Girl Three (3 page)

Nina lifted one shoulder. “She was found in her bed. No signs of assault, but there’s no doubt she’d had sex not long before she died.”

Jessie sat speechless.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you these things,” Nina said. “But you deserve to know.”

Sophie stirred and started to fuss, as Jessie’s thoughts clicked like dominoes falling toward an obvious conclusion. “My father has to know something about this. I’ll see him tomorrow at the funeral. If he wants the truth kept secret, I’m going to find out why.”

Panic flashed in Nina’s eyes. “Please, Jess—you can’t tell him you know about the report, or he’ll guess that the information came from me.” She lifted Sophie from her crib and cradled the baby close.

Nina’s vulnerability shook Jessie. A deployed husband, a young child, a risk that could end her career.

Jessie put her arm around Nina and kissed Sophie’s feathery hair. “I promise I won’t. But he’s been so out of my life, I’m sure he has no clue who you are.” She blinked back tears. “He doesn’t even know who
I
am.”

Chapter Three

Michael Gillette waited. And waited.

And waited.

Sam had been dead for two days before federal Judge Ryan Croft had made contact. A curt demand for a meeting in a when-and-where, you’d-better-be-there voice mail.

Michael stood at one of the drafty rear windows of the third-floor Swann Street apartment feeling much older than thirty-three. He stared across the alley into the lifeless windows at the back of Sam’s townhouse, into the brick-walled courtyard where she had sunbathed in the summer, sipped lattes on fall mornings, touched up her manicure, read
People
magazine.

But it was January, and she was gone.

Darkness had fallen over DC hours ago, seeping in through the veiny cracks of the apartment’s plaster walls along with the cold.

The knock on the door came at seven p.m.

Michael steadied his breathing and dismissed his nerves, thanking the Secret Service for the leftover skills. He took a moment to visualize the meeting going well, but couldn’t see it happening.

Sam had died on his watch. While he wasn’t watching.

Convinced his emotions were under control, he opened the door. But at the sight of Croft, a tide of guilt rose in his gut. “Hello, sir.” He wiped his hand on his shirt, then extended it.

Croft shook it with a tight, dry grip.

“I’m so sorry about Sam,” Michael said with a steady voice. “It’s unbelievable.”

Unbelievable
was an understatement. Sam’s allegedly natural death had been too timely, too quiet, and too convenient for way too many people. A nuclear blast of intuition told him there’d been foul play. He’d spent the last two days sifting through the fallout, looking for evidence that hadn’t already been buried, but finding none.

His nudge-and-whisper sources hinted that there had been few official questions about Sam’s death. The vanilla answers that seemed palatable to everyone else would take a chaser for Michael to swallow.

Croft walked ahead of him into the apartment and surveyed the wall of lifeless high-tech electronics. “When a twenty-six-year-old dies, it shocks everyone.”

He didn’t sound shocked.

“I must have missed the symptoms,” Michael said, “the signs that something was wrong.” He wondered if he’d been too distracted by his father’s deteriorating health to notice something amiss in a girl as vital as Sam.

“You’re an atypical amalgam of a security consultant, a PI, and a snitch—not a physician.” Croft ratcheted up the vocabulary, something he usually did early on to reestablish his position as chief cock in the pecking order. Months ago, as a throwback to Secret Service code names, Michael had dubbed him
The Rooster
.

“You’re still young enough to think you’re a superhero,” Croft said, “but you’re not.”

Michael was certain that his visions of capes and superpowers paled in comparison to Croft’s.

Croft faced him and gestured toward the couch. “Mind if I sit?” A polite question, considering Croft owned the place. Michael just lived here. It was part of his compensation package, necessary for the job.

“Of course not.”

Croft settled on the couch, and Michael sat on the edge of the recliner across from him, alert. The judge looked different than he had just a week ago. Tired, more guarded, and meaner.

“I keep thinking about the last few times I saw her,” Michael said. “And replaying the scenes in my mind.”

Croft tugged at the knot of his tie. “I want you and everyone else to forget about Sam.” His nose wrinkled, and he raised his upper lip as if he smelled a political scandal.

Michael blinked. “What?”

