Girl Three

by Tracy March

  “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.

  “I’ll get out here.” Jessie handed the fare to the driver.

  Outside, a blast of bitter wind whipped her hair across her face. She anchored the layers behind her ears just as a photographer emerged from one of the nearby vehicles and snapped her picture.

  Jessie turned her face away from the camera, checked her watch, and hurried toward the church.

  She had timed her arrival to the minute—eleven a.m. Better to avoid needless preliminaries and an awkward obligation to sit with her father.

  The man in the overcoat, a representative from the funeral home, greeted her and opened the door. She stepped inside on tiptoes and her heart plummeted.

  There were no mourning friends and no flowers. No music or sound except the thrum-and-swish of her pulse in her ears. An elderly, black-robed minister stood at the altar, facing a lone person seated in the front row.

  Her father.

  He hadn’t mentioned that Sam’s service would be private. Jessie drew in a breath, the air thick with humidity and mildew, and choked back several curses. Foul names for her father flew through her mind, out of sync with the lulling cadence of the scripture the minister quoted.

  “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…”

  She took a seat in the back pew and bowed her head.

  “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies…”

  The scripture droned in the background of her frantic thoughts. She had stepped into the church and right into her father’s trap. It hadn’t occurred to her that she might face him alone, and she wasn’t sure she could. Why subject herself to inevitable disappointment? He’d proven time and time again that he had no interest in being her father.

  Unable to focus, she sat through a generic eulogy and more scripture. The moment the minister began the benediction, she crept into the vestibule, reaching for the door as he said Amen.

  “Jessica.”

  There was no mistaking her father’s voice. It reverberated off her back and rang in her little-girl ears. She stiffened, yet willed herself to keep moving, to walk out the door, chin up and careless, the way he had left her and Sam years ago.

  But regardless of the sins of her unredeemable father, deep down Jessie desperately hoped he would change.

  She turned around and caught a glimpse of the minister exiting through a door adjacent to the altar, his black robe billowing behind him.

  Jessie tried to appear unaffected as her father strode up the center aisle with an authoritative swagger, carrying his briefcase at his side. He looked older than he had on television and in pictures she’d seen on the news. Yet the rest of him was the same—the uneven features that managed to captivate, the cleft chin. The tilt of his head, as if he were always judging, always looking for a reason to rule against you.

  He stopped in front of her, too close, his once-familiar eyes never veering from hers. All this time, all these years, and yet in them, she saw no remorse. With the altar in the background, he looked even bigger than she’d made him in her mind.

  “My daughter,” he said flatly. “The president’s darling du jour.”

  He’s jealous. Jessie savored a fleeting moment of satisfaction.

  “This isn’t about me,” she said. Her voice scraped in her throat. She caught herself trembling and tightened her grip on her purse.

  He gave her a contrite nod then gestured toward the altar. “Sad business.”

  Sad business?

  She scrambled for something to say after that. “Sam’s with Mom now.”

  He narrowed his glacier-blue eyes. “She’s always been with your mother. Both of you have. The day she died, you went with her.”

  Jessie thought of the many times she’d wished she had.

  She wanted to argue with him, to reason that she and Sam had been children, that he’d been cruel to send them away—to separate boarding schools—when they had just lost their mother. But none of that mattered now.

  “We had no choice,” she said. “There was no one else left for us.” She turned to leave.

  “Wait.
” He stepped in front of her. “I need you to do a favor for your sister.” He looked toward the altar where a nondescript urn stood on a small table.

  Sam.

  He set his briefcase on a pew, took out a thick white envelope, and handed it to her. “This should be all you need.”

  “What’s in here?”

  “Death certificates, an address, and keys to Sam’s townhouse.”

  Jessie took a step backward. “Why are you giving them to me?”

  “Settle Sam’s estate,” he said. “Everything you need is in that envelope or in her townhouse. Stay there while you’re in DC.”

  Jessie’s mind swirled, brimming with reasons to refuse. Then she remembered that she didn’t need any. “No.” She shoved the envelope toward him. “It’s not my place to do that.” Her throat tightened. “Sam and I weren’t close anymore.”

