Girl Three (7 page)

His commitment to Sam had been a she-could-be-my-little-sister kind of loyalty. After he’d spent eight hard-boiled years in the Secret Service, getting a high-dollar offer to keep tabs on an unpredictable twenty-four-year-old had seemed like an overpaid babysitting job—a stress-free way to transition into civilian life while Croft fed him security-consulting leads. But he’d gotten attached to Sam. She’d been his own personal proving ground for the past two years as a civilian. She’d been his responsibility, and now she was dead. Croft had been right about his emotional involvement with her, but not for the reasons he assumed; Michael had been attached to Sam because she’d been his responsibility.

And he had failed her.

But he’d been given a chance to redeem himself—to bring Sam’s murderer to justice and to look out for Jessie.

Now that he knew about the picture she’d received at the inn, all of her online searches from this afternoon made sense. Already familiar with Senator Briel, Philippe Lesort, and Ian and Helena Alden, Michael hadn’t been looking forward to learning more. He already knew more about them than he cared to know and had spent more time with them than he’d wanted to spend. Even so, the picture Jessie had described to Nina intrigued him. He’d caught sections of it through his binoculars and snapped some photos. Hearing about it had given him a better view.

Judging from the date Jessie had searched over and over online, he figured the photo had been taken a couple of years ago, almost to the day, early in his assignment to Sam. He hadn’t attended the event where the picture was taken and didn’t know why it was significant. Yet he had to agree with Jessie and Nina. Pursuing the source of the picture would be like trying to find a specific pellet from a spent shell of double-ought buck. But the picture was a starting point, and it marked four of Sam’s closest so-called friends as persons of interest.

Or red herrings.

Michael needed to figure out which. But he couldn’t divert his attention from Jessie long enough to do the grunt work himself. She’d have to take the steps or missteps, and he would be right there with her.

The clause from Croft’s contract echoed in his mind:
refrain from developing a physical or emotional relationship with Jessica Ryan Croft
. Michael wished he could accuse Croft of having been presumptuous. But as he watched her now, he had to confess—she captivated him in a way that Sam had not.

A way paved with mystery and danger and longing. He exhaled loudly.

Use her, protect her, and resist her. A risky proposition.

Michael couldn’t help thinking that if Croft had been a proper father, things would’ve turned out differently. Sam’s death would have been investigated, and he and Jessie wouldn’t be chasing clues. Croft had enough power to get to the truth, but not enough balls to pursue it.

Selfish bastard.

Judge Croft was supposed to be all about the rule of law. Bringing Sam’s killer to justice was the last thing he could have done for her, but he’d picked politics over parenthood.

Again.

Croft had probably been made aware of the toxicology report, then masterminded a cover-up. Michael didn’t have the evidence to expose him for it, but he intended to at least make him worry about the security of his secret. As far as Michael knew, Croft had no clue that he and Jessie knew about the semen sample submitted for analysis, and the alcohol and Rohypnol cocktail that had stopped Sam’s heart.

Michael set the binoculars on the windowsill, picked up his cell phone, and speed-dialed Croft. In mid-ring, the line connected.

“Croft.” The guy could make his own name sound like a four-letter word.

Silverware clinked in the background, along with muffled music and conversation. “Checking in, sir.”

“Hold a minute,” Croft said.

The background noise came in waves, then quieted to hollow static.

“Is Jessica at Sam’s place?” Croft’s question reverberated as if he’d relocated to the men’s room.

“She is. With a friend.”

“She brought someone with her from Charlottesville?”

“No, her friend lives here.” Michael checked his notes even though he knew from memory what he planned to say. “Her name is Nina Daniels, formerly Nina Harrison, Jessica’s college roommate for four years. You remember her?”

Croft’s silence was interrupted by a toilet flushing.

A silent yes or a silent no?
Michael couldn’t decide. “Nina Harrison Daniels, age thirty, DC native. Graduated from the University of Virginia with honors, alongside your daughter. Married to deployed Marine Nathan Daniels. A one-year-old daughter, Sophie Claire.”

“I don’t need a biography.”

“You might.”

“Watch your tone,” Croft said.

“Nina Daniels is a forensic toxicologist at the DC Medical Examiner’s Office,” Michael said. “You interested now?”

