Girl Three (6 page)

Nina rushed to her side. “Jessie, stop!”

Jessie faced her, her pulse swishing in her ears. “It’s new. Look at it. The mattress, the sheets, all of it’s new. Sterilized.” She sank onto the bed amid the crumpled mess. “This is where Sam died. It’s beyond disturbing. But I need answers and there aren’t any here—I can feel it. All of this is staged.”

Nina gave her a pained look. “Did you really think your father would leave it like it was and expect you to stay here?”

Jessie realized how unrealistic her expectations had been. “No. I’m not thinking straight.”

After a quiet moment, she stood and began making the bed while Nina skirted around to the opposite side. They tightened the sheets, tugging and smoothing until they were wrinkle-free. Fluffing a pillow, Jessie’s fingers skimmed a raised area on the hem of the pillowcase—a cursive, sky-blue monogram.
JCR
. Her stomach knotted.

“These are my initials,” she said, just above a whisper, and backed away from the bed.

Nina had a closer look and winced. “That’s a little unnerving.”

“It’s sick, is what it is.” Jessie dragged her hands down her face, then drew them together in front of her mouth. “Why would my father do this?”

Nina didn’t answer quickly—one of many reasons why Jessie valued her judgment.

“There’s no arguing that he’s been an insensitive narcissist, but maybe he wants to make up for it. Maybe he’s trying to change,” Nina said sincerely. “Having you settle Sam’s estate may be an excuse to get you to stay.” She scrunched her shoulders, her turtleneck sweater bunching beneath her chin. “He’s lost the rest of his family. You’re all he has left.”

A little hope filled the hollow in Jessie’s heart, but she’d learned it was better to expect nothing from her father, because that was usually what she got.

“He could be as clueless as you were that foul play caused Sam’s death.” Nina put the last pillow on the bed.

“I’d like to think that,” Jessie said, “but doesn’t it seem like he had the most to lose if there’d been an investigation? No journalist worth his or her byline would’ve ignored Sam’s suspicious death. Justice Yaley is retiring in the spring. My father wants his seat on the bench. He couldn’t afford a scandal right now.”

Nina tugged at one of her dark curls, thinking.

“Think about his broken-family saga,” Jessie said. “Two estranged daughters, a long-dead wife, and a wake of glamorous girlfriends. Still, he’s one of Washington’s most eligible bachelors. Who could resist digging into a past like that?”

“Won’t the stories come anyway, when he’s officially nominated?”

“Sure they will. But he couldn’t survive two rounds in the ring with the media.” Jessie sank onto the bed. “Maybe someone owed him a favor and helped him manage a cover-up.” For once, she wished she knew more about Washington’s power brokers.

Nina gave her a long, skeptical look that said she wanted to agree but couldn’t. “That’s a decent theory, but where’s your scientist’s objectivity? People can be ruthless in this town, especially when it comes to politics. Someone else could be responsible for the cover-up.”

Jessie shook her head, feeling a little dizzy from lack of food and sleep. “It’s overwhelming to think about. I’m used to fighting my father, but I’m not sure how to take on anyone else.” She held Nina’s gaze for a charged moment. “And keep you out of it.”

Nina looked away. “But you can. And I’m not out of it. I’m behind-the-scenes all the way in. I just can’t afford for anyone to find out that I tipped you off.”

“I understand.” Jessie nodded. “And I’m glad I’m not alone.”

“You’re not,” Nina said. “I have a stake in this, too.”

“Of course you do. Sophie, Nate, your own safety, your job…”

“All those, sure. But also you. I worry because I know how hell-bent you can be when you’re emotional and determined.”

Jessie sat on the edge of the bed, her arms crossed. “I’m not emotional.”

“Save that for someone who doesn’t know you like I do. All those feelings you’ve got bottled up are messing with your head. You need a moderator.” Nina pressed her palm to her chest. “That’s me. As for the rest of it—the tox report, the cover-up, the danger of revealing the truth—we’ll figure things out together.”

Jessie managed a half-smile. One of several framed pictures on Sam’s bureau caught her eye. She stood and picked up the faded image of her family, a duplicate of the old photo she had in her suitcase. After studying it for a moment, she handed it to Nina.

