by Tracy March
“Don’t forget Talmont.”
“He didn’t ring the bell.”
“But you took his keys.” Michael’s look turned wary. “Maybe he decided he’d have better luck if he was polite this time.”
“Let me see who it is.” She went to the intercom on the wall next to the door. “Croft residence.”
“Dr. Jessica Croft?” It was a man’s voice, unfamiliar to her. She glanced expectantly at Michael, who’d followed her into the entryway. He shook his head and shrugged.
“Yes,” Jessie answered.
“Detective Davenport, Metropolitan Police. May I come in?”
Jessie’s stomach plummeted. She’d been caught.
Her only hope was that the detective had come to ask about Ian and Sam, not about her.
She took her finger off the intercom button. “Is Detective Davenport your friend?” she asked Michael, whispering for no good reason. “The one who called you about Ian?”
“No.”
Jessie’s pulse surged. She pressed the intercom button. “I’ll be there in just a moment.” She released the button and faced Michael. “Will you stay and listen to what he has to say?”
He pulled her to him and kissed her forehead. “Sure. Whatever you want me to do.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Michael assessed Detective Davenport—short and built like a weightlifter. He was serious, but he seemed like a decent guy.
Michael and Jessie sat awkwardly at opposite ends of the couch, miles away from how close they’d been just minutes ago. But the mood had been busted the moment the doorbell rang. Within a second, Michael had convinced himself that Croft stood scowling at the front door. Given the choice, he’d rather it be this cop.
He wished his detective buddy had gotten the nod to interview Jessie. It turned out that Davenport was his partner, but Michael knew him by the name of Dan and only as an acquaintance. Davenport probably had no idea that his partner had leaked privileged information to Michael, and it was better to keep it that way.
All the formalities aside, Davenport got down to his questions. “Dr. Croft, I’m sorry about the recent death of your sister. This is her place, right?”
Michael could tell the guy wasn’t used to questioning beautiful, confident women like Jessie.
“Yes,” she said. “How did you know I was here?”
Michael had seen this side of her before. Ramrod-straight spine, a look in her eyes like she expected the worst and was determined to overcome it. That was the first of many reasons he’d stuck around. He didn’t want her talking to the cops alone.
“Are you acquainted with Dr. Ian Alden?” Davenport asked, whipping out the answer-a-question-with-a-question tactic.
“I’ve met him.” Jessie was too smart to fall for his strategy, so she must have chosen to.
Michael wondered if she was playing her own question and answer game. His nerves tightened as he thought of all the bad ways this could turn out.
“His wife, Helena, suggested we might find you here,” Davenport said.
Jessie shot Michael an isn’t-that-interesting look.
“Dr. Alden is dead,” Davenport said.
Jessie reacted as most people would when they heard the news of the death of an acquaintance. Raised eyebrows, parted lips, eyes wide but not stunned. “How did he die?” she asked.
“That information is confidential at this time,” Davenport said in a by-the-book tone. “We’re investigating his death as a suicide. I’m hoping you can help me confirm some information he left in a note that was found near his body.”
Jessie gave him a tight-lipped half smile, the corners of her mouth rising just enough to be polite, yet not enough to be welcoming. “How is Helena holding up?”
“She found him, so not very well. I think they took her home and gave her a sedative.”
Score one for Jessie. She’d gotten an answer out of Davenport.
“Where was he when she found him?” Michael jumped in. It was a wasted question, since he and Jessie already knew the answer. But someone who hadn’t known would ask.
“At his practice, in the lab.” Davenport turned his attention back to Jessie. “In his note, Dr. Alden claimed to have known your sister, Samantha. Could you describe the nature of their relationship?”
Jessie cleared her throat. “They were having an affair. My sister was in love with him.”
Michael fought the impulse to shout, What the hell? Why had she flat-out lied to a detective? And why had she twisted the information he’d confided in her?
