by Tracy March
“Oh, God,” Jessie whispered. She reached out and clutched his forearm. “I’m sorry.”
Michael pressed his lips together. After a moment, he said, “It’s still a tough road. You knew him at UVA?”
She released his forearm and nodded. “He and a couple other baseball players lived in the apartment across the hall.”
Michael nodded, feeling a little blindsided. It hadn’t crossed his mind that Jessie could’ve known Wes. He knew they’d both gone to UVA around the same time, but hadn’t thought to associate them.
Jessie had to be expecting him to say something else about Wes, but he couldn’t. Michael met her gaze and was gripped by the sincerity in her eyes. He wanted to ask her about her times with Wes, to reminisce about his friend, and probably laugh a little. Wes’s antics had always kept him laughing, even though their jobs had been serious. But he didn’t think he could handle that, Croft’s contract wouldn’t allow it, and Jessie had somewhere to go.
He checked his watch, then stood and put on his coat. “I’m sorry, I have to leave.”
Confusion flashed in her eyes, as well as—dare he hope—disappointment. He pulled a ten from his pocket and slid a corner of it beneath his beer mug. “It was a pleasure meeting you.” He leaned toward her and lightly touched her back, catching the scent of citrus and tea that he remembered from her room at the inn. “I’ll keep a lookout for you on TV.”
He left the restaurant and faced the bitter-cold night wind.
She had known Wes. Something told Michael that Jessie could relate to his grief. Grief that had become raw again after the deaths of his father and Sam. No doubt Jessie lived with similar heartbreak, considering all the loss in her life.
Sleet fell in shimmering sheets on the dreary concrete buildings and empty streets of Federal Center. Foggy patches of light hung beneath the streetlamps and barely made it to the ground. Michael crossed the street, the sound of his steps drowned out by the hiss of wet tires on the nearby highway overpass. His phone vibrated with an alert that Jessie was making a call. He snatched it from his belt and listened to her now-familiar voice.
She’d opted to take a cab instead of the Metro. He couldn’t blame her.
Michael walked halfway up the block and ducked beneath an awning, keeping a watch for Jessie’s cab. And for Jessie. He buttoned his coat and brushed off the melting sleet that had beaded on the wool.
Within minutes, a cab whisked by and pulled to the curb in front of the Market Inn. Jessie came out of the restaurant, her head bowed against the wind, and got in.
Michael stared at its taillights until they became indelible red blotches that he would still see if he closed his eyes.
Chapter Sixteen
Jessie hadn’t expected her curiosity about the guy in the bar to lead her down a rabbit hole. Michael Gillette had left her with more questions than answers, just as she’d feared when she first looked into his eyes. She replayed their conversation in her mind as the cab’s windshield wipers swept noisily across the glass.
His answers had seemed straightforward, but Jessie sensed he was more complicated below the surface. He’d revealed an emotional standoffishness when he’d left abruptly after she mentioned Wes Kelley. And where had that come from? She hadn’t seen Wes since college, even though they’d been pretty good friends, and they had fallen out of touch over the years. News of his job with the Secret Service had come through mutual friends and the alumni magazine, as had the tragic story of his death. And Michael had been his best friend.
I was there…
His grief had seemed fresher than three years old, and she’d felt an uncharacteristic urge to comfort him. What was behind his enigmatic façade?
Jessie wanted to find out, but a rogue feeling of fear zipped through her. Had he been romantically involved with Sam? He’d described their relationship as professional and casual, and Jessie had no reason not to take him at his word. After all, it made sense that Sam would hire him to check out her condo for hidden cameras and listening devices. There was no telling what ulterior motives their father had when he’d offered it to her, and Sam had duped him into giving her the place. Maybe she’d had reason to be cautious. And maybe Jessie did, too. Her father had wanted her to stay there. It might be a good idea to have Michael go over the condo again.