Nina’s sorry-things-went-so-wrong expression mirrored Jessie’s feelings. There’d been a time when Jessie, Sam, and their parents were a happy family—at least, she had thought so. And she still had a bond with Sam. Regardless of what had happened in this room, Jessie felt a growing sense of belonging in her sister’s home.

“Maybe there
are
answers hiding in this place,” Jessie said. “I just have to stay here to find them.”

Chapter Seven

Jessie had seen the you-go-girl look on Nina’s face before. Lips curved up at the corners, apple cheeks, eyes narrowed and shimmering. Nina nodded and set the Croft family picture back on Sam’s bureau. The frame was out of line with the others and out of place from where it had been. Jessie reached over and nudged the grainy image of her family back to its original position.

“Better now?” Nina teased. “I’d forgotten what it was like to live with Miss Meticulous. This place should suit you fine.”

“It’s a good thing. Franz told me to take all the time I need, but I can’t afford to stay at the inn long-term.”

“You could stay with us.”

“I know, and I appreciate that. But I think I’ll be okay here.” Jessie’s nerves settled as the idea of staying at Sam’s place took root. “I’ll sleep at the inn tonight and come here tomorrow.” She shrugged one shoulder. “See who can find me at this address.”

Nina leveled a look at Jessie, a suspicious quirk to her eyebrows. “What does that mean?”

Jessie sat on the bed and opened her purse. She pulled out the envelope she’d gotten this afternoon and showed Nina the picture. “This was delivered to me at the inn today, slipped in with the mail.”

Nina straightened her spine, all the way up through her neck. “And it took you this long to tell me about it?” She sounded more hurt than defensive.

Jessie tried to hide her sheepishness, but she felt the involuntary tell—little muscle twitches at her eyes, tightening around her mouth—and knew Nina saw her guilt. Her best friend wouldn’t have expected her to keep secret something as cryptic, and possibly significant, as the picture.

“I didn’t know you wanted in,” Jessie said, her tone apologetic. “That you’d be willing to risk knowing too much. But now I need you to help me decipher this.”

Seeming satisfied with Jessie’s explanation, Nina sat on the bed and studied the picture for several moments. Her silver hoop earrings swayed as she shook her head. She pinched the envelope by one corner and held it up with a steady hand. “We shouldn’t be touching this stuff.”

“Don’t even go the forensic, who-sent-it route, because that would be futile. Am I supposed to go to the police and tell them I think Sam was—” Jessie stumbled on the word.

“No,” Nina said. “There probably wouldn’t be any prints except yours, mine, and whoever got the mail at the inn. The paper and ink look pretty standard.” She crinkled her nose. “Forget it.”

“No police,” Jessie said. “Nothing about the picture is threatening or criminal.”

“Any idea who would want you to have this or what it means?”

“No.”

Nina inspected the front of the envelope, plain except for Jessie’s name, computer-printed. Then she sniffed it. “Smells like—” She sniffed again.

“Lavender,” Jessie said. “That’s from the sachet in my purse.”

“Who carries a sachet in her purse?”

“I do.”

Nina smirked, but her look quickly turned serious. “You’re the proud new owner of some pretty damaging information.”

“So are you.”

Nina’s gaze shifted and lost focus.

“You did the right thing by telling me,” Jessie said.

Nina pressed her lips into a tight line. “Just be smart. And careful.” Jessie nodded and held the picture in front of them. “You know any of these people, other than Sam?”

“I recognized a couple of them,” Jessie said. “The names helped. Then I spent the afternoon online, trying to restrain myself from following an endless link path for each one.”

“Gotta love the Internet,” Nina said. “What did you find out?”

“Except for Sam, they’re DC’s new generation of early-fortysomething elites. Left to right.”

Nina pointed. “Senator Elizabeth Briel.”

“Represents Maryland. She’s all over newspapers and C-SPAN—the forward-thinking fresh face of government. Not that we couldn’t use a few of those.”

Elizabeth Briel had the aura of Glinda the Good Witch, updated and sexy in a clingy-yet-cautious ivory pencil dress, beginning off the shoulder and ending mid-thigh. Tendrils of blond hair fell from her messy updo, accenting her slender neck. She had prominent cheekbones, pink lips, and blue eyes that flashed with the camera.

“Her face is all over the place,” Nina said. “She was pregnant the same time I was. Even showed up on the cover of one of those maternity magazines as Supermom-to-Be. I think she and her husband had a son.”

