by Tracy March
“That’s the same thing you asked me when I told you about Sam.” Nina said snippily. “I’m sorry, but I’m sure.”
“I’m not questioning you, it’s just not the news I wanted to hear. I’d convinced myself that it was Ian. That this nightmare was over.”
“Ian had Type O blood,” Nina said. “Type Os are nonsecretors. Our guy’s a Type B secretor. Nowhere near the same.”
“How did Ian die?”
“He injected himself with succinylcholine.”
“Sux? The lethal injection drug?”
“That’s the one.” Nina propped her elbows on the table. “The drug itself metabolizes pretty quickly, but we found metabolites in his blood. Normally that wouldn’t be enough to confirm the cause of death, but he had a fresh injection site and the used syringe was found near his body.”
“That’s a horrible way to die.”
“Muscle paralysis that prevents all movement—even breathing. Not the way I’d choose to go.”
“So you think he committed suicide?” Jessie asked.
“All the evidence isn’t in yet, but it looks like he might have.”
“They’re reporting it on the news like it’s a no-question case, and everyone else seems to think the same thing.” Jessie told Nina about her visit to Helena’s, about Philippe and Elizabeth stopping by, and about her father being there.
A snowplow rumbled past on the street outside, its blade scraping on the pavement.
“Ian’s so-called suicide seems too convenient,” Nina said. “And that whole group is incestuous. Your father led you to think they were his sworn enemies, and there they all were, drinking martinis together while I was looking through my microscope at what was left of Ian.”
“Helena was the only one drinking.”
“You know what I mean.” Nina looked wired-tired.
Jessie imagined her up during the nights with Sophie teething and fussing, working all day, and now dealing with the headache of Jessie’s situation. She would be edgy, too.
“If what Ian wrote isn’t true, I can’t believe Helena or my father would be all right with the police thinking that it is.”
“Why not?” Nina asked.
Jessie shook her head and shrugged.
“Someone didn’t want Sam’s murder investigated,” Nina said. “Now someone doesn’t want Ian’s death investigated. The best strategy would be to link them both together and cancel out one with the other.”
Jessie gave this some thought. “And I confirmed the connection when I talked to Detective Davenport last night.”
Nina nodded. “Yep.”
“It’s déjà vu, with a twist. Sam’s was a murder framed as a natural death. Ian’s was a murder framed as a suicide.”
“Or an opportunist’s suicide,” Nina said.
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe Ian really did commit suicide, since no one’s arguing it. Maybe someone saw a convenient way to pin blame on him for Sam’s murder, planting a note with his body before they called the cops.” Nina seemed to like her theory. “You said the note was typed. Anyone could’ve written it.”
“Detective Davenport said that Helena found him.”
“But you saw Elizabeth at his practice the night before. Maybe she found him first, planted the note, and left him there. She couldn’t have called the cops. How would she have explained being in his lab with him after hours? ‘Oh, I’m a United States senator, and we were just getting ready to have more extramarital sex because we’re in love, and he’s my son’s sperm-donor-bio-dad…’”
An idea scratched at the back of Jessie’s mind. She held her palm out and waved it at Nina. “Give me a second.” She pressed her fingers to her temples. “If my father is the one who orchestrated the cover-up of Sam’s murder, and he’s involved with Helena, maybe she called him first, and they came up with the idea of the note together.”
“Are you saying that Ian killed himself or that someone murdered him?”
Jessie remembered the times she’d been around Ian. At Sam’s memorial, at his office—when she’d heard and seen him with Elizabeth. “He wasn’t the type to commit suicide.”
“Then that leaves you with another murder.”
“Committed by the same person who killed Sam. He or she left the suicide note as a cover.” Jessie drank some tea. “I’ve come full circle to Senator Talmont.”
“How do you figure?”
“I did some research on him after Philippe told me about Sam’s scheme and showed me those pictures of them. What I found out about Talmont didn’t seem to matter until now.”