The driver stopped the cab at 601 Pennsylvania Avenue, the address Philippe had scribbled on the back of his business card. Jessie paid the fare and got out. Sleet pelted down, hissing as it cast a glaze over the city. Reflections from the stoplights wavered in freezing puddles of green, fleeting yellow, and red. The roads and sidewalks had become treacherous, but she wouldn’t let sleet keep her from meeting with Philippe and Elizabeth.
She quickly ducked inside the terracotta stone building on the corner, only to find herself in The Capital Grille. There hadn’t been an obvious sign out front. The hostess explained to Jessie that Philippe’s condo building was part of a residential, retail, and office complex that shared the same address and took up half the block. She directed Jessie to another corner of the complex.
Outside, Jessie squinted against the sleet, looking up 6th Street where a red-brick condo building loomed ahead on her left, soaring fifteen stories high and crowned by a spire. She quickly realized how far she had to walk, and she wished the cab had dropped her off somewhere closer. Jessie rushed up the sidewalk, the incline slick beneath her feet. She bowed her head against the sleet, passing shadowed alcoves where several homeless people hunched beneath layers of blankets and plastic tarps.
A siren wailed in the distance.
Halfway up the block, she passed the entrance to an underground parking garage. She glanced inside, where all was quiet in the exhaust-hazy bright light. Even the attendant’s booth was empty. She refocused on the sidewalk, stepping carefully as her eyes readjusted to the dark.
From a dim recess, a bulky figure lumbered out in front of her and stopped, facing her and blocking her way.
Seized by panic, Jessie sucked in an icy breath. The man wore a black hooded coat, and his face was a shade lighter. All she could see were the yellow sclera of his eyes.
She backed away, then darted right on a sliver of sidewalk between the man and an SUV parallel parked on the street. Her foot slipped. She teetered but regained her balance.
The man stretched one of his burly arms in front of her, moving quickly for his size. He latched on to the door handle of the SUV, cutting off her escape route.
Jessie veered left and managed to get ahead of him. Her heart beat wildly. She was fit enough to outrun him, but she couldn’t gain traction with her heeled boots on the slick sidewalk. Even so, she kept moving.
She could hear him close behind her, but knew better than to look. That would only slow her down and she’d be more likely to fall—again. She had almost reached the corner. The entrance to Philippe’s building was supposed to be just around it, and there had to be a security guard inside. If she could just reach the door, she could get the guard’s attention.
Steps away from the corner, the man grabbed her arm with a startlingly strong grip. Jessie spun on her heel, trying to wrench away. She managed to free her arm, but he still held her firmly by a fistful of her coat sleeve.
“You Jessica Croft?” His voice sounded childlike, and he spoke with a lisp.
Her stomach lurched, and her breath rasped fast and shallow. Wide-eyed, she turned to him and got a good look at his face.
He could be thirty or fifty. It was hard to tell.
“Who wants to know?” she asked.
He released his grip on her sleeve and raised his hands, palms out. His coat opened, revealing a stained fleece pullover underneath. The air soured with the stench of sweat and ammonia. “I don’t mean you no harm.” He reached behind his back. “Man gave me a twenty to give you this.” He pulled out a soggy envelope and thrust it at her.
She took it, saw her name on the front, and exhaled. “What did the man look like?”
His gaze
skittered between the envelope and her purse. “What’s it worth for you to find out?”
Jessie’s fear turned to anger. “You already got twenty dollars to scare the hell out of me and hand me an envelope.” Her voice quivered.
“You wanna know what he looked like or not?”
A description might be worthless, but she couldn’t take that risk. She reached for her wallet, praying there was cash in it.
Four dollars.
She folded the money and handed it over. He snatched the bills, flipped through them, and sneered.
“That’s all the cash I have.”
“Ain’t that a shame.” He trudged away.
“I gave you what I had!” Jessie shouted. “At least tell me something.”
He turned around in slow motion, the money balled in his fist. Sleet pelted his face. He unraveled one of the dollars. “White dude.”
A second, wrinkled bill followed. “Mustache.”