“Forget about Sam.”

No fancy vocabulary there.

Croft rubbed his palms together, an involuntary tell that Michael had seen before, a signal that Croft had a plan. “I’m holding a private memorial service for her tomorrow, and that will be the end of things.”

“I’ll be there,” Michael said, relieved. He’d attend the service, then bury his ties to Croft in Sam’s grave.

“I don’t want you there. I’m just letting you know what to expect.”

Michael inhaled sharply, his temper triggered by Croft’s callousness. “You expect me to get over what happened with Sam, move out of this apartment, and find another job. But most of all, you expect me to keep my mouth shut about everything that’s happened during the last two years.”

Croft checked Michael with a threatening glare. “I warned you not to get attached to Sam. There was even language in the contract.”

Michael wasn’t surprised that Croft thought words could dictate emotions. “Sam has been my primary focus for a long time. Of course I was attached to her. She was like a younger sister to me.”

Croft laughed caustically. “The two of you were simply acquaintances.”

The same could be said for the two of you.

“Read your contract,” Croft said. “Next time, I should reword the clause—physically
and emotionally
refrain from developing a relationship with my daughter.”

Michael hadn’t had a
relationship
with Sam. As Croft had said, they were simply acquaintances—platonic at that. Michael had adhered to his contract, but he couldn’t help having felt protective toward Sam. She’d been his responsibility. At least, that was the way he’d seen it.

“As you say in the courtroom,” Michael said, “that’s a moot point.”

Croft shook his head. “Quite the contrary.”

“Sam is dead. How I feel about her doesn’t matter anymore.”

“True. And I recommend you get over it.” Croft stood and straightened to his arrogant stance. “By tomorrow.”

Michael narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“I’m offering you an extension of your job. Same protocol, similar contract, amended clause as discussed. With a change of name for your assignee.”

Michael prided himself on intuition and watchfulness, but he hadn’t seen this one coming. “I don’t understand.”

“My daughter Jessica is coming for Sam’s memorial,” Croft said. “Unless she’s further gone than I imagine.”

Michael had read about Dr. Jessica Croft. Seen photos of her online. Caught snippets of her interviews on television news shows. He remembered the occasional text Sam had received from Jessie, as she had signed them, and an unanswered phone call now and then. But as closely as he’d monitored Sam’s life, he had never seen her sister in person—not that he wouldn’t like to. She came across as calm, intelligent, and unusually intriguing.

“She’ll be in town for a while,” Croft said.

Michael wondered why. She must have a life somewhere else. “You sure about that?”

“Don’t doubt me,” Croft said. “And there’s another change in the contract. Instead of our usual arrangement, I’ll need you twenty-four seven for the next week or two.” Croft pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket.

“What’s that?”

“Enough to persuade you to sign the contract.” He tapped Michael’s chest with a corner of the envelope. “Keep me informed and mind your boundaries. No one, including Jessica, should know you’re on the job. Keep your distance from her. Pull this one off, and I’ll keep those security consulting jobs coming your way. You’ll always have opportunities in DC.”

Wired with suspicion over Sam’s death, Michael questioned the wisdom of a repeat with Croft and another of his daughters. He needed a while to think. “I’ll get back to you.”

Croft smirked. “There’s no time to wallow in emotion. Jessica will be here tomorrow.” He stepped closer to Michael, smelling like he hadn’t missed happy hour. “If you’re not man enough for the job, I’ll get an alternate on board tonight.”

Something twisted in Michael’s gut. “Like the one who was supposed to be monitoring Sam while I was away?”

One of Croft’s eyes twitched.

Michael harnessed the impulse to get in Croft’s face and shout,
“Why isn’t there an investigation?”

Croft’s composure didn’t crack beyond that one twitch. He made a sweeping gesture as if he expected a sea somewhere to part. “And you’ll need to clear out of here.”

Cornered, Michael calculated his risks. As a security consultant, he’d cultivated an impressive list of clients—mostly thanks to Croft. Michael’s connections had allowed him access to many of the events Sam attended, and he’d built the basis of what could now become a lucrative career. But if he didn’t take this final job with Croft, the judge would blackball him in DC. He’d be out of Croft’s crosshairs, but also out of work.

