Girl Three Page 7

  “The vetting process takes a while,” she said. “Nothing’s official yet.” She avoided looking at her father.

  Talmont reached out and squeezed her bare shoulder, his hand warmer than it had been when she shook it. She willed herself to stand still.

  “Just formality.” Talmont skimmed his fingertips down the side of her arm as he pulled away. “Yours will be the first of two Croft confirmations we’ll be celebrating this year.” He winked conspiratorially at her father and they drank.

  Jessie was wary of their overconfidence. She looked from Lorna Talmont to the senator. “I’m sure Sam would’ve appreciated your being here.” She tipped her glass and sipped her champagne. “It was nice to meet you,” she said, then walked away.

  Jessie had noticed that the whispers, stares, and finger-pointing increased as people saw her with her father. She headed away from him, toward the raised area around the perimeter of the room. As she reached the top of the shallow steps, she saw them.

  Beyond the colonnaded doorway, the four of them stood on a glass-fronted balcony that overlooked the lobby. They faced her, in the same order they’d appeared in the picture, minus Sam. Senator Briel, Philippe Lesort, and Ian and Helena Alden, huddled with their heads together like a jury deliberating a verdict.

  Senator Briel saw her first. Her gaze locked on Jessie and the others followed suit. Jessie walked toward them apprehensively, her steps sounding steadier than her legs felt.

  Helena met her halfway, wearing a shimmery violet dress that was too festive for the occasion. “Sam would have been pleased that you came.”

  Jessie nodded.

  “Let me introduce you,” Helena cupped Jessie’s elbow, ushered her toward the group, and nodded at the man Jessie recognized as Ian Alden. “Jessica Croft, this is my husband, Ian.”

  The picture Jessie had received had been taken at a photogenic moment for him. Tonight, he looked more pale and patrician. His blue eyes darted from Jessie to Helena, his furrowed brow creasing his otherwise youthful face. He took one of Jessie’s hands between both of his. “Such a shame about Sam.”

  “We’re still in shock.” Elizabeth Briel pressed her hand over her heart with a flair for melodrama that was no doubt useful on the senate floor.

  “Thank you, Senator.” Jessie didn’t bother to pretend she hadn’t recognized her.

  “Please, call me Elizabeth.”

  She looked like she had in the picture, her face fresh and pretty. She gestured toward the other man in the group. “My husband, Philippe.”

  He took a confident step forward and extended his hand. Jessie shook it firmly.

  “My condolences.” His green eyes glimmered. “Sam was a special girl.”

  “She was,” Jessie said.

  Helena stared into her empty glass, rolling its stem between her fingers. “Time for another martini.” She tilted her head toward the bar and lifted the eyebrow that wasn’t obscured by her hair. “Ian?”

  She was two steps ahead of him before he shot the rest of them a sharp look and started to follow.

  “Wait,” Jessie said, louder than she had intended.

  Helena came to a dramatic stop, turned on her stiletto heel, and leveled a challenging gaze at Jessie.

  The others watched and waited.

  “I’m curious about a picture I found in Sam’s things,” Jessie said. “Taken January twenty-third, two years ago, at an embryonic stem cell research event. All of you stood under a banner that said Our Present to Our Future.”

  None of their expressions changed.

  Jessie opened her arms, her shawl draped in the crooks of her elbows. “She was wearing this dress.” They looked a little shocked—all except Helena, who had probably immediately pegged the dress as Sam’s.

  “What was significant about that night?” Jessie asked.

  Helena shrugged. “Who could remember? We go to so many events.” She cut her eyes at Ian, cuing him to agree.

  After an uncomfortable moment, he caught on. “They all seem to blur together after a while.” He rubbed his forehead. “I’m sure Sam had lots of pictures. What piqued your interest in that one?”

  Jessie knew the technique. Answer a question with a question. Ian had assumed she would fall for it, and that made her more determined. She started to turn it around on him and ask another question, but she changed her mind. Better to let him think she could be manipulated. “Sam had it in a frame.”

  Helena gave Jessie a flinty smile. “That makes sense. You could say that Ian and I adopted Sam after she’d proven herself as an intern at my firm.” She waved her hand toward Jessie, her nails a streak of red. “You knew her then.”

  Jessie swallowed hard. Elizabeth and Philippe looked at her as if she were in the path of a wrecking ball and they were helpless to stop it from striking. Ian stayed quiet.

  “There she was,” Helena said, “this bright young girl, with no family except for your father, who didn’t count or seem to care. And you.” Another swipe of her hand. “She knew you well enough to idolize you but couldn’t imagine you’d be interested in her life.”