A third. “Shaved head.”
He unfurled the last dollar.
“Ugly.” He crammed the money into his coat pocket. “That’s all you gonna get for a lousy four bucks.” He turned his back and slogged down the sidewalk.
Jessie stood, trembling in the sleet, relief sputtering through her with every step he put between them. When she was satisfied that he was far enough away, she turned the corner and walked the short distance to the entrance of The Pennsylvania—Philippe’s building.
A bundled-up woman stood outside the double glass-and-brass doors facing an adjacent security panel. She slid her key fob into the reader and the lock clicked. Jessie followed her inside.
The lobby was empty except for the security guard she’d hoped would rescue her. He sat at the desk reading a newspaper. A plush seating area looked like the best place to wait for Philippe and Elizabeth. Jessie shook the moisture from her coat, then slumped into one of the upholstered chairs.
She held the moist and warped envelope the stranger had given her. And an ugly white guy with a mustache and a shaved head had given it to him. Frustrated, Jessie figured those men were just degrees of separation from the true messenger.
The envelope she held looked the same as the first two she’d gotten, but she felt differently about this one—as if she’d be better off if she tossed it in the trash, unopened.
Jessie thought about Helena. About the ruse she and Sam had used to trick her father into giving Sam a condo. The story was unsettling, but Jessie couldn’t see a connection between Sam’s two-year-old scheme and her murder.
She thought about Michael Gillette. He was intriguing, but seemingly removed from the situation. Even so, he might have some insight, considering his line of work.
She thought about Philippe, who couldn’t resist the challenge of converting her to his way of thinking. He knew she could be a useful advocate. Double that, if her appointment to the Presidential Commission was approved. That’s why he and Elizabeth were willing to give her information about Sam.
Quid pro quo.
Philippe had done the foreshadowing, and Jessie sensed a bad thing coming. She felt certain that someone had followed her to the Market Inn. Then the four-dollar man had accosted her on the sidewalk. The real or imagined danger would only escalate if she kept asking questions about Sam’s death.
Her father had warned her and told her to go home. As much as Jessie hated to agree with him, it was beginning to seem like a good idea. She could be back in Charlottesville by midnight, in her own bed, with all of these people and questions left behind.
But she’d never sleep.
She peeled away the flap of the envelope and pulled out the familiar single sheet of photo paper. This time, eight small pictures trailed across the page. Eight different images of Sam entering or leaving Ian Alden’s fertility practice. Each shot was dated, and together they spanned a six-week period, the last three taken on consecutive days. No caption.
Were the pictures meant to associate Ian with Sam’s death? He would’ve known about the physiological effects of alcohol combined with Rohypnol—plummeting blood pressure, bradycardia, the heart starving for blood—symptoms that someone with a strong heart might survive. But how would he have known about Sam’s heart defect?
Jessie wasn’t even sure that Sam had known about it herself. After their mother had died, they’d both been examined and told they weren’t at risk. At least, that’s what their father had said.
“What’s that?”
Jessie flinched. Philippe had snuck up next to her without a sound. She shoved the photo sheet into her purse as she stood. “You scared me.”
“You look like you’ve seen a fantôme.”
In a way, she had. Sam had become undead through multiple cryptic photographs. Jessie gave Philippe a wan smile that took too much energy. “I’m okay.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “So you say.” He gestured toward the elevators. “Let’s go upstairs.”
They took the elevator to the eleventh floor and stepped out into a carpeted, furnished foyer. Tasteful, textured wallpaper lined the corridors. Art Deco sconces diffused the light. Oversized raised-panel doors led to high-end, high-dollar real estate.
Philippe walked her down to a three-door cul-de-sac, slid his key into the lock of the one on the right, and motioned her into a dim entryway. Beyond, the condo was dark except for the rippled light seeping through the windows.
“Where’s Elizabeth?” Jessie asked.