  He didn’t take the envelope.

  “Sam and I weren’t close either.” He leaned in and whispered, “But let’s keep our business in the family.” He brushed past Jessie, his arm skimming her shoulder, and walked out the door.

  Jessie shivered against the rush of cold wind, clutching the envelope.

  She’d imagined the scenario a million different ways—seeing her father again, what she would say. But none of the million had prepared her for this. None had included Sam being dead.

  She sank onto the back pew and stared at the beamed ceiling of the hushed little church, fighting fatigue, confusion, and a couple other emotions she barely recognized. Nothing good would come of her settling Sam’s estate, or asking questions about her death. How could she possibly make someone accountable for such a tidy cover-up? Someone ruthless enough to twist the truth until it broke, to shove the snaky pieces under a mattress, and still sleep soundly at night.

  Jessie was no match for that kind of person. And she couldn’t prove anything anyway, not as long as she kept her promise to Nina.

  The door creaked open in the vestibule behind her. She braced herself for another thorny encounter with her father, and waited.

  The short man from the funeral home plodded past her down the aisle, the faint smell of mothballs in his wake. She exhaled quietly as he stepped up to the altar, carefully lifted Sam’s urn off the table, and headed toward the back of the church.

  Jessie watched him until he saw her. Their eyes met—his flickering with surprise, then filling with compassion.

  She stood and stepped into the aisle as he approached. “Thank you for taking care of my sister.”

  He smiled ruefully. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Where are you taking her remains?”

  “Across the cemetery to the inurnment site.”

  “Is Judge Croft going with you?”

  “He’s talking with reporters now, but he’s asked us to wait until he’s finished.”

  “I see,” Jessie said.

  “Will you be joining us?”

  She shook her head, tears stinging her eyes.

  The man nodded, seeming to understand. In his line of work, he’d probably seen all kinds of dysfunctional family dynamics.

  He walked past her into the vestibule. The door squealed open, then scudded closed. Another gust of cold air swirled around her ankles.

  Jessie couldn’t bring herself to go with her father to the inurnment site, and that only made her feel guiltier. She hadn’t done enough to maintain the ties between herself and Sam. Her mind wandered to memories of her little sister—wearing Jessie’s hand-me-downs…following her everywhere she went…whispering secrets in her ear.

  Jessie was older by four years, and Sam had idolized her—often to the point of annoyance. She smiled, remembering how she and Sam had played baseball with the neighborhood kids. Sam had been too small, but Jessie had always made them let Sam play. They both had rollicked like tomboys one day and primped like girly-girls the next. Sam had been thrilled to wear clothes that had been Jessie’s, especially dresses, gleefully modeling and twirling in them as if they were magical. Sam had called her my Jess and told Jessie her childhood secrets. She could hear Sam’s sugar-sweet whisper and feel her sister’s breath on her ear. When I grow up, I want to be just like you, my Jess.

  Did she have the conscience to let the mystery of Sam’s death go unsolved? Someone had killed her sister. And someone believed in concealing a murder more than they believed in justice. Even though she had no power, and she’d made an unbreakable promise to Nina, Jessie planned to find out who.

  Chapter Five

  Michael’s assignment to Jessica Croft had begun that morning, but he hadn’t waited until then to get started. As much as he hated to admit it, he was grateful to Judge Croft for giving him a distraction from thinking about his father, and from second-guessing what had happened to Sam. As soon as Croft left the Swann Street apartment, Michael had put a tap on Jessie’s cell phone. Her number had topped a cheat sheet of vitals Croft had included in the envelope with his so-called signing bonus and two copies of their new contract. Michael had scribbled his name on one, in what felt like blood, and delivered it to Croft’s home in the aristocratic neighborhood of Sheridan-Kalorama.

  Croft had obviously scripted their meeting, because the contract contained the new clause: refrain from developing a physical or emotional relationship with Jessica Ryan Croft. Croft’s words echoed in Michael’s mind, reminding him of his connection with Sam—and warning him about Jessie. His conscience itched over invading her privacy, just as it had with Sam. And privacy invasion was likely the least of the crimes he’d committed—both under Croft’s watchful eyes and away from them.

