by Tracy March
“You were good to her.” Nina clutched Jessie’s shoulders. “You gave her all you could, short of sacrificing your life for hers. She pulled away from you. But she would’ve come back. I know she would have.”
Jessie nodded numbly and took off her coat.
“I’m so sorry.” Nina squeezed her hand, then went to hang the coat in a small, crowded closet. “Did you talk to your father?”
“I tried to call as soon as I heard but couldn’t reach him. Then my cell phone died during the storm. He called back and left a message, but I didn’t get it until this morning after the power came back on.”
“What did he say?”
“That he was due in court, all detached and businesslike. He mentioned the arrangements for Sam and said his scheduler would call if there were any changes.”
Nina bunched her lips in a tight frown. “Classic Ryan Croft.”
Jessie winced. She liked having Nina on her side, yet she still felt a pang of defensiveness for her indefensible father. “Thanks for taking a vacation day. I hate to think about the backlog you’ll have to deal with tomorrow because of me.”
“Don’t worry. There’s always a backlog.” Nina’s expression turned grim. “I’ve got a sick kind of job security.”
Jessie shook her head. “How do you separate all the death from your life?”
Nina’s eyes took on a faraway look that Jessie had seen before. “I don’t. But having Sophie helps.”
“Is she with her babysitter?”
An impish grin brightened Nina’s face. “I kept her here today.” She gestured toward the corner of the small living area, which was cramped, yet sparsely furnished. A white crib was squeezed between the end of the sofa and the brick walls. “She’s down for a nap. Have a peek.”
Jessie stepped past a low table that held a flat-screen television playing the news and leaned over the crib. Her stomach fluttered at the sight of the sleeping one-year-old, nestled under pale pink sheets dotted with little lambs. The innocent scent of baby powder tinged the air. “She’s precious—”
The television program caught her attention. A local report featured a video clip of her father, then cut to a still shot of Sam. The anchor shook her head, a titillating-but-tragic look on her face.
Nina fumbled for the remote and changed the channel to HGTV.
“It’s okay,” Jessie said. “It’s news.” She peered out of the room’s tiny, high-set windows—smudged with dirt from the ground outside and striped with iron bars. “But can’t they just let someone die in peace?”
“Not someone like Sam.”
Someone like Sam.
“The story headlined yesterday,” Jessie said. “Now it’s running in filler space on the local midday news. Hopefully it won’t make the evening edition. By then, the next horrific thing might happen, and they’ll leave Sam alone.” She turned her attention to Sophie. The baby’s little lips puckered, sucking at a pacifier that wasn’t there.
Nina joined Jessie next to the crib and patted Sophie.
“I brought something for her.” Jessie took a small white box with a yellow polka-dotted ribbon out of her purse and handed it to Nina.
“Aww, Jess. You didn’t have to get her anything.”
“Who else am I going to spoil?” Nina opened the box and pulled out a tiny sterling silver cuff bracelet engraved with Sophie’s name. “It’s just like ours.” She smiled brightly, revealing the dimples she often complained about.
As was usually the case, both of them wore a similar bracelet. Jessie had gotten hers from her grandfather when she was in college. Nina had often said how much she loved it, so for graduation, Jessie had given her one.
“Thank you.” Nina hugged Jessie. “We love it. It’s just the perfect size.”
“I hope so. I’m amazed at how fast she’s growing.”
“Imagine what it’s like for Nate.” Her tone turned wistful at the mention of her husband.
Jessie couldn’t imagine what it was like for Nate or Nina. Nate was deployed to Afghanistan, serving his country yet missing his family. Each day without him, Nina watched Sophie grow, experiencing once-in-a-lifetime firsts, wishing he was there, wondering if he would come home alive. He’d left when Sophie was a two-month-old infant. He’d come home to a toddler.
“He’ll be back in April,” Jessie said lightly. It was the only thing she could think of to say.
“In sixty-four days.” Nina sighed, set the box on the coffee table, and sank onto the slip-covered couch that had been the centerpiece of the apartment she and Jessie had shared ten years ago at the University of Virginia.
“Something’s wrong.” Jessie sat next to her. “Is it Nate?”
Nina shook her head unconvincingly.
“What, then?”
Nina leaned forward, elbows on her knees, chin in her hands. “I need to tell you some things about Sam’s death.”
Jessie didn’t like Nina’s tone. “What else is there to know?”
Sophie whimpered. The air buzzed with tension and time seemed to stretch out double.
“The M.E. issued her official statement,” Nina said. “That’s what’s been on the news, and that’s why the story’s lost traction.”
“There’s another and.”
Nina nodded. “And something’s missing from her statement. Several things.”
Jessie’s breaths became shallow. She trusted Nina, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear what was coming. “I’m listening.”
“When they brought Sam in, they ruled her death suspicious enough to warrant a rush on her autopsy and labs.”
A clammy cold washed over Jessie.
“No argument from your father.”
“Big of him.” Jessie imagined how perturbed he probably was to have to deal with the inconvenience of a dead daughter.
“The autopsy confirmed the cause of death. Sam’s congenital defect, similar to your mom’s, had weakened her heart muscle. But there were other details that should’ve made the official report and didn’t. Things that would’ve triggered an investigation.”
“Are you saying there was some kind of cover-up?”
“I’m saying that I did the labs.” Nina enunciated her words deliberately. “I submitted the tox report. Red-flagged it. Expected a CSI-style investigation and a media orgy that would last for months. Next thing I hear, case closed.”
“So they just filed away her case with a red-flagged report in it?”
“Not exactly. There’s a scrubbed version of my report in her file—not the one I submitted.”
Adrenaline blurred Jessie’s thoughts. “Please tell me you saved a copy of the original.”
Nina nodded self-consciously. “It’s totally against procedure, but I did.” She leaned toward a small wooden desk that stood next to the couch, opened the top drawer, pulled out the report, and handed the papers to Jessie.
Neither of them had to mention the risk Nina was taking by showing Jessie her report. Such a protocol violation could cost Nina more than her job.
At first glance, the report confused Jessie. Three pages of indecipherable gibberish. Acronyms, numbers, symbols. Her sister, broken down into hieroglyphics.
“Look under Positive Findings,” Nina said.
Jessie shuffled the papers, found the boxed section on the first page, and read.
“Sam had Rohypnol in her system. The date rape drug?”
“Her heart couldn’t handle alcohol and Rohypnol simultaneously.” Nina had switched to her science voice.
“Are you sure?”
“I did the blood analysis myself. The serologist did the semen.”
Jessie’s stomach clenched. “She was raped?”
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 stirr
ed 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.
