by Tracy March
Jessie left the bathroom blotting a couple of nasty cuts that hadn’t stopped bleeding. They were painful now, but would hurt worse tomorrow.
She stepped into the lounge, a narrow space with a massive bar that stretched the length of the room. Happy hour had started almost an hour ago, but she couldn’t tell by looking at the sullen faces of the few people seated at the bar. An old song that Jessie didn’t recognize played on Muzak.
Helena waited at a low, square table in the far corner, already halfway through a dirty martini. She sat posed, wearing a look-here, low-cut blouse.
Jessie took the seat across from her. Thankfully, the table was situated so they both had a view of the room. After thinking she’d been followed, she didn’t want her back to anyone.
“What did you do to your hand?” Helena asked.
“Scraped it.” Jessie wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing that she’d fallen.
“Looks like more than a scrape.”
A fortysomething waitress who looked too tan for January walked over to the table.
“I’ll have what she’s having,” Jessie said.
Helena’s eyes shifted to Jessie and narrowed. She took a healthy swallow of her drink.
Jessie pulled the picture of Helena and Sam from her purse. “Tell me about this.”
Helena glanced at the photo. She toyed with the toothpick in her glass, poking at an olive that looked twice its size in the murky liquor. “What about it?”
Jessie tensed. “I’m not in the mood for games. Why did Sam stop working for you?”
“Why does anyone leave a job?”
“Lots of reasons,” Jessie said. “What was hers?”
Helena shrugged lazily. “She was offered another position.”
Jessie thought Sam had worked for Helena ever since she interned at Alden & Associates while she was in college at Georgetown. “Doing what?”
“Working on the Hill for Senator Talmont.”
The senator had always been an ally of Jessie’s father. He still was, if last night was any indication. Jessie had no doubt that Talmont was a fierce opponent of any legislation pushed by Helena’s firm. Considering Sam’s relationship with Helena, it didn’t make sense that she would willingly switch sides and go to work for Talmont.
“Speaking of Talmont…,” Helena said.
Jessie followed her line of vision. Talmont had come in with three men about his age, all of them dressed in business suits. They sat at a table near the bar.
“He’s a regular here,” Helena said, “just like a lot of other senators and congressmen.”
Jessie found it a little disconcerting that Talmont would show up just as he’d become the topic of conversation—as if he’d entered on cue. As she looked back toward Helena, she scanned the pictures on the walls and realized that most of the photographs, paintings, and drawings were of nude women, in styles ranging from classic to bawdy.
Helena grinned knowingly. “Some people call this place the Naked Lady Lounge. But that’s not politically correct, now, is it?”
Jessie had no idea where Helena was trying to lead her, but she had no intention of going there.
The waitress brought Jessie’s drink.
“Sam wouldn’t have taken a job with Talmont unless there was more on the table than an attractive offer,” Jessie said after the waitress left.
“That’s a keen observation, considering how little you knew her.”
“Give the cheap shots a rest. I wish things had been different. But there were dynamics you couldn’t possibly understand.” It occurred to Jessie that her father had said something similar to her this morning about his relationship with Sam. She took a sip of her martini, and winced at its briny aftertaste. “What else was included in the deal with Talmont, besides a nice salary?”
Helena made Jessie wait out her calculated silence. “Why are you still in DC?” she finally asked. “You’re meddling in things that weren’t your concern before and they’re none of your business now.” She leaned forward. “Sam had a private life. Show her some respect and leave it that way.”
“I would,” Jessie said, “if I didn’t have some questions about her death.”
Helena looked incredulous. “What kind of questions? The poor girl died from a heart attack. It’s dreadfully sad, but not suspicious. For God’s sake, the same thing happened to your mother.”
Jessie wanted to slap Helena for bringing up the most painful event of her life and using it as a careless point of argument. “Sam’s case was different from our mother’s, and I’m going to find out what really happened to her. If you were involved, then I’ll assume your lack of answers means you’re trying to cover your ass. If you weren’t, you’ll tell me more about this picture. I have no idea how it relates to her death, but it must mean something, since it came in such a cryptic way, without a return address.”
Helena had turned a little whiter than her normal shade of pale. “You don’t strike me as the melodramatic type. What evidence do you have that there was foul play?”
“Why would I tell you?”
“You want my help, don’t you?”
“And you should be eager to give it, unless you want an official investigation.”
Helena blinked, several times, fast. “Are the police involved?”
Jessie let the question simmer while she dabbed her cuts with a tissue. “Not yet.”
Helena sat up straighter, some of her color returning. “I think you’re imagining things, making too much of some insignificant pictures and fabricating wild assumptions you can’t back up.” Her gaze fixed sharply on Jessie’s. “It’s a dangerous game you’re playing.”
Jessie held her stare. “Is that a threat?”
Two gray-haired men in suits entered the lounge and caught Helena’s attention. She watched as they sat at a table at the opposite end of the room. Their lingering glances at some of the so-called artwork revealed more than a passing interest.
“Your father arranged the job with Senator Talmont for Sam,” Helena said. “And surely you’ve seen your sister’s condo by now?”
Jessie nodded.
