by Tracy March
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.
Game on.
Michael searched the familiar faces, looking for any of the four who had been in the picture with Sam. He’d go all-in on a hand that had Helena and her husband, Ian, having information related to Sam’s death. Sam had been entangled with them professionally and personally, in a peculiar, codependent way that had now become even more suspicious.
With a glass of ginger ale in need of some Wild Turkey, Michael stationed himself near the entry—close to one of the bars and far from the guy playing the harp. Here, he could get a good look at who came and went, plus a view of Jessie when she arrived.
Nearby, the bartender uncorked a bottle of champagne and drained it into an army of flutes on a serving tray. The scent of alcohol hung in the cool, humid air.
Mourning—just another excuse to drink. And Michael was all for it. He counted on the alcohol to loosen some lips before he zeroed in on his marks.
Senator Elizabeth Briel crossed his line of vision, making his wait less painful. There were several reasons why the
y’d picked her as one of The Hill’s 50 Most Beautiful People, and her mid-thigh-length skirt revealed two of them. She was from Maryland, but she looked like a sexy Swede, all legs and loose blond curls.
A swift slap on Michael’s shoulder focused his attention.
“Enjoying the view?” asked a jealous-sounding man.
It couldn’t be her husband Philippe; there was no French twist in the accent. Michael turned, now shoulder to shoulder with Ian Alden.
You have to love it when your marks come to you.
Ian’s black suit, starched white shirt, and bright blue tie mirrored Michael’s getup. But Ian’s was probably double the price.
“You can get yourself in trouble gawking like that.” Ian sipped red wine from a half-full glass.
“I don’t see you averting your eyes,” Michael said with a grin that Ian didn’t return. “How’s the security system holding up?” Just before he’d been hired by Croft, Michael had consulted with Ian and Helena on the security plans for his medical practice and her lobbying firm. He’d met Sam one day at Alden & Associates after a meeting he’d had with Helena. She’d seemed like a wholesome go-getter who was smart and easy on the eyes. Most of his assessment had proven to be true.
“Security is one thing I can’t complain about,” Ian said. “And with all I’ve got going on in the lab, I might even need an upgrade.”
“Happy to help.”
Ian gazed around the room and raised his glass. “So this is Helena’s idea of a memorial.”
“Doesn’t it seem a little odd to you?” Michael asked.
“It’s better than suffering through a funeral.” Ian took a long sip of his wine.
“I meant Sam’s heart failure.”
“It’s hard to believe. She looked pretty healthy to me.” Ian swirled the wine in his glass, seeming mesmerized by it for a moment. “Her death has really shaken Helena and me.”
Michael couldn’t imagine Ian or his steel-souled wife being shaken by anything. They kept complete control over every aspect of their lives. From his practice to her lobbying firm, everything was run by tight protocol, everyone in lockstep. Sam’s death might have made them blink, but they’d be beyond the disruption by next week. Maybe they were over it already. Ian didn’t have the dazed look of someone genuinely grieving.
“It hasn’t gotten as much news coverage as I’d expected,” Michael said.
“We figure Croft is trying to manage the bleed in case rumors get started that Sam inherited her heart defect from both him and his wife. Could make the president think twice about nominating him when the time comes. It would be a lot of wasted effort to go through the whole confirmation process and have the guy drop dead.” Ian adjusted the knot of his tie. “But if that would keep him off the bench, I’m all for it.”
“So much for the Hippocratic Oath,” Michael said.
Ian sneered. “In his case, I’d defer to Darwinism.”
It was no secret that Ian worried about a reproductive assistance case making it to the Supreme Court, anything from in-vitro fertilization to gender selection. A bad decision could result in restrictive legislation that would derail his entire practice, not to mention his cash flow. Helena worked the lobbying angle to minimize the damage in case the worst should happen.
Michael shook his glass, hoping to coax some more ginger ale out of the ice cubes in the bottom.
Ian looked over his shoulder and down the vast Sculpture Hall, where people entered and exited. Something had caught his attention.
Michael followed his line of vision.
At the far end of the hall, Jessie stood viewing a sculpture of a young girl holding a conch shell. She was the only person who had stopped to appreciate the art. Michael was intrigued by her curious mind, and he wondered what else interested her outside of bioethics.
Ian gazed at her the same way Michael had looked at Elizabeth Briel. “That’s Jessica Croft,” he said.
“Sam’s sister.”
“Helena didn’t mention that she’s so…”
“So what?” Michael struggled to keep the defensiveness out of his voice.
“Captivating,” Ian murmured.
Michael’s gut clenched. “Helena met her?” At her office at 8:05 this morning.
“Earlier today.” Ian nodded, his gaze never leaving Jessie. “She said Sam and her sister were complete opposites.”
Just as Michael had hoped.
