Girl Three

by Tracy March

  Ian met her in the hallway and pulled her aside. “What would you like to know about Sam?”

  A young nurse dressed in light pink scrubs bustled past, a stethoscope draped over her shoulder. She shot them a curious look. Without a word, Jessie reached into her tote and handed Ian the page with the pictures of Sam outside his practice.

  His brow gathered as he studied the photos, then he gave her a long look. “Come with me.” He gripped her elbow and led her into a counseling room, a smaller version of the lobby, and closed the door. “What is this?” He pointed at the sheet of pictures.

  “I’d like you to tell me. Someone sent it to me anonymously, along with several other pictures. Why would Sam have come here so frequently? And what’s significant about those dates?”

  “Nothing,” Ian said blithely. “Sam was welcome here anytime. She was like family to Helena and me. God knows she needed a father figure.”

  “A father figure who froze and stored semen that she collected from unsuspecting senators?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do. Sam’s private version of the Hope Campaign—hoping she could help Helena extort a few votes with sex videos and frozen sperm.”

  “What would I have to gain from that?”

  “I asked myself almost the same question. What would you and Helena have to gain?” Jessie said. “I applied the old adage—follow the money. When senators changed their stance on embryonic stem cell legislation, Helena’s firm got credit. She attracted more clients and charged higher fees.”

  Ian’s face became redder.

  “You have a steady supply of unused embryos,” Jessie said. “With looser legislation, you’ve been free to sell them to research organizations.”

  He peered down his straight, patrician nose. “Your thinking is convoluted.”

  “That’s not the word I’d use. If the idea weren’t so reprehensible, I’d call it ingenious. Even worse is the fact that you allowed Sam, whom you claim was like your daughter, to do the dirty work, when all you sacrificed was a little freezer space.” She snatched the page of pictures from his hand. “Meanwhile, there was only an upside for Helena, who was nothing but a glorified madam, pimping out her protégée.”

  He shook his head. “You have it backward. Sam came to us with her plan. We didn’t recruit her.”

  “And that’s supposed to exonerate you? The parental figures decided it was a high-minded idea for a federal judge’s daughter to solicit sex from senators and extort their votes to promote your businesses?”

  “It wasn’t a question of whether or not we approved. Sam had already been with the first senator before we knew what she was doing.”

  “So what did you do to discourage her?”

  Lips tight, he thrust his fists into the pockets of his white lab coat.

  “Nothing.” Jessie willed herself to remain composed. “And I’m sure that you, in your virtuous father role, resisted the temptation to look at the pictures and watch the videos of Sam and the senators.”

  More color had risen in his face. “I have patients I need to get to.”

  “Were you and Helena worried that Sam’s affair with Talmont would compromise the income scheme she created for you? Worried enough that you wanted her dead?”

  “I don’t know where you’re getting your information.” His voice was a note off his normal pitch. “Sam wasn’t involved with Talmont beyond their initial encounter.”

  Jessie wondered how and why Sam had kept her affair a secret from Ian and Helena. Or if Ian really knew about it and just didn’t want Jessie to think she’d pinned a motive on him.

  There was a series of quick taps on the door as it opened and the nurse in light pink scrubs peeked in. “There you are,” she said to Ian, and pointed at her watch. “We’re getting way behind.”

  “I’m coming right now.” He stepped toward the door.

  “We’re not finished yet,” Jessie said.

  The nurse looked at Ian, wide-eyed.

  “I’ll be there in just a second.” He waved her away, closed the door, and faced Jessie. “I’ve given you more time than I had to spare. Now you need to leave.”

  She held out the sheet of pictures. “Just a month before Sam started her scheme, she was under your care for at least six weeks.”

  “I’ve already told you, she was welcome here anytime. Pictures of her coming and going don’t indicate that she was my patient.”

  Jessie pulled out Sam’s prescription report. “But her drug records show that she was. The dates on the pictures coincide with your prescription of Clomid for her, then a round of doxycycline.”