  Jessie’s stomach roiled with champagne, anger, and guilt. “Of course I was interested in her life.”

  “Elizabeth and Philippe took an interest in her, too,” Helena said, as if Jessie hadn’t spoken. “Perhaps the picture that has you so intrigued is the best Sam could do for a family portrait.” She turned her back and headed for the bar, her heels ticking on the marble.

  Ian hesitated, as if weighing his options. “Excuse me.” He strode away, following Helena.

  “We really thought a lot of Sam,” Elizabeth said, ignoring the awkwardness. “It’s all such a tragedy.” She turned to Philippe and ran her fingers down the lapel of his jacket. “I’m going to call and check on Liam.” She reached for Jessie’s hand. “It was good to meet you. Terrible circumstances. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” She pulled her phone from her purse and walked away.

  “Our son’s with the nanny,” Philippe said. “Elizabeth worries needlessly. Liam’s a happy child wherever he is.” His French accent made his words sound like a melody.

  “How old is your son?”

  “Almost one.” Philippe took out his phone and showed her a picture of the rosy-cheeked, tow-headed boy, sitting on a folksy rocking horse. He looked at the child with genuine devotion. “He’s the reason—” His eyes welled, and he covered his mouth with his fist.

  Jessie waited, touched by his sensitivity, yet unsure how to react.

  Philippe put away his phone and drew in a long breath, regaining his composure. “Having Liam has changed my life. He’s this little innocent who depends on Elizabeth and me for everything. Today, tomorrow, his future. It’s exciting…and terrifying.”

  His openness surprised Jessie. “He’s precious,” she said. “I couldn’t think of a better raison d’être.”

  A curious grin matched a glint of humor in his eyes. “You speak French?”

  “Non.”

  His grin widened into a smile that mirrored Jessie’s, and he held her gaze until she looked away. They remained quiet for a moment, the crowd noise filtering out into the promenade.

  “I remember the picture you were asking about,” Philippe said. “We were celebrating the opening of Geneticell.”

  “The research lab?”

  He nodded and drained his glass of champagne. “It was a success for all of us.”

  “How so?”

  “Helena and Sam lobbied for the cause, Elizabeth had introduced research legislation, Ian is happy when Helena is happy, and I’d arranged for venture funding from Canada.”

  “What exactly do you do?” Jessie had a general idea from her online research, but she wanted to hear his version.

  He seemed pleased that she’d asked. “I’m Canada’s Counselor of Science and Technology, which can be a kind of catch-all. Basically, I negotiate international partnerships like the one we have between the U.S. and Geneticell.”

 
She vaguely remembered seeing his name somewhere, before she’d received the picture yesterday. “I’ve written articles about embryonic—”

  “I know,” he said. “I read The Oliver Report.”

  Heat rose in her face. She wanted people to know about her work, but facing her readers in person made her feel exposed.

  “Washington is hardly a place where you can hide behind a byline,” he said, as if he had heard her thoughts. “Neither is national television, although you have a knack for it.” He unbuttoned his jacket and leaned against the balcony rail.

  Self-consciously, she imagined him and countless other people watching her talking head on some news show, but that wasn’t important right now. She had to ask questions while she had the chance. “What was Sam doing for the Hope Campaign?”

  Something behind Jessie captured his attention. “Come by the embassy tomorrow and I’ll show you.”

  “Could you please tell me now?”

  Philippe’s eyes remained trained on whatever was behind Jessie. “Not a good idea.”

  She heard the ticking of heels. Helena came up next to her with a fresh martini in her hand. She fingered the fabric of Jessie’s shawl and shook her head. “I don’t think Sam wore a shawl with that dress.” She took a sip of her drink. “It really looked better without it.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Jessie’s cell phone rang, waking her from an unexpectedly deep sleep. She was disoriented, and it took her a second to remember where she was. In Sam’s bedroom…in Washington. She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and glanced at the time: 6:38 a.m.

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Jessica.” Her father sounded as if he had been awake for hours.

  “Dad?” The word sounded foreign to her ears. If she hadn’t been half asleep, she wouldn’t have said it. She hadn’t called him Dad in years. During the few brief conversations they’d had, she avoided calling him by any name.

  “I need you to meet me in my chambers at eight.” he said. “I’ve got something to speak to you about.”

  Jessie almost asked him to tell her on the phone, but decided that whatever he had to say must be important if he needed to say it in person.

  “Okay,” she said, her mind racing. Would he tell her the truth about Sam’s murder and why there was a cover-up? She couldn’t help but hope. Maybe Nina had been right. Maybe he wanted to try to make up