“Most people who knew Ian probably had no idea that he was involved with Sam.” Jessie kept talking to Davenport, unprompted, while Michael channeled all of his Secret Service training to maintain his composure.
“I never understood what she saw in him, or why she gambled on a man who was married to her boss.” Jessie’s expression turned rueful. “She pretended to have relationships with other men to cover for Ian’s indiscretion.” Jessie bowed her head.
“Did your sister use party drugs?” Davenport asked.
“Sadly,” Jessie said, “I believe she did occasionally. Ian got the drugs for them. Mostly ecstasy. But sometimes they’d do low doses of Rohypnol.” She shook her head. “I begged her to stop.”
Michael sat dumbfounded. He willed her to look at him but she didn’t. How could he diffuse the situation without alerting Davenport that she was lying? Or without revealing his assignment to Sam and his contracts with Croft? He knew better than anyone that Sam hadn’t been involved with Ian.
Davenport nodded and flipped through a couple of pages in his pocket-sized notebook.
“I was afraid for Sam,” Jessie said. “Worried about the drugs and her job and her judgment.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “All of it came between us. I never imagined things would end like this.”
Michael didn’t either. Reeling, he swallowed hard.
“Did you know Dr. Alden and Miss Croft?” Davenport asked Michael.
He glanced at Jessie before he answered. She met his gaze, but he couldn’t read her eyes. “Only as business acquaintances.” He decided to stick to the short answer strategy and hurry this nightmare along.
“One last thing, Dr. Croft.” Davenport slipped his notebook into his pocket. “Did you meet with Dr. Alden yesterday at his practice?”
Jessie nodded. “I did.”
Davenport’s already-narrow eyes tightened to almost closed. “And what did you discuss?”
“Sam,” she said. “We talked about Sam.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“What the hell was that?” Michael asked Jessie. “You straight-up lied to that detective.”
In Sam’s kitchen, Jessie went through the motions of putting water on the stove for tea she didn’t want—because she couldn’t face Michael. She wished he hadn’t been there when Davenport questioned her. But then again, if he hadn’t given her the critical information about Ian and his suicide note, she wouldn’t have known what to say. She hated to risk alienating Michael, but her commitment to Sam came first.
“And you exploited the information I gave you in confidence,” Michael said.
She leaned against the cool granite countertop and crossed her arms. Yes, she had betrayed his confidence, but for reasons she thought he’d understand. “I was trying to protect Sam.”
He stood in front of her, looking taller than she remembered. “By telling Davenport she was having an affair that she never had? By making up bullshit about her and Ian taking party drugs?” Color rose in his face. “I hope you never decide to protect me like that.”
Jessie tensed, his sharp remark striking a nerve. “Don’t worry—I won’t.”
He pulled both chairs away from the table in the dining nook. “Come sit down.”
She hesitated, then walked over to one of the chairs and sat.
He did the same, leaning toward her, his elbows propped on his knees. “Tell me what you were thinking.” He closed his eyes for a second and
exhaled. “I’m sure you had a good reason for saying those things.” He turned up his palms. “Help me understand.”
Jessie had rarely encountered a man who could manage his ego and his anger and sit still for an explanation he was likely to disagree with. “I don’t know whether Ian committed suicide or if someone killed him. Davenport probably doesn’t know yet, either. I wanted to tip the scales toward a believable suicide.”
“Why?”
“This could go one of two ways. The cops rule suicide and that likely keeps Ian’s note and all its claims under wraps. It may raise questions about Sam’s death, but the answers are right there in the note.” She shook her head. “I don’t believe that Ian and Sam were having an affair, and I don’t think he was with her the night she died. But I know I didn’t want the things I’ve found out about her to become public. If Ian’s death is ruled a homicide, they will.”
Michael stared out the French doors and nodded. “So that’s the other way it could go?”
“The worst way, yes. A homicide ruling will start an investigation, and Sam’s business will be spread out like a buffet before a grand jury.”