“She couldn’t make it. The weather’s too nasty.” He flipped on the lights. “She’s at our house in Virginia with Liam and the nanny.”
“Oh,” Jessie said, suddenly feeling awkward. “I thought you all lived here.”
“We do. Sometimes Elizabeth will stay if she has a late session, but she prefers the suburbs.”
The condo suited a man and Jessie wondered if Philippe had owned it before he’d married Elizabeth. It had a sprawling living area, with heavy furniture of mahogany and black leather. Antique brass accents and maple floors, with a wall of windows as a backdrop.
Jessie walked over to check out the view. She gazed into the misty darkness and her breath caught. The lighted dome of the Capitol loomed in the near distance, as if it hung in mid-air and she could reach out and touch it. “Amazing.”
“The Canadian embassy?” Philippe teased.
Jessie noticed red-and-white maple-leaf flags posted along the third-floor balcony of a building in the foreground. It was the back side of the Canadian embassy. “I meant the Capitol.”
Philippe joined her at the window. “You should see the sunrises.” He gave her a sidelong look and held her gaze until she glanced away.
“Take your coat?” he asked.
Feeling unusually self-conscious, she took it off.
As Philippe hung it in a closet along with his, she studied the collection of framed photographs hanging over his couch. Black-and-whites, all of the same infant.
“Your son?”
“Little Liam,” he said proudly. “Do you have children?”
Jessie smiled. “No. I’d like to have a child someday, but I’m not married. Not that you have to be, but I think that’s the way I’d like to go about it.”
Every picture within view was of Liam. Just one, in a small frame on a bookshelf, included Elizabeth.
Jessie took a closer look at the mother-son photo. “He has Elizabeth’s eyes.”
“That may be.” Philippe flattened his palm against his chest. “But he has my heart.” His expression turned serious. “And I’d protect him with my life.”
“Of course you would,” she said, not knowing what else to say. “He’s your son.”
“There’s more.” He led her to a closed door at one end of the living area—what Jessie thought was a closet. He opened the door and switched on the light. “My darkroom.” He motioned for her to step inside.
The room smelled like chemicals and vinegar. There was a dry and a wet side, stocked with the usual equipment—an enlarger, easel, developing trays
. And a wire strung with photos hung with wooden clothespins.
Pictures of Liam. And pictures of a high-end yacht.
Jessie leaned in closer to one of the yacht photos. “Do you own her?”
He beamed. “Yes, the J’aime L’eau. I stay aboard sometimes, down at the Capital Yacht Club.”
“J’aime L’eau,” she said. “Don’t tell me.” She thought about the translation. “I love the water?”
“Me, too,” he quipped. “It’s a beautiful name for a beautiful yacht. But Elizabeth teases me. She calls the yacht Jamie Lou.”
Jessie smiled.
He unclipped one of the pictures of the J’aime L’eau from the wire and gazed at it.
Jessie checked out the pictures of Liam, pictures of the yacht, and pictures of Liam aboard the yacht. It was easy to tell what was important to Philippe.
“Photography is more than a hobby for me,” he said.
“I see that.”
“But you came to talk about Sam.”
Jessie nodded. “You said you’d tell me about the other version of the Hope Campaign.”
Philippe’s mouth twitched at one corner, and he took too long to reply. “I did, but I need a drink. You might want to have one, too.”
“No, thanks,” Jessie said, wary, and still a little fuzzy-minded from the martini she’d had with Helena.
“Okay, then. Where to begin?” He reached out, smoothed his hand from Jessie’s shoulder down her arm, and cupped her elbow in his palm. “What has Helena told you?”
“She told me I could take up where Sam left off with the Hope Campaign.”
He grimaced. “I can’t imagine you doing that.”
“Why not?”
He tightened his grip on her elbow and met her gaze. “Because I get the feeling that right and wrong really matter to you.”
Chapter Seventeen
Jessie stared at Philippe. The space in the darkroom tightened. Right and wrong did matter to her.
“Don’t they matter to you?” she asked.