  His eyes shifted between the pictures and the report, the crease between his eyebrows deepening.

  “Was the egg donation your idea or hers?” she asked.

  He raked his fingers through his hair, leaving it more disheveled. Jessie knew she had guessed right.

  “Hers, of course,” he said, as she’d known he would. “The idea wouldn’t have occurred to me.”

  “I’m supposed to believe you’re the innocent reproductive endocrinologist who never thought about retrieving eggs from a beautiful, intelligent, willing young woman?”

  “Believe what you want. Sam was into the cause, always dreaming up ways to promote it. She wanted me to use her eggs to produce embryos, then donate them to research.”

  “Was the egg retrieval a success?”

  “Yes.” He tapped his lips with his index finger. “I aspirated nineteen oocytes, if I remember correctly—a good cycle. They were fertilized in vitro, then Sam had her embryos.”

  “Who donated the sperm?”

  He shrugged. “I did.”

  Jessie’s stomach pitched. “You claim that Sam was like your daughter. And you created embryos with her eggs and your sperm? That’s obscene.”

  “That’s your opinion.”

  “Which is well respected.”

  “In certain circles.”

  “Well, I’m not looking for an endorsement from you,” Jessie said. “What happened to the embryos?”

  “Sam donated them to Geneticell.”

  The company that Philippe arranged funding for, whose grand opening gala was the backdrop for the first picture Jessie had received.

  “Do they have a record of that?” she asked.

  “I assume so. I certainly do. They sent Sam a confirmation letter and thanked her. She laminated the original, made copies, and used the story as a lobbying tactic.”

  “I doubt it got the same results as her private version of the Hope Campaign.”

  “It worked for those who were more easily convinced.”

  “And extortion worked for the others.”

  He grabbed the doorknob and turned it. “We all have our weaknesses.”

  “Who do you think was weak enough to need Sam dead?”

  He gave her a cagey smile. “We could handle Sam. No one wanted her dead.”

  “Maybe you didn’t give her enough credit,” Jessie said. “She was obviously clever. Couple that with emotion, and you’ve got a potent combination.” Jessie shoved her pictures and papers into her tote. “You couldn’t have handled her if she was in love with Talmont. There’s no telling what trouble would’ve come from her loyalty to him.”

  Ian looked at her smugly. “You’ve created a captivating drama, but your sister died of natural causes. My advice is that you put this behind you and concentrate on getting appointed to the Presidential Commission, Dr. Croft.” He opened the door and motioned her into the hallway. “I have a couple of associates who know the chairman. Perhaps I’ll give them a call.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Of course not. Your guilt over not being a proper sister to Sam has made you paranoid.” He placed his hand on her shoulder and gave her a flimsy smile. “I’m simply concerned about your future, just as you should be.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Jessie returne
d to Sam’s place and searched her files again, even though a letter from Geneticell thanking Sam for her egg-turned-embryo donation would have grabbed her attention the first time around. Finding it before would’ve saved her from impersonating Sam to get her drug records, and from confronting Ian. But her search turned up nothing about the egg donation.

  It was curious that the information was missing from Sam’s files at the condo and at Alden & Associates. The pictures Jessie had received revealed a mystery, but she struggled to connect Sam’s egg donation to her death.

  In a ton-of-bricks moment, Jessie considered that the pictures had nothing to do with Sam’s murder, that they were meant to divert her attention, not focus it. She pulled them from her tote and studied each one again, scanning the faces and recalling the stories that she’d pieced together so far.

  Helena. Ian. Elizabeth. Philippe…

  An obvious suspect was conspicuously missing from the pictures—Senator Thomas Talmont. Even Michael Gillette was suspicious about his involvement in Sam’s murder.

  Jessie had her suspicions, too. But less about Talmont as the murderer, and more about his affair with Sam as the motive.

  Ian had claimed not to know about their affair. Philippe hadn’t mentioned it. Neither had Helena. Either Sam had been uncharacteristically discreet, or Jessie had touched on a reason that all of them might want Sam dead.

