, and not just take my word for it.
Have things already started happening to you?
Run, Nicola, run. John is quite insane. Stay alive.
Cleo Rothman
Slowly, Nicola picked up the final two pages in the letter. John’s journal. She read.
Enough, Nicola thought when she finished reading. It was enough. She grabbed her coat and was out the door and on her way to John’s condominium in three minutes flat.
She was going to get the truth, tonight.
LOS ANGELES
The star of The Consultant, Joe Kleypas, lived on Glenview Drive in a small redwood-and-glass house set on stilts in the Hollywood Hills, surrounded by dead brush, almost-dead mesquite bushes, and straggly pines. After the third knock, Kleypas came to the door wearing only pale blue drawstring sweatpants that had seen better days. He’d tied them loosely, letting them hang low on his belly, showing off his famous abs, which looked like he’d polished them to a high shine. His hair stood up in spikes, and he looked close to snarling. He was also drunk. He weaved just a bit in the doorway, waved a glass at them that was half-full of either water or straight vodka. “My, my, what have we here?”
Sherlock stuck her FBI shield in his face.
He took another drink and sneered even more. “Oh yeah, you’re the Keystone cops.”
“That’s right,” Savich said. “We’re the Federal Keystone cops. We want to talk to you, Mr. Kleypas.”
“Federal Keystone cops. Hey, that’s funny.”
“It’s Mr. and Ms. Federal Keystone cops to you,” Dane said.
“Very funny, hot shot.” Joe Kleypas had planted himself firmly in the doorway, his arms crossed over his bare chest, a well-worked-out bare chest. Nick wondered how Dane would look if he polished his abs. She wondered if you just walked into a drugstore and asked for ab polish.
Kleypas said, “I already talked to Detective Flynn. I don’t want to speak to any more Keystone cops, even Federal ones. Just get the fuck out of here now, all of you. Hey, you’re awful pretty, you an actress? You want, maybe we could go someplace, have a little drink. My bedroom’s got a good view of the canyon, the sheets aren’t too bad.”
Neither Sherlock nor Nick knew which one of them had struck his fancy. Nick said, “That’s nice, but not today, thank you.”
Joe Kleypas shrugged and his abs rippled a bit. “Then all of you can get out. Get out of my face.” He drank down the rest of his drink, hiccuped, gave a slight shudder. Not good, Sherlock thought. The man looked about ready to explode.
They’d been told he had a violent temper. A mean drunk—no worse sort of man than that, Sherlock thought, and took another couple of easy steps back in case he did something stupid, like let loose on Dane or Dillon. Sherlock said low to Nick, “Let’s go sit in the car,” and tugged on her arm. “We’re a distraction. Let the guys handle it.” They watched Savich very smoothly force Kleypas back into his house and follow him. Dane closed the door behind them.
When Dane and Savich came out some fifteen minutes later, both of them looking disgusted, Sherlock said, “Dillon, please tell me he confessed. It really would make my day.”
“Yeah, he did confess,” Dane said, “to about a dozen different love-guests, all in the last month, most of the ladies married. He prefers married ladies; he told us that about four times. I think he’d like the two of you to add to his list. Charming guy. Oh yeah, he was drinking straight vodka.”
“Dillon, look at your knuckles,” Sherlock said, and grabbed his hand. “You hurt yourself. I don’t like this.”
You’re thinking I’m nuts, but let me tell you what happened three years ago. John was in Washington and I needed something that was in his library. I saw that his safe was open. He’s the only one who knows the combination. I was curious so I looked inside. I found a journal, John’s journal, and I took it. I’ve copied a couple of pages for you so you can see what he really is, Nicola. I don’t know if he killed his mother, but I do know that he killed Melissa, the girl in college that John wanted to marry until he found out she’d slept with his best friend. And guess what? His best friend was Elliott Benson. How many other women has he killed?
Here are the journal pages, Nicola. You can read for yourself, and not just take my word for it.
Have things already started happening to you?
Run, Nicola, run. John is quite insane. Stay alive.
Cleo Rothman
Slowly, Nicola picked up the final two pages in the letter. John’s journal. She read.
Enough, Nicola thought when she finished reading. It was enough. She grabbed her coat and was out the door and on her way to John’s condominium in three minutes flat.
She was going to get the truth, tonight.
LOS ANGELES
The star of The Consultant, Joe Kleypas, lived on Glenview Drive in a small redwood-and-glass house set on stilts in the Hollywood Hills, surrounded by dead brush, almost-dead mesquite bushes, and straggly pines. After the third knock, Kleypas came to the door wearing only pale blue drawstring sweatpants that had seen better days. He’d tied them loosely, letting them hang low on his belly, showing off his famous abs, which looked like he’d polished them to a high shine. His hair stood up in spikes, and he looked close to snarling. He was also drunk. He weaved just a bit in the doorway, waved a glass at them that was half-full of either water or straight vodka. “My, my, what have we here?”
Sherlock stuck her FBI shield in his face.
He took another drink and sneered even more. “Oh yeah, you’re the Keystone cops.”
“That’s right,” Savich said. “We’re the Federal Keystone cops. We want to talk to you, Mr. Kleypas.”
“Federal Keystone cops. Hey, that’s funny.”
“It’s Mr. and Ms. Federal Keystone cops to you,” Dane said.
“Very funny, hot shot.” Joe Kleypas had planted himself firmly in the doorway, his arms crossed over his bare chest, a well-worked-out bare chest. Nick wondered how Dane would look if he polished his abs. She wondered if you just walked into a drugstore and asked for ab polish.
Kleypas said, “I already talked to Detective Flynn. I don’t want to speak to any more Keystone cops, even Federal ones. Just get the fuck out of here now, all of you. Hey, you’re awful pretty, you an actress? You want, maybe we could go someplace, have a little drink. My bedroom’s got a good view of the canyon, the sheets aren’t too bad.”
Neither Sherlock nor Nick knew which one of them had struck his fancy. Nick said, “That’s nice, but not today, thank you.”
Joe Kleypas shrugged and his abs rippled a bit. “Then all of you can get out. Get out of my face.” He drank down the rest of his drink, hiccuped, gave a slight shudder. Not good, Sherlock thought. The man looked about ready to explode.
They’d been told he had a violent temper. A mean drunk—no worse sort of man than that, Sherlock thought, and took another couple of easy steps back in case he did something stupid, like let loose on Dane or Dillon. Sherlock said low to Nick, “Let’s go sit in the car,” and tugged on her arm. “We’re a distraction. Let the guys handle it.” They watched Savich very smoothly force Kleypas back into his house and follow him. Dane closed the door behind them.
When Dane and Savich came out some fifteen minutes later, both of them looking disgusted, Sherlock said, “Dillon, please tell me he confessed. It really would make my day.”
“Yeah, he did confess,” Dane said, “to about a dozen different love-guests, all in the last month, most of the ladies married. He prefers married ladies; he told us that about four times. I think he’d like the two of you to add to his list. Charming guy. Oh yeah, he was drinking straight vodka.”
“Dillon, look at your knuckles,” Sherlock said, and grabbed his hand. “You hurt yourself. I don’t like this.”