“You in?” Croft asked.

Michael snatched the envelope from his hand.

“That’s more like it.”

Michael clenched his teeth.

Croft ambled to the door, opened it, and faced him. “Pull yourself together. This one could get complicated.”

More than the last one? Sam is dead.

“By the way,” Croft said, “it’s a shame about your father. How’s your mother holding up?”

Michael’s anger mixed with grief and burned his blood. As if Croft gave a damn about his father’s death or his mom. “He was ill for so long that she thought she was prepared.” Her stricken face flashed in Michael’s mind, wrenching his heart. “But she’s devastated.”

We both are.

“Give her my best,” Croft said, then closed the door behind him.

After a long moment, Michael exhaled.

He tossed the envelope on the table, walked over to the window, and gazed out at Sam’s townhouse. Croft had outed himself with the twitch of an eye. No one had been monitoring Sam the night she died.

Chapter Four

Jessie peered out the front window of the Embassy Circle Guest House, an elegant mansion inn near Dupont Circle. Bleary-eyed, she waited for her cab, watching the Wednesday morning commuters pass outside on R Street. She’d spent the night upstairs in a room called Copper Bijar, named for the antique Persian rug that covered the hardwood floor. The room was airy and tranquil, with exposed brick, velvety chairs, and a cherry sleigh bed where even an insomniac could’ve gotten a good night’s sleep.

Not Jessie.

She’d lain awake for hours, trying to make sense of Sam’s death. Mulling over the unanswered questions Sam’s tox report had raised made Jessie dread today even more. She wasn’t prepared for a reunion with her father
or
a funeral for her sister—much less both, each darkened by the shadow of suspicion.

At least the weather was appropriate, all shivery and gray, perfectly mirroring her mood.

A hideous chartreuse cab pulled to the curb out front. Jessie made her way to the car, settled in the back seat, and nodded politely at the driver.

“Congressional Cemetery, please.”

Heat rushed from the vents in the dashboard, intensifying the smell of fried food and stale cologne, and Jessie’s empty stomach went queasy. Her sister was dead. She hadn’t seen her father in five years, yet was now minutes away from facing him. What would she say? She had so many questions, especially about the whitewashed results of Sam’s autopsy. But she’d made a promise to Nina. She couldn’t ask him about confidential information she was never meant to know.

Jessie considered her limited options as the cab passed through DC, past federal buildings, museums, and monuments. Downtown gave way to Nina’s pseudo-gentrified Capitol Hill neighborhood, then to the apartment houses and dilapidation farther southeast.

The driver slowed and then stopped at a red light. Outside were boarded-up storefronts and broken-down fences. Aimless loiterers and artless graffiti. Jessie shifted her gaze to the lock on her door.

After several more traffic lights and turns, the driver stopped at the entrance to Congressional Cemetery. Two towering, tan-brick columns supported a decorative wrought-iron archway that had rusted and peeled over time.

“You want out here?” the driver said in broken English.

Jessie scanned the deserted site and wondered if there’d been a mistake. “Is there a church?”

“Inside.” He pointed a spindly finger at the gates. “You said cemetery, not church.”

Jessie bristled. “Okay, church.”

The cab passed over the gravel-strewn threshold and down the forlorn lane.

On either side of the road, walkways of crumbling brick wound through hilly acres of brown grass. Timeworn tombs, tablets, and statuary sprawled in every direction. Mature trees with barren branches lined potholed streets. The cemetery reminded Jessie of something out of a Brontë novel. Just as old and much more forgotten.

Why would my father put Sam here?

The main road led to a tiny Gothic chapel set on a knoll near the middle of the burial grounds. Weather had beaten its pebbled exterior, leaving large areas naked to the brick. Its stained-glass windows appeared colorless in the sluggish light. A fair number of cars were parked nearby—although Jessie would have expected many more—along with a funeral limousine and a television news van.

The cab pulled to the front of the church. A short man wearing a hat, a black overcoat, and a gold-tone nametag stood outside its doors. Their faded red paint and decorative scrolled-iron hinges added whimsy to the otherwise bleak setting.