Croft missed a beat. “No more than I was before.”

Michael second-guessed the wisdom of delivering the information by phone. But even if he’d done it face-to-face, Croft probably wouldn’t have reacted. Lawyers who argued in his courtroom said that the judge never flinched and he never showed emotion. His advocates called him judicious. Michael called him cold.

“What else have you got?” Croft asked, as if the bullet Michael had just fired were a spitball. Water ran behind Croft’s words, followed by the rip and crinkling of a paper towel.

“Jessica’s going to Alden and Associates in the morning to get Sam’s personal things.”

“Then check in afterward, and let me know how that goes for her,” Croft said, back amid the music and conversation. “And check your attitude before you call.”

Croft clicked off.

Michael tensed with the urge to wring The Rooster’s neck, but he steadied his breathing and refocused. He’d keep a check on Nina through Jessie. If anything went awry with her anytime soon, Croft would be responsible.

Chapter Nine

Jessie peered up at the silver façade of the Millennium Building, squinting at the gray morning sky. Like contestants in an architectural pageant, similar buildings lined K Street, notorious for its law firms, lobbying groups, and PR agencies. All of them traded on their power addresses, including Alden & Associates. Jessie knew too well about their ability to influence decisions on Capitol Hill, in the White House, and in numerous federal agencies.

“
Street Sense
,” a voice called out. “
Street Sense
.” She glanced down the sidewalk, where a man in a tattered parka waved a tabloid-style newspaper. “
Street Sense
.”

A woman stopped and bought one while people dressed in bulky coats bustled past. Some glanced at Jessie, then looked away. Others stared through blank city-eyes. She tugged at the ends of her scarf, pulling them tighter around her neck.

Jessie imagined Sam’s everyday life working in one of DC’s trophy buildings for a big-name lobbying firm. It made sense that her sister had been attracted to a place like this. Growing up, she’d been the more social of the two of them, always trying to influence people—for better or worse. She’d found a perfect way to make a living, yet someone had wanted her dead.

But why?

Maybe Helena Alden knew something that would prove significant. After her online research yesterday, Jessie had called Alden & Associates. The receptionist had connected her to Helena’s line, but the call had gone to voice mail. She’d asked if she could stop in this morning and left her cell number. Helena had texted back:
8 am OK check in with lobby guard
.

Jessie took a deep breath of wintry air and stepped inside the expansive lobby of the Millennium Building. She checked in, got on the elevator and pressed the button for the ninth floor.

When she reached Alden & Associates, the lobby was deserted. She unbuttoned her coat and glanced around the waiting area. Streamlined and chic, it was almost austere with its black leather, glass, and chrome. A large Jackson Pollock–style abstract dominated the wall.

Jessie’s stomach fluttered with apprehension. Just as she started to take a seat, Helena came into the lobby from the office area beyond. Jessie recognized her from the picture, but she looked more severe in person.

“Jessica?” Helena extended her hand, her fingernails painted fiery red. “I’m Helena Alden.” Their handshake was firm and brief. Helena tipped her head and a section of her side-parted hair fell across one of her eyes. “We’re so sorry about Sam.”

“Me, too.”

After an awkward moment, Helena turned and said, “Follow me.” She led Jessie into the workplace version of the lobby, stark and contemporary with lots of light. Near the back, Helena stopped at a glass-blocked space and gestured toward the desk. “Sam didn’t keep a lot of personal things here. But feel free to take whatever you find.”

Helena’s tone had a sharpness that matched her hard edges. In the picture, low light and maybe a few martinis had softened her. This morning, she looked nowhere near as friendly, with the stubborn set of her jaw and the challenging tilt of her chin. Jessie wondered what had attracted Sam to her.

“Sam and I weren’t close over the last couple of years,” Jessie said, unsure why she felt the need to tell Helena what she probably already knew. “I regret that. She had a lot more courage than I do, working here and doing what she did.”

Helena toyed with the belt of her emerald-green wrap dress. “She thought the same about your work.”

Jessie wanted to hear what else Sam had said about her, to fill in some of the hollows of the last two years, and to know that Sam had still loved her.

Helena seemed to see it in her eyes. “She read all of your articles in
The Oliver Report
. You’ll probably find copies in her files.”