“That was part of the deal. Take the job, take the condo.”
Now Jessie understood why she hadn’t found records of mortgage or rent payments in Sam’s files.
“By then, your father knew he was on the short list for the Supreme Court nomination, even though it was a couple of years away. He didn’t want Sam’s work at the firm to affect his chances. He couldn’t have someone in his family lobbying on the wrong side of his issues.”
Jessie bristled at the thought of her father trying to manipulate Sam for political gain. The idea was troubling, considering her suspicion that he might have influenced her own selection for the bioethics Commission.
“We were hardly a family,” Jessie said.
Helena raised an eyebrow. “Tell that to his opponents. In this town, if you’ve got the same blood, you’re family. Especially if that family can be used to bring you down.”
“How long did Sam work for Talmont?”
“She didn’t.” Helena’s words were steeped with satisfaction. “She and I outsmarted Ryan.”
It struck Jessie as odd that Helena would call her father Ryan. She’d expect her to call him by his last name—or worse.
“How so?”
“Sam gave her notice to me, worked the two weeks, and left our offices with a box full of junk and a little send-off party.” Helena tapped a long crimson fingernail on the picture of her and Sam. “It was enough to convince Ryan that she was serious about taking the job with Talmont. She moved into her condo the next day. I gave her a bonus to cover her expenses for the month she spent between jobs.”
“But you said she never worked for Talmont.”
“She didn’t. The night before she was supposed to start working on the Hill, she met with him, thanked him for the opportunity, and told him she wouldn’t be taking the job. Even so, he changed his vote on the stem-cell b
ill that came to the floor the next week.”
“Why would he change his vote? Wasn’t he angry with Sam for refusing his job?”
Helena smiled. “Sam charmed him enough that he was willing to see the error of his ways.” She looked Jessie in the eyes. “That was the beginning of the unofficial version of the Hope Campaign.”
Which Philippe was going to tell Jessie about tonight. She didn’t want Helena to know that she wasn’t clear on the details.
“After that, Sam came back to work at the firm. Ryan was furious, but she was already settled in the condo. We called his bluff, but he never kicked her out.” Helena polished off her martini and licked her lips. “That’s the only titillating information I can think of that relates to that picture.”
She picked up her purse and pulled out her cosmetic case. Peering into the mirror of her compact, she carefully applied red lipstick. Seemingly satisfied with her reflection, she put the cosmetics away, stood, and whisked her coat from the back of her chair. “I hope you see that there was no need for your overreaction.” She tossed a fifty on the table. “Now, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m going to give those two congressmen a real flesh-and-blood female to ogle.”
She stepped away, then turned back. “About the Hope Campaign…maybe you could pick up where Sam left off.” She smoothed her hair and sauntered across the lounge.
Jessie had no idea what Helena meant but hoped she’d understand once she met with Philippe and Elizabeth. Anxious to hear what they had to say, she checked the time. Still an hour before they expected her.
She finished her martini with her thoughts swirling, the vodka and vermouth more potent than her usual glass of wine. With her plastic-sword toothpick, she skewered the two giant, vodka-soaked olives left in her glass and ate them one at a time.
The lounge had become a little crowded while she and Helena had talked. Noisy chatter drowned out the Muzak. Several older men cast can-I-join-you looks at Jessie, but the don’t-even-think-about-it glint in her eyes managed to keep them at bay. At steady intervals, people trolling for a place to sit eyeballed her table, her empty drink, and Helena’s fifty. Jessie waited for the waitress to take the money.
As people elbowed their way around occupied barstools and tables, Jessie caught glimpses of Helena and the congressmen across the room. Her demeanor was different around the men. Some of her hard edges seemed softer. She chatted up the politicians, leaning in close, toasting them with another martini. The men seemed captivated.
Never underestimate the power of in-the-flesh, in-your-face cleavage.
Jessie scanned the room for the waitress, becoming weary of the strange surroundings, the pseudo-artwork, and the peculiar cast of characters—exhausted businessmen, baby-boomer singles, a grizzled old man. There was also Senator Talmont, at least a couple of congressmen, and a lobbyist. Even an elderly woman, drinking a piña colada and reading a romance paperback.
Through the crowd, Jessie caught a quick glimpse of a man sitting alone at one of the pub tables across the room, near the door.
He was the type of guy people noticed whether he wanted to be noticed or not—unforgettable for many reasons, not the least of which was his face. And she had seen it twice in the last twenty-four hours. Once at Sam’s memorial, and again now.
Even from a distance, she had no doubt he was the same guy she’d seen, because few men could pull off his look. He had refined features and a straight nose. Designer stubble tempered his strong jawline and a shadow on his chin hinted at a slight cleft. His sun-kissed, light-brown hair tousled in layers from a messy middle part down to a-little-too-long.
Warmth rose in Jessie’s face. For a moment, she had a clear view of him through the crowd. She guessed him to be her age, give or take a couple of years. Lean and muscular, dressed in black jeans and a gray mock turtleneck, he looked fine-tuned and masculine. Drinking a draft beer, he exuded pure, casual nonchalance. But Jessie wasn’t sold. A focused energy radiated beneath his veneer. He was paying close attention, just as he had been at Sam’s memorial, his eyes alert and appraising, often settling on her.
