Girl Three (11 page)

Silence. Then, the sound of a door closing.

“I’ve also learned about Sam’s involvement with the Hope Campaign,” Jessie said. “Both versions. Have I got your attention?”

More silence. “What do you want from me?” Helena asked.

“Answers. And I’m on my way to your office to get them.”

“Today’s not a good day.”

“Tomorrow won’t be any better. Call the lobby and put my name on the list.”

“I won’t be here. There’s a vote next week and with Sam gone—”

“Then I’ll go see Ian.”

“No,” Helena said, too fast. “Don’t do that.”

“Then give me a reason not to.”

For a moment, Jessie thought the line had gone dead.

“I’ll meet you after work,” Helena said. “Six o’clock, in the bar at the Market Inn.”

Jessie had never heard of the Market Inn but had Googled it and gotten directions. After fighting the rush-hour crowd on the Metro, she’d emerged from the underground L’Enfant Plaza station amid mostly unremarkable office buildings and headed for the restaurant.

Even at this early evening hour, darkness had toned down the gray atmosphere to near black, and it was hard for her to tell where one building ended and the next one began. She passed several government workers with their coats open to the cold, their ID badges swinging from lanyards around their necks. Most people were heading toward the Metro as Jessie walked away from it. The farther she got from the station, the fewer people she saw.

She crossed the street to the next block of office buildings, and the area became bleaker. The few restaurants and retail shops she passed were already closed, the nine-to-five crowd they catered to gone until tomorrow. It didn’t make sense that Helena would want to meet her in this part of town when her K Street office was surrounded by swanky bars and cafes.

By the time Jessie reached the middle of the block, she wondered if she were lost. She checked her directions. If they were right, she was on track, with a little farther to go. Glancing behind her, she saw a man standing by a trash can lighting a cigarette, a few other people walking in the other direction, and the driver of a BMW inching the car out from an underground parking garage. Every noise seemed amplified by the concrete and the cold—the static of her heels on the grainy sidewalk, the rev of the car’s engine.

Paranoia crept up Jessie’s spine and wrapped around her neck, tighter than her scarf. She hadn’t seen anyone specifically, but she felt like someone was following her, matching her steps but hanging back. At the next corner, she whipped around in time to catch a sliver of movement. Someone had ducked into the entrance alcove of the building she’d just passed. Or had her eyes been tricked by the glare of the headlights of the approaching taxi?

Jessie decided to hail the cab, then saw that it was occupied, so she picked up her pace, hurrying toward the next block. The streetscape became a dimmer rerun of what had come before, with fewer people around.

Fewer witnesses.

Had she been set up? Fear gripped her as she sensed the person following her moving closer. She broke into a run, each strike of her heels on the frozen concrete reverberating up her legs.

Slowing a bit, she turned to look behind her and the toe of her boot caught on an uneven seam in the sidewalk. She stumbled forward, lost her balance, and tried to catch herself. In what seemed like slow motion, she fell. Her hands skidded across the sidewalk, ripping one of her gloves, her palm burning as it tore. She drew in a quick breath, winced at the searing pain, and scrambled to her feet, expecting someone to have appeared to take advantage of her fall. But a quick scan of the area revealed no one. Jessie continued walking.

Fast.

After another block, the sound of highway traffic hummed in the near distance. At the end of the street, tucked beneath an overpass in a small, gloomy corner, she saw the Market Inn. A rush of relief almost dulled the sting of the cuts on her hand.

A low burgundy awning covered the entrance and a deserted outdoor dining area. And the place wasn’t an inn like she’d imagined, just a restaurant and lounge.

Jessie glanced behind her.

No one there.

She crossed the street and hurried inside. In the cramped foyer, she gingerly pulled off her torn glove. Her hand was cut and bloody, grainy with sand and tiny rocks. She asked the hostess to point her toward the ladies’ room. As she made her way to the back of the restaurant, she pegged it as circa 1945, all dark wood veneer and worn red Naugahyde. But the ladies’ room had been updated—sometime around the early seventies.

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 bill 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.