Jessie smiled wanly, pleased that a connection, no matter how slight, had remained between her and Sam. “I hope she found them useful, even though my approach is different from hers. She was out there, taking the fight to policymakers. That takes a special kind of determination.”

“Or the naiveté of youth.” Helena gave her a Cheshire smirk. “Maybe it was a simple case of disdain for your father.” The idea seemed to please Helena. “He was a bitter foe of her cause. Especially now that she’d become the
de facto
poster girl for embryonic stem cell research.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Hope Campaign,” Helena said as if that thoroughly answered the question. She glanced at her diamond-studded watch. “I’ve got an eight thirty with a stubborn senator, and I can’t be late.” She rubbed her thin lips together, yet managed to keep her lipstick from smearing. “Like I said, take whatever was Sam’s.”

Jessie couldn’t let Helena get away before she asked her about the picture. She took off her coat and draped it over Sam’s chair. “I have a question about—”

“You’re wearing Sam’s clothes.” Helena stared at her, aghast.

Jessie crossed her arms and gripped the gauzy sleeves of her white blouse. “Yes, um, I am. I hadn’t planned to stay after her funeral yesterday,” she said quickly, “so I didn’t pack anything extra.” She brushed a speck of lint from her charcoal-gray wool slacks. “We’re about the same size. I haven’t had time to shop.”

Jessie had debated whether to wear Sam’s clothes, and had been a little freaked out by the idea at first. But Sam had two closets full, some items with the tags still attached. And when Jessie had tentatively tried on the blouse, she remembered how happy Sam had been to wear the clothes that had once hung in Jessie’s closet. The uncomfortable feeling had ebbed away, and in its place, she felt a connection to Sam.

Helena narrowed her eyes as she looked Jessie up and down. “You’re a little taller, and more slender through the hips.”

A pang of self-consciousness ricocheted through Jessie as she was sized up by a stranger, but she wouldn’t be distracted. “There was an event that Sam attended with you a couple of years ago. January twenty-third. I came across a picture of you, Senator Briel, Dr. Alden—”

“You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got that meeting.” Helena walked away, then hesitated and turned around. “I’m having a memorial event for Sam tonight. It’ll be more social than solemn, but she would’ve wanted it that way.” Helena glanced at her watch again. “National Gallery of Art, West Building, East Garden Court. Seven o’clock.”

With that, she left.

Jessie stood for a moment, staring after her, then sat at the desk that used to be Sam’s.

More social than solemn.

As much as she dreaded it, Jessie knew where she had to go tonight.

Chapter Ten

Michael hated that the atmosphere at Sam’s memorial seemed just as superficial as most functions in DC. On Secret Service detail, as a security consultant, and on assignment for Croft, he’d attended too many events like the one tonight. He had seen too much to be as impressed with the Washington insiders as they were with themselves.

But this soiree was different in one way. It was in memory of a dead girl. At the National Gallery of Art. Sam would have been impressed.

Michael’s flippant thoughts did little to soothe his sense of loss. They were simply a defense mechanism, well-honed after his friend Wes had been killed in the line of duty. Reminding himself to be more careful in the same emotional minefield, he made a mental note to call his mother later tonight.

He scanned the cavernous East Garden Court, a curious cross between a rotunda and a terrarium—all marble and stone, trees and plants. People looked like miniatures next to the massive round columns that towered beneath the lighted, arched ceiling. In the center of the expanse, a fountain gurgled and splashed.

Sam’s death had drawn an impressive crowd, dressed in their weekend party attire on a Thursday night. Michael knew how a lot of them had fit into Sam’s life. Now, he wanted to hear what they’d say about her death. On his way to the bar, he caught bits of conversation amid the din that reverberated off the walls. He heard tones of shock and dismay, yet everyone seemed to buy the idea that Sam had simply died.

Michael watched, listened, and waited for Jessie to arrive. He checked the GPS tracking map on his phone and followed the blinking icon. Jessie was in a cab and on her way. By his calculation, she’d be there within ten minutes. And before she arrived, he wanted a grip and grin with some of the people in the picture she’d received. He wondered if any of them had sent it to Jessie, and what they might know about Sam’s death. Jessie hadn’t gotten far with Helena this morning, but that had only been the first strike off the first pitch in the first inning.