DC was a small town in some respects, but half a million people lived here. Another half million poured in daily for work or to visit monuments and museums. Jessie considered the odds that she would see Mr. Unforgettable again. She’d be crazy not to ask him about Sam while she had the chance.
The crowd shifted and the waitress walked toward Jessie, blocking her view. A pang of anxiety shot through her and she stood, hoping the guy wouldn’t leave. If she were honest with herself, she’d admit she wanted to meet him…and also ask him about Sam. She handed the waitress the fifty. “Keep the change.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Thank you.”
“Sure.” Jessie ducked around her, peering toward the door.
Her guy hadn’t gone anywhere, and he was looking at her dead-on.
She held his stare, yet fought a surge of self-consciousness that tempted her to look away. Awkward seconds ticked by before he acknowledged her with a slow nod. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes settled.
Jessie stumbled through a martini-infused deliberation over what to say to him as she made her way past the people at the bar, her pulse quickening. When she reached his table, she stepped out of the aisle.
He sat straight on a high stool, one of his long legs outstretched. He leveled his confident gaze on her, his eyes a riveting light gray-green and loaded with questions.
A shadow of doubt crept into her mind. She was the one with the questions.
“I think you knew my sister,” she said.
Chapter Fifteen
Michael struggled to keep his look steady. He took a swallow of his near-beer, wishing it had the maximum alcohol content now that he was face-to-face with Jessica Croft. He set the mug down precisely on the dampened ring on his cocktail napkin. “That’s an unusual hello.” He almost smiled.
“Sorry,” she said. “The martini stole my manners. I’m Jessica Croft—”
“You’re Sam’s sister?”
“Was,” Jessie said ruefully. “And for some reason, I think you knew that. I saw you at her memorial last night.”
And remembered me.
He held up his hands. “Guilty on both counts. I was there, and I know who you are. I’ve seen you on television. I just didn’t want to come across as a psycho-fan.”
Jessie smiled, her golden eyes sparkling.
He reached out to shake her hand. “Michael Gillette.” He’d considered using a fake name, yet knew that it would further complicate things. Jessie was already associating with people who knew him by name. If he hoped to gain any credibility with her, he had to be honest about his identity—even if he lied about everything else.
Jessie flipped her hand palm-up, revealing several cuts with blood dried across them in glossy streaks. Guilt twisted in Michael’s gut. He hadn’t been far behind her when she’d fallen on the sidewalk, but when she did, he had quickly slunk into the shadows.
Gently, he grasped her fingertips and took a closer look. “Ouch,” he said. “How did that happen?”
She left her hand in his a beat longer—soft and warm, but unyielding—then pulled away. “On my way here, I thought someone was following me—”
“Why would someone be following you?”
Jessie scrunched her face as if she thought she sounded ridiculous. “Never mind.” She gave him a self-conscious look and put her hands in her coat pockets. “How did you know Sam?”
He tipped his chin in Helena’s direction. “I was doing some security work for Helena and Ian a while back. I met Sam at Alden and Associates.”
“Security work?”
He nodded. “Been my career since grad school—most of it in the Secret Service.” He traced an invisible design on the tabletop with his fingers. It helped to keep him from staring at her. “I’m a security consultant now.”
“So you met Sam at Alden and Associates.”
“A couple of years ago.�
�� Michael drank the last of his beer, then stuffed the soggy cocktail napkin in the mug. He considered asking Jessie to have a seat, but decided it would be too risky. He’d already stepped over Croft’s keep-your-distance line. “When Sam needed some security advice, Helena referred her to me.”
“What kind of security advice?”
He smiled at her halfheartedly, hoping to mask the lies that were about to come out of his mouth. “Easiest job I’ve ever had. She wanted me to look for hidden cameras and listening devices in her condo. I’m not sure why she worried about that type of thing, but the place always checked out.”
“Always?”
“Both times she hired me.”
“Do you have a card?” she asked, as if she were thinking about having him sweep the place again.
He took a business card from the pocket of the overcoat draped across the stool beside him, and handed it to her. “I’m really sorry about Sam. She seemed like a nice girl.”
“Thanks.” Jessie examined his card. She looked up and lowered her eyebrows. “When did you leave the Secret Service?”
“A couple of years ago.”
She put his card in her purse.
Michael imagined the hell that would break loose if Croft somehow found it there.
“I realize it’s a huge organization,” Jessie said. “But I had a friend from college who was an agent. He worked on details for some pretty high-profile people. Maybe you knew him.” She shook her head, a sorrowful look on her face. “Even if you didn’t, you’ve probably heard of him.”
“Maybe,” Michael said, thinking it unlikely, since there were over three thousand Special Agents in the Service.
“Wes Kelley?”
She might as well have punched him. He took a few seconds to think of what to say. “Wes was my best friend. I was there when…” Michael tried to block out the sound of gunfire, the vision of Wes slumped in front of a third-world dictator, blood gushing from his neck where a bullet had punctured his carotid artery.