Jessie made her way down the hall toward them, pausing before each sculpture. It was easy to see why she’d caught Ian’s eye. Her red strapless dress accented promising curves, coming off as provocative yet tasteful, and the black shawl she wore had slipped off her shapely bare shoulders. Tendrils of her auburn hair fell from a casual updo. Her lips glistened with an understated, natural blush that enticed Michael more than any red lipstick ever had.
Of course Ian found her captivating. Any man would. Michael certainly did, and that would only make his job harder.
Jessie entered the Garden Court, glancing their way but not focusing on them. Michael watched her eyes. Not the uninhibited eyes he had seen when she was with Nina, but the mysterious eyes he saw in her television interviews. Pulling him in, pushing him away. He inhaled deeply, the air crisp and electric, as if there’d been a lightning strike. He popped a couple of ice cubes into his mouth and crunched loudly.
“My, my,” Ian said, his gaze following her as he took the last sip of his wine.
“What else did Helena say about her?” Michael asked.
Ian smirked. “Don’t get any fresh ideas, Gillette. Jessica Croft is way out of your league.” He winked at Michael and strode away toward the bar on the far side of the room.
Michael shook his head. He’d expected a dig from Ian. The guy probably couldn’t stand the fact that Michael looked better in his suit.
Jessie got in line at the bar nearest Michael, confidently standing alone. People glanced her way, but no one approached her. Some pointed while her back was turned and covered their mouths, whispering.
Michael crunched his last ice cube and figured he could use a refill. He wove through the crowd, keeping a bead on Jessie. Halfway to the bar, he hit a snag, a sturdy grasp on his bicep courtesy of Judge Ryan Croft. The man was probably desperate to find a neutral party in the group, much less a sympathetic one. Michael was neither.
“Sir?” Michael’s greeting was more of a question. A why-are-you-publicly-associating-with-me question. Especially with Jessie close by.
“What is Jessica doing here?” Croft asked, his words hushed and accusing, as if Michael could’ve kept her away.
“The same thing you are, I suspect. Paying her respects to Sam.” Although Michael would argue that Jessie’s were much more sincere.
Croft tightened his grip on Michael’s arm. “I suggest you dispense with your attitude.”
Michael swallowed a string of curses, his gaze never leaving Jessie, whose back was to them.
Don’t turn around.
“Helena Alden invited her,” Michael said.
“I would like to have known to expect her here.”
Michael looked Croft in the eyes. “Quite frankly, I didn’t expect you to be here. I planned to check in with you after the event.” He refocused on Jessie. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think it would be detrimental for Jessica to see us together.”
Croft shook his head. “Relax, Michael.” His mouth turned up at one corner. “What makes you think you’re that memorable?”
Chapter Eleven
Jessie had to give Helena credit. She had arranged a memorial that felt appropriate for Sam.
A national museum and a who’s-who crowd. An opportunity to see and be seen. Regardless of the somber occasion, it was a social and political gathering, tinged with alcohol and possibility. Unusual for a memorial, but Helena had known Sam, whoever she had become. Even the Sam Jessie had known would relish being the center of all this attention.
The line at the bar moved too sluggishly for Jessie�
��s diminishing patience. She abandoned her spot and took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
“Jessica.” Her father’s voice crawled up the back of her neck and a tide of dread rose in her stomach. She pasted on a pleasant look and turned.
Her father leveled his gaze on her and gave her an unreadable smile, looking debonair in his tailor-made pinstriped suit. He swiped his fingers through his hair and glanced at the couple standing next to him.
“Nice to see you here tonight,” he said.
Jessie returned his pseudo-smile, wondering if he really meant that. She stayed silent, struggling to keep confidence in her eyes, the prolonged moment awkward.
Her father tipped his highball—probably Scotch—toward the man and woman nearby. “Senator Thomas Talmont, Lorna, this is my other daughter, Jessica.”
Senator Talmont extended his hand, sizing her up with a furtive once-over. He reminded Jessie of her father, only about ten years younger. She guessed him to be in his late forties. He looked ex-military, clean cut and almost handsome. Jessie had seen him on C-SPAN, but she hadn’t noticed the fine scar that crept from his left temple down to his cheekbone. She gave him a firm handshake.
As the senator checked her out, the woman stared flatly at Jessie. “I’m his wife.” Her nuanced words staked an unnecessary claim. She tucked her short, dark hair behind her ear, then smoothed her dress where it pleated from being too tight across her hips.
“Sorry about your sister,” she said with little sympathy.
“Me, too,” Jessie said.
Senator Talmont frowned and shook his head. “She was a lovely girl.”
Jessie’s father winced as if he’d been struck by a renegade pang of grief. The somber moment passed. Talmont raised his near-empty champagne flute toward Jessie and tipped it. “Congratulations on your soon-to-be appointment to the Presidential Commission,” he said, as if he knew something confidential and couldn’t wait to tell it.
A match struck in Jessie’s chest, caught fire, and heat radiated to her face. She wasn’t accustomed to people knowing that much about her, and she didn’t really like it.