“And?” Michael asked.
“What do you mean, and?”
“And Ian’s affair with Elizabeth is exposed. And his use of Sam’s eggs as donor eggs. And his role storing the sperm for her Hope Campaign.”
“All of those things.”
He raked his hand through his hair. “Don’t you think a lot of that will come out when we find Sam’s murderer?”
Jessie’s heart clenched, and she squeezed her eyes closed. Why hadn’t she thought through all the scenarios to their logical conclusions? There hadn’t been time to think.
“If you’d told Davenport the truth,” Michael said after she opened her eyes, “you might’ve pushed him toward the idea of murder. Then they’d investigate Sam’s death. And yes, all the dirt might come out. But the rest of the players would fall—Helena, Elizabeth, Philippe, Talmont. They’d get what they deserve, and we might find our murderer.” He rested his hands on her knees and gripped them gently. “I’m sorry, but there’s no way to take down Sam’s killer and not take her down with him.”
Jessie buried her face in her hands. She’d imagined some kind of fairy tale where she would expose Sam’s murderer and he’d go quietly and not put up a fight. And the media would paint Sam as the victim and ignore her salacious story.
“What have I done?” she asked.
“If they decide that Ian was murdered, you’ve made yourself a suspect.”
She flinched. “What? That’s crazy.”
“Why do you think Davenport asked you about meeting with Ian yesterday? He wanted to see if you knew your way around his office. And what did you talk about with him while you were there?” He winced. “Sam.”
Jessie’s pulse thudded in her ears.
“Ian’s cleaning crew and I can place you at Ian’s office after hours last night. You don’t have to worry about me, but…” He lifted his shoulders.
There’s Elizabeth, too. Jessie had admitted to Elizabeth that she’d been in Ian’s practice last night. She’d blatantly shown her the button from her blouse to prove it.
The teapot squealed, and Jessie jumped.
Michael got up and turned off the stove. “What details did I give you about Ian’s suicide note?”
She tried to remember, but everything was becoming a blur. “He wrote that he was in love with Sam.”
“Yes.” Michael returned to his chair.
“And that he gave her Rohypnol,” she said. “And he was with her that night, and he couldn’t stand the guilt because he left her to die.”
“What you told Davenport made it look like you knew what Ian had written in his note. With a little extra drama added for effect. There’s a reason lawyers tell you to answer questions with the shortest possible answers.”
“You’re creating your own little drama right now.” She resented him making her nervous and defensive. “Mentioning things that are vaguely related to Ian’s suicide note wouldn’t make me a suspect. An authentic note would be in his handwriting and Helena could’ve verified that.”
“You’re right,” he said. “But there was one thing I forgot to tell you. Ian didn’t handwrite the note. It was typed.”
…
Michael knew what Jessie was thinking before she even said anything. The look in her eyes hardened and she pressed her lips into a tense, angry line.
“You set me up,” she said, her voice trembling.
He could see how she would think that, but was stung by her accusation anyway. “It was a detail. I didn’t leave it out on purpose. How could I have known that a detective would question you? And that you, the woman of few words, would talk yourself into a tight corner?”
“Let’s see.” She gave him a withering smile. “How would you have known that a detective would be questioning me? Who’s the one with the snitch who’s a detective with the MPD?”
She wasn’t the only one squeezed into a tight corner. He stood and paced the kitchen, away from her accusing eyes. Facing her and firing back would only escalate an already tense situation. He let her think about it for as long as he could keep it inside. But with her, that wasn’t long.
He stopped pacing and leaned against the counter. “Why would I do that to you?”
“I don’t know.” She swiped her hair away from her face. “I don’t know anyone here or why they do the things they do. I certainly don’t know your motivations.” She leveled her gaze on him. “And I don’t know you.” The pitch of her voice was low and resolved. She might as well have said The End.