  From what Jessie could tell, Talmont had loved Sam in his own warped way. He might’ve been willing to take the heat from a sex scandal to bring down the Aldens and Philippe, and to stop their momentum in the fight for embryonic stem cell research. If Elizabeth were involved, he’d win points for taking down a senator who sat across the aisle.

  Voters might be more disturbed by the extortion scheme than by Talmont’s sex life. And he wasn’t up for reelection for four more years. Maybe he and Sam had been planning the big reveal. Sam would’ve gotten the attention she craved and humiliated their father before his Supreme Court nomination.

  As sick as the scheme sounded, it made sense.

  Jessie wondered if Philippe knew about Sam’s affair with Talmont. And if he did, would he say so?

  She found his business card in her purse and dialed his number.

  After three rings, he answered. “Philippe Lesort.”

  “Hello, Philippe. It’s Jessica Croft.”

  “Ah, Jessie. What a pleasant surprise.”

  “I need to see you. It’s about Sam.” Jessie closed her eyes, hoping that he was available.

  “I’d love to see you, chérie. But I’ve told you what I know about Sam. Shown you.”

  “Now I want to tell you what I know. Can you meet me somewhere?”

  “Not until later. Even then, I’m not sure. Hold on, let me check something.”

  Jessie waited for an uncomfortably long time.

  The sound of his voice startled her when he said, “Meet me at the corner of Seventh and E Street Northwest at six thirty.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Jessie stood on the sidewalk at the busy intersection, waiting for Philippe. She counted along with the lighted digits on the pedestrian crossing signs, ticking off the seconds. Michael was supposed to be at Sam’s place at eight, so she hoped Philippe would arrive soon. They’d have plenty of time to talk, and she could get back and freshen up before Michael got there. Jessie smiled at the unexpected flutter in her stomach. She was anxious to see him, even if she didn’t want to admit it.

  Hockey fans passed in a blur of red Capitals jerseys, braving the cold without coats, headed toward the Verizon Center to see the game.

  “Need tickets, need tickets?” scalpers called.

  Someone lightly touched her shoulder. “Hello, Jessie.” There was no mistaking Philippe’s accent.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said.

  He warily glanced around at the crowd. “I forgot to check if there was a game tonight. I would’ve suggested somewhere else if I’d known.” He pressed his hand against the small of her back. “Come with me.” Philippe guided her to a nearby storefront that she might’ve passed without noticing, had he not stopped.

  She glanced up at the small sign that hung above the door—flowing cursive in red neon. Red Velvet. Mmm, it sounded tempting. “What’s this?”

  He opened the heavy wooden door, its glass center bordered with decorative wrought iron, then motioned her inside. “A cupcakery.”

  Shoehorned between businesses on either side, the place was tiny, with minimalist décor and the sweet smell of cake baking. On a soaring gray wall hung a massive picture of a dozen iced cupcake tops.

  “What kind would you like?” Philippe asked.

  Jessie gazed at the tiers of cupcakes showcased behind glass. Their tops peeked out from under dollops of creamy icing, sprinkled with coconut, chocolate shavings, colored sugar crystals and fruit slices, or crowned with an espresso bean. “Surprise me.”

  His eyes glinted with mischief. “I like a woman with a sense of adventure.” He tipped his head toward a small seating area. Tucked beneath a window counter was a row of fifties-style soda-fountain stools. “Grab us a seat.”

  Jessie wove around the people waiting and was lucky enough to find two available stools. She hung her coat on a nearby wall peg, then sat and watched the passing crowd outside, unable to shake the feeling that someone watched her, too.

  She turned to see Philippe making his way over, balancing two cupcakes on top of a white box.

  He placed one on a napkin and slid it in front of Jessie. It was crimson cake with white icing and ruby sugar crystals. “Mademoiselle, they call this cupcake the Southern Belle, like you.”