“This oughta be good.”
“Talmont is ex-military. Special ops. He’s got the strategic and tactical experience to devise a plan like this. Clandestine operations—get in, get out, don’t get caught.” Jessie tried to reconcile this image of Talmont with the man she’d held at gunpoint the night he came to Sam’s place. “I’ll bet if he wasn’t drunk and leering, he could be stealthy. And dangerous.”
Nina shook her head. “If he’s got all that training and experience, then how do you explain him falling for Sam’s extortion scheme?”
That question had occurred to Jessie, too. And she’d had personal experience that gave her the answer. “He’s been out for a while, living the platinum-spoon life of a senator. He wasn’t sharp. Sam took advantage of his weaknesses.”
“Which are?”
“His ego and his libido. And I can use those to my advantage.”
Nina got that oh-no-you-don’t look on her face. “Think about the things you just said. If Talmont was careless enough to kill Sam, and ruthless enough to kill Ian to cover it up, then he wouldn’t hesitate to come after you.”
“He might have already.”
Nina cocked her head, a line forming between her drawn brows. “Come again?”
“I got hit by an SUV the night before last. Someone tried to run me over.”
Nina’s eyes flickered with panic. The frantic look kept Jessie talking, fast. “The side mirror clipped my shoulder and knocked me down, but I’m okay.”
“And you were going to tell me this when?” Nina pressed her hands to the sides of her head, flattening her curls. “You have got to stop. I respect that you want to find Sam’s murderer, but it’s not worth dying for. What will you have accomplished then?”
Jessie’s defenses flared, but before she could speak, Nina continued. “Sam’s murder and the cover-up was slick enough,” she said, “but this thing with Ian has upped the stakes to a whole new level. That man was here yesterday, gone last night. Neither you nor I think it was suicide, but everyone else does. The note cleverly made Ian the fall guy. Don’t you get it, Jess? Nobody wants justice. They want you to leave it alone.”
Jessie jutted out her chin. She hadn’t come this far only to give up. “Well, I’ve never much cared what everyone else wants, and it looks like Sam didn’t, either. It’s down to Talmont now. And I’m going to prove it was him.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Michael hated to admit that he was just as confused as Jessie and Nina. He had insider information that they didn’t—months of following Sam—and still, none of it added up. He leaned against the broad base of a barren old tree across the street from Teaism, watching Jessie and Nina through the window. Snow covered his boots and pins and needles prickled in his freezing toes.
Their conversation transmitted from Jessie’s phone to his Bluetooth in what he calculated as a two-second delay. No matter how long it took, he didn’t like what he was hearing. In the beginning, he’d thought Jessie would be an asset to him, and that she might lead him to evidence and answers. And she had. But she’d quickly become a liability, too. He hated to think what else she was planning to add to the growing list—most of which he’d kept from Croft…
Pulling a gun on Talmont—although he couldn’t blame her.
Impersonating Sam.
Breaking into Ian’s practice.
Stealing confidential
files.
Making herself a target.
Lying to the police.
Testing his skills, his patience, his self-control.
Tugging at his heart.
She hadn’t done things like that before she’d come to DC. Even if Croft had pulled some strings, the president never would’ve considered her for a post on the bioethics Commission if she had a criminal background.
Michael had researched it—she didn’t.
She’d lived a private, career-focused life that seemed to peak with her possible appointment, but might unravel in the aftermath of Sam’s death. And Jessie knew it, too. He’d seen vulnerability behind the determination in her eyes.
The headlights of an approaching car caught his attention. He turned to look, hoping to see an unmarked police cruiser. Falling snow blew into his face and he wiped it out of his eyes.
As the car passed, Michael waved to the driver. His detective buddy, Kevin Kelley, maneuvered the sedan into a no-parking zone about fifteen yards up the street. Michael trudged over to the cruiser, turned down the volume on his Bluetooth, and got in.