  All in the name of the job.

  That made it easier to forget that tapping Jessie’s phone was a Class 6 felony. But Croft would save him from the one to five years in prison and the $2,500 fine. He’d had a tap on Sam’s phone for two years with access to every call she’d made or received. Ditto for texts. He’d been able to ping her location, view her pictures, and even listen to conversations through the phone’s speaker, whether or not it was in use. No need for too many high-tech devices, since Sam had kept her phone on and with her 98 percent of the time.

  As soon he’d activated the phone tap, Michael had traced Jessie to a basement apartment of a Capitol Hill townhouse on South Carolina Avenue. He didn’t know how long she’d been there, but she left around nine to go to her hotel.

  Michael had tracked her to the Embassy Circle Guest House in northwest DC, not too far from his place. He’d given her time to get settled, then checked in to the inn himself. He managed to get a room on the third floor, right next to hers.

  In his state of mind, he hadn’t expected to accomplish much. During the last week, he’d lost his father, and then lost Sam. He’d experienced grief and guilt, and he thought he knew how to handle it…this time. When he’d been in the Secret Service, his best friend and fellow agent had taken a fatal bullet for a visiting third-world dictator. Afterward, Michael had denied his emotions and refused to let himself grieve. When he’d finally broken, his perspective had changed. So had his life.

  Jessie had gone quiet early. Nothing much transmitted through her phone, but several times he thought he heard her crying. He’d been seized with that helpless feeling men get when women cry, that please-stop-I-think-I-can-fix-it feeling that comes before please-just-stop.

  To divert his attention, he’d kicked back on his bed with his laptop and Googled Dr. Jessica Croft. Several pages of listings came up. The most interesting ones linked him to videos of her on several popular news shows last year. He watched the videos, volume low. In the clips, she spoke with humble confidence about the ethics of designing babies.

  “Preimplantation genetic diagnosis has become a useful tool to screen for diseases and prevent genetic disorders, yet it has the potential to become high-tech baby-making,” she’d said. “Parents are already choosing the gender of their children. Ultimately they’ll have the capability to select their perfect child: a clever pianist, perhaps, with gree
n eyes, high cheekbones, and silky blond hair. But do we want manufactured children that are the products of consumer choice?”

  Michael had never given the idea any thought, but he found it intriguing. He was sure he could learn a lot from a woman as intelligent as Jessica Croft. He watched her closely, captivated. She wore little makeup, even for TV, and would have looked just as alluring without any. Layers of auburn hair fell around her face and shoulders. Her amber eyes shimmered, reflecting the studio lights. She’d riveted him with a look of unsolved mystery. A look that pulled him closer while he warned himself to look away.

  Please be different from Sam.

  Michael knew the Croft family history. He’d experienced firsthand how Sam had been affected by having Judge Croft for a father. But what about Jessie?

  The videos had been enough to cause him a restless night.

  In the morning, he’d heard little noise from her—running water, muted classical music, the drone of a hair dryer. He’d never known a woman to be so quiet for so long, and he wondered if her tapped phone would produce enough fodder to keep The Rooster fed.

  Michael had rarely left Croft hungry for information about Sam. Whenever her voice had stopped, her fingers had started with texts and tweets and e-mails. Plenty for Michael’s daily reports. He hadn’t been required to monitor Sam 24/7, so he’d had time to build his reputation in the security consulting business—with referrals provided by Croft. When Croft had hired him, Michael hadn’t been out of the Secret Service long, had recently started his business, and needed more high-profile clients. The job seemed like a win-win arrangement…at the time. But things had turned out badly with Sam. And now he had doubled-down with Jessie.

  At ten thirty a.m., almost to the second, he heard Jessie leave her room and go downstairs. After a moment, he followed her, stopping on the second-floor landing and watching her from the top of the steps. Tall, lithe, with shiny hair, she faced the inn’s front window, her back to him.

  Before long, a cab pulled up outside and she left. Michael quickly went upstairs, jimmied the door to her room, and ducked inside.