  Jessie hardly considered Virginia the south, but she wasn’t going to argue. “That’s a pretty name, but what kind is it?”

  “Velours rouge—red velvet.” He slid the box onto the counter, with his devil’s food cupcake on top.

  Jessie gestured toward the box. “What’s in there?”

  “One for Liam.”

  “He’ll be thrilled.”

  Philippe smiled impishly. “He gets the yellow cake, I get the frosting.”

  “What about Elizabeth?”

  All traces of humor disappeared from his face. “Senate’s in session tonight, so she’ll be late. She wouldn’t eat it anyway. Spontaneous indulgence isn’t her style.” He hesitated, a faraway look in his eyes, as if remembering a time when she’d been different. “Sometimes you have to let yourself go and let life surprise you. There are so many unexpected pleasures, you just have to be open to them.”

  Jessie stared at him, bewildered. “You’re quite the romantic.”

  “And Elizabeth is not,” he murmured, almost too quietly for her to hear.

  Unsure how to respond, Jessie peeled the paper from her cupcake and took a bite, the tangy-sweet icing melting on her tongue.

  “What did you want to tell me about Sam?” Philippe asked.

  “I’ve found out that she might’ve had an ongoing affair with Senator Talmont, up until she died.”

  One of Philippe’s eyebrows twitched, but the movement was barely noticeable. “Where did you get that information?” He bit into his cupcake.

  “From Michael Gillette, the security consultant. Do you know him?”

  Philippe blotted his mouth with a napkin. “Only as an acquaintance. I see him around town at some of the events. A few years ago, he did some security work for Helena and Ian. They might still do business with him.”

  Jessie tensed. Michael had told her he’d done work for the Aldens a couple of years ago. She hated to imagine him aligned with them now.

  “What else do you know about him?” she asked.

  “He’s ex–Secret Service. Nice enough guy. Smart. He’s got a good reputation in the security business.”

  “Do you know if he’s involved with anyone?” She tried to sound nonchalant.

  Philippe cocked his head, a corner of his mouth tugging with intrigue. “You find him interesting?”

  �
��No,” she lied, waving her hand dismissively. “I’m just trying to decide if I can trust him.”

  “Chérie.” He leaned in close beside her, smelling like chocolate and expensive cologne. His breath was warm on her ear. “You can’t trust anyone in this town.”

  She shivered, distracted by his closeness and his words. He sat back and she met his gaze. “What about you?”

  He looked away and was silent for a moment. “I’m an outsider. I don’t count.”

  She could relate. “What about Sam and Senator Talmont? Were they having an affair?”

  He shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you, and I couldn’t tell you whether to believe Michael Gillette.”

  Jessie’s heart sank. “Ian said it wasn’t true.”

  His expression tightened. “You’ve talked to Ian?”

  She nodded. “I went to his office today. He seemed surprised when I asked if Sam and Talmont had a relationship. He said it was ridiculous.”

  Philippe smirked. “He didn’t want to admit that Sam would choose a fortysomething man who wasn’t him. Ian was possessive of her, and too much into her business. He wished he could get into more.”

  Jessie recalled accusing Ian of looking at the pictures and videos of Sam and the senators. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might have been jealous.

  “He told me about her egg donation to Geneticell,” she said.

  “That was no revelation.”

  “It was to me.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I keep forgetting—”

  “That I didn’t have a front row seat for Sam’s life.” Jessie hated the briary tone of her voice and hoped he understood that it was more about guilt than defensiveness.

  “I thought you might know,” he said, “because Sam wasn’t shy about using her egg donation story as a lobbying tactic. It really impressed Elizabeth, even though she was already in Sam’s camp and supported Geneticell’s work.”

  “How did you get involved with Geneticell?”

  “A little American biotech company needed more funding. I recruited some Canadian venture capitalists who happen to hold public office. Respected foreign leverage helps to get their controversial research done while their U.S. address qualifies them for government grants.” His eyes lost their shimmer. “It’s all incestuous.”