“Hey, man.” Michael pulled off his glove, shook Kelley’s hand, and gripped his thick forearm. Kelley was a bear of a guy, much larger than his younger brother Wes had been. Kevin and Michael had known each other for years, and had bonded in their grief over losing Wes.
“Thanks for coming to my dad’s funeral,” Michael said. “Meant a lot.”
Kelley nodded, then reached over and squeezed Michael’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, man.”
“Thanks,” Michael said, knowing Kelley was sincere. “Me, too.” He swallowed against the pressure in his throat and pushed his hood off his head, sucking in a deep breath of warm air and pine-scented car freshener. “What have you got?”
“Last night, we weren’t sure. Had ourselves a suicide, maybe a murder. We got all hands on it and had some debate.” He gripped the steering wheel at ten and two and straightened his arms, pressing himself against the seat. “But it looks like we got a suicide.”
“What happened?” Michael asked, even though he’d already heard the story.
“Guy shot himself up with succinylcholine—a muscle relaxant. We found the syringe right next to him, with his prints on it. Same with the note.”
Michael looked back toward Teaism. Jessie and Nina still sat at the table by the window. “You said the note was typed?”
“Printed straight from the computer in his office, shortly before he offed himself. Prints on the keyboard were mostly his. Some from his staff, but their alibis were tight. Guy had a copy of the note saved on his hard drive. We found the same file on a thumb drive he had in his desk at his swanky townhouse in Georgetown.” Kelley shifted in his seat. “Even found some roofies in a locked file cabinet in his office. Guy claimed he drugged the Croft girl the night she died. Fits with what her sister said last night. Davenport mentioned you were there.”
Michael nodded. Kelley flipped on the windshield wipers and they swept across the glass, clearing a veil of snow. “We’re still following up on a couple of things, but they’re not game changers. Got a report of vandalism at the guy’s office last night. Broken window. Doesn’t seem to be related.”
Michael remembered the weight of the rock in his hand and the satisfying shatter of glass. He nodded again. “Good to know.” He glanced over his shoulder and saw Jessie and Nina leaving Teaism. “I’ve gotta go, man. It was good to see you. Thanks a lot.”
Kelley followed Michael’s line of sight, catching on when he saw Jessie and Nina. “Tough job.”
Michael almost smiled. “Somebody’s got to do it.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Jessie walked the nearly abandoned sidewalks back to Sam’s place. Her footprints left a Hansel-and-Gretel path behind her that would soon disappear beneath the fast-falling snow. She thought about Nina’s warning, and her reasoning made sense. It also made Jessie more wary than she’d been before.
This thing with Ian upped the stakes to a whole new level. That man was here yesterday, gone last night.
But Nina’s argument also made Jessie more resolute. The idea that Talmont would exonerate himself from Sam’s murder by killing again—craftily staging a suicide—made Jessie more determined to beat him at his own game.
The blanket of snow gave the neighborhood a storybook ambiance that tempered Jessie’s paranoia. There would be few SUVs careening out of nowhere to run her down tonight, and no one following her too closely without being heard and seen.
Even so, she turned and looked.
Several people walked on the sidewalks on either side of 19th Street, all at least a half block behind her, bundled beyond recognition in their harsh-weather gear. When she reached the fence in front of Sam’s townhouse, she paused and thought of Michael. He’d stood in the same place the night Talmont had shown up. She remembered letting him into the foyer, shaken from her confrontation with Talmont, and recalled how he’d claimed to be suspicious about Talmont’s involvement in Sam’s death.
Jessie had been, too, ever since Philippe had told her about Sam’s extortion scheme. But even more so after he’d come to Sam’s condo, drunk and mournful, claiming that Sam had died alone in her bed without him. How had her attention been drawn away from suspecting him after he’d made such a telling slip?
She made her way up the walk to Sam’s townhouse, opened the gate and the door. Almost hopeful, she glanced at the mailboxes. But no envelopes had been delivered tonight.