“Speaking of.” Jessie skimmed her finger across the photo and stopped on the man standing next to Senator Briel. “Her husband, Counselor Philippe Lesort.”

“Counselor—impressive.”

“Canadian diplomat for Science and Technology. Also a noted photographer. He combines photography and science with a dash of activism. Real artsy stuff.”

“Love the hair,” Nina said in a throaty voice.

His black hair was combed away from his face, but pieces of it fell casually across his forehead. He stood taller than the rest of them, broad shouldered and fit, his face like Michelangelo’s
David
, with full lips and a strong chin. His tuxedo looked well tailored yet casual, paired with an open-collared shirt.

Jessie raised her eyebrows. “The rest of him isn’t too bad, either.”

The light moment was lost as Jessie smoothed her finger beneath the image of Sam, who wowed with her starry smile and shimmery crimson sheath.

Nina squeezed Jessie’s hand. “She looks like a princess.”

Jessie remembered playing dress-up with Sam—tulle skirts and tiaras, their mother calling both of them “princess.”

“Dr. Ian Alden,” Nina said. Jessie focused on the next man in the picture.

He was tall and lean, at least six feet, with an air of Ivy League snobbery emphasized by the striped ascot tied at his neck. Not handsome in the classic sense, but interesting—his features too delicate for a man, his skin too fair. His hair was tangled in loose waves of golden copper and had started to recede at his temples.

“Fertility specialist,” Jessie said, remembering the sites she’d found earlier, “with a boutique practice near Embassy Row. He offers sophisticated procedures, some of them controversial.”

“Like what?”

“Preimplantation genetic diagnosis, gender selection, intracytoplasmic sperm injection.”

“Slippery slope kind of stuff,” Nina said.

Jessie looked at her quizzically.

“What?” Nina lowered her eyebrows. “I know about that stuff. I read your articles.”

Jessie smiled appreciatively. She wondered if her father knew anything about her work beyond the fact it had interested the president.

“Ian Alden has his arm around Sam.” Nina tapped her fingernail on the photo where Ian’s hand clutched Sam’s waist. “Isn’t that his wife standing next to him?”

“Not really next to him. There’s more space between the two of them than any of the others. But yes, Helena is his wife.”

Except for her curvaceous figure and the rounded tip of her nose, Helena Alden was all lines and angles. Her coffee-brown hair lay in a sleek, geometric bob. She looked like a pagan priestess in her low-cut black gown, her piercing eyes glimmering with the secrets of Gothic witchcraft.

“Alden and Associates is her namesake,” Jessie said. “A lobbying firm on K Street that represents biotech companies. They push the development of breakthrough medicines and stem cell technologies.”

“That’s noble.”

“Sometimes.” Jessie had seen the lack of ethics in their arguments—won in large part by the most sizeable contribution to a legislator’s campaign or the shapeliness of a lobbyist’s legs. “Before Sam stopped returning my calls, she seemed to have adopted Helena as a mentor. Sam had been working for her ever since she interned at Alden and Associates her senior year at Georgetown.”

“I wonder how she’s taking Sam’s death,” Nina said, “considering how close they were..”

“I was wondering the same thing,” Jessie said. “And I plan to find out. I’m going to get Sam’s things from Alden and Associates tomorrow morning.”

Chapter Eight

From the rear window of Michael’s Swann Street apartment, he watched Jessie and Nina in Sam’s bedroom across the alley. One floor down, lights on, blinds open. He had an HD view through his digital binoculars, equipped to take snapshots or video. During his assignment to Sam, he’d sometimes edited footage he’d taken of her for Croft—adding a little substance to his reports and putting Croft’s high-tech equipment to good use.

Focused on Jessie, he switched the binoculars into video mode and pressed record. He’d seen her on YouTube and watched her from the landing at the inn, standing at the window with her back to him. But now he saw her animated with her friend. Her mannerisms were similar to Sam’s, except more reserved—the tilt of her head, the way she bunched her lips when she was thinking.

He listened to her conversation with Nina, the sound of her voice filling his apartment a beat behind the movements of her mouth. She looked determined and strong, with a glint of underlying gentleness and fear. An unexpected surge of protectiveness pulsed through him. Michael had doubted he could commit to the job with Jessie after what had happened with Sam, but now he’d gone and surprised himself. Or maybe Jessie had surprised him.

She’s definitely different from Sam.