Michael had no comeback. He couldn’t be honest without outing Croft. And even if he did admit he’d been working for her father, what would he gain? Once she found out he was Croft’s hired hand, she’d never forgive him for such a betrayal.
The truth settled in his mind like shrapnel.
…refrain from developing a relationship with my daughter…
That bastard Croft had known all along that he didn’t need a clause in the contract. The minute Michael had signed it, he’d signed away any possibility of a relationship with Jessie. That was Croft’s checkmate. He had won before the game even started.
Michael hated Croft. And he hated himself. “I think I should go.”
Jessie focused her eyes away from him and nodded.
He went into the living room, grabbed his coat, and left. Even though he wanted her to come after him, he knew she wasn’t the kind of woman who would.
And she didn’t.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The sky above the Capitol turned a lighter shade of gray as the sun rose behind the heavy clouds. Jessie maneuvered through the light traffic early Wednesday morning, thankful the snow had held off longer than the forecasters had predicted. Their next guess was that the winter storm would blow in by noon.
Jessie gripped the steering wheel and took the turn onto 4th Street, heading toward Nina’s. She had no bandages on her hand today; the cuts had started to heal. But her shoulder was a different story. She remembered her mother saying, “It’s the second day, sweetie,” when she’d asked why her skinned knee hurt more two days later than it had the day she scraped it. “The pain is always worst on the second day.” After sixteen years, she could still hear the lilt and the love in her mother’s voice. “But after that, you’ll feel better. I promise.”
Jessie no longer believed in promises—at least, not anyone else’s. And she was starting to doubt her own. Especially the one she’d made to Sam. Grief and guilt and ego had allowed her to think she could bring a murderer to justice. She hadn’t seen herself as underqualified and underprepared. But she’d proven she was both of those things and worse. Worse, because she’d lied and deceived, crossed lines and broken laws. She barely recognized the person she’d become since she came to Washington.
Still, there was her promise.
After maneuvering her car into a tight paral
lel spot on the street, she got out and walked a block to Nina’s, carrying two large boxes she’d brought from Sam’s place. She made her way down to the entry and rang the bell. Behind the wrought-iron gate, Nina opened the door a crack, wide-eyed beneath lowered brows. “Jess, are you okay?” She pushed the door open farther. Sophie was propped on her hip.
Jessie nodded. “I wanted to catch you before you went to work.”
“Let me unlock the gate.”
Jessie bent to Sophie’s level. “Hi, sweet girl.” The baby kicked her little legs, fuzzy pink socks on her tiny feet.
Nina grabbed the key from a hook next to the door, opened the gate, and let Jessie in. “You’re out early.”
Jessie put the boxes on the couch.
“What’s in those?” Nina asked.
“Some things of Sam’s I thought you could use.”
“Oh, thanks.” Nina smiled, then quickly looked confused. “You came over at the crack of dawn just to bring this stuff?”
Jessie shook her head. “Ian Alden is dead.”
“What?” Sophie flinched at the pitch of Nina’s voice.
“I found out last night. I started to call but it was late, and I know Sophie’s been teething and—”
“Slow down.” Nina led her back to the cramped bedroom, where a queen-size bed took up most of the space. She laid Sophie belly-down in the middle of the bed, pulled a fabric book and a rattle out of a toy basket, and put them in front of her. “Tell me about Ian. And can you make sure she stays put while I finish getting dressed?”
It had been a long time since she’d seen Nina frazzled.
“Sure.” Jessie sat on the bed, shook the rattle for Sophie, and gave Nina the quick version of the story—Michael delivering the news about Ian, her lies to the detective. She told Nina about her and Michael’s afternoon at Great Falls Park, and mentioned that they’d returned in time for her to kill Ian, if she’d wanted to. After all, she’d made herself a suspect, according to Michael. She shoved aside her conflicted feelings about him.
Nina had stopped what she was doing and listened intently, asking a question here or there without judgment.