Inside the condo, she tossed her purse on a chair and hung up her coat to dry. She sank onto the couch and put her head in her hands. She’d been distracted by all the glossy pictures of Helena and Ian, Elizabeth and Philippe. They’d diverted her attention away from Talmont and down some dead-end yellow-brick road.
She pressed her fingers against her closed eyes. “If I only had a brain.” She had known she was being manipulated; she’d just banked on it being for better, not worse. But it had only been a false hope that someone was on her side.
Michael had tried to warn her about Talmont. She thought back to the night she’d taken Sam’s files from Ian’s office. Michael had followed her there because he was concerned that Talmont had sobered up and decided he’d revealed too much to her. She remembered the concern in Michael’s eyes.
I was worried he might try to correct his mistake…. He has a reputation for retaliation when he doesn’t get his way. If he thinks you suspect him in Sam’s murder, he won’t give you enough time to make the case.
Not long after Michael had said those things, she’d been staring into the grille of an oncoming SUV. And everything after that had been about Elizabeth and Ian.
And Michael.
She shoved aside the intimate thoughts of him that threatened to sidetrack her logic. And steal her heart.
Was Michael still tracking Talmont? She hoped he was, that at least one of them hadn’t lost focus. He had experience and connections and intuition, and he would make the case against Talmont.
Eventually.
But Jessie had ideas and attributes that Michael didn’t. And she had an immediate plan.
…
Michael stepped into his apartment, tossed his coat and gloves on the couch, then slumped down next to them and tugged off his soggy boots. He leaned back and stared at the ceiling.
He needed a vacation. Away from Jessie and Croft, and far from the memory of Sam. True to his nature, he’d immersed himself in work and hadn’t allowed himself to grieve. He’d lost his dad. He’d lost Sam. He’d lost Jessie in a different way, but she was gone just the same.
Michael could feel the spring coiling, the pressure in his chest, like a rerun of what had happened after Wes was killed. Tighter and tighter. Then all hell had broken loose.
He went to the refrigerator and got a beer.
Half a bottle later, action on Jessie’s phone line interrupted the easing tension of his not-so-happy hour. She was making a call. He checked his phone screen and read t
he number.
Talmont.
The number was registered to his personal cell phone. Michael had seen it at least a hundred times—every time Sam had called him, and every time he’d called her. What the hell was Jessie doing now? He turned up the volume on the speaker and chugged the rest of his beer.
“Hello.” Talmont answered with an I-don’t-recognize-this-number tone.
“Hello, Senator. This is Jessica Croft.” Using what was surely a deliberately sexy voice. Michael’s gut clenched.
Dead air on the line, then the sound of a woman talking in the background.
“Senator?”
“Yes.”
“I wanted to apologize for what happened when you were here,” Jessie said. “At Sam’s place. I didn’t realize you had a key. And when you came in late at night like that, it scared me.”
“Sure. I understand.”
“I’ve finished going through Sam’s belongings,” Jessie said. “I’ve found something that looks like it might be yours, and something else you might like to have.”
More dead air. Jessie was waiting him out.
“Okay.”
“Would you like to come by and pick them up?”
Michael started to sweat, despite the draft in the apartment. He rolled the cold beer bottle between his palms.
“Let me check my schedule,” Talmont said. “I’ll get back to you.”
“I’m leaving in the morning, weather permitting. Could you, um, could you come over tonight?” Jessie’s invitation came out locked and loaded, and Michael’s pulse took off in a full-out sprint.
Say no, you slimy bastard. Say no.
“I don’t know, Ryan,” Talmont said, as if he were speaking to Croft.
Michael had no doubt that Jessie was quick enough to catch the clue. The woman in the background was probably Talmont’s wife.
“With the weather like this,” he said, “it would be tough.”
“It would mean a lot to Sam,” Jessie said. “And to me.”
“All right, buddy.” Talmont made it sound as if he’d given in under duress. “Give me an hour. Lorna’s not going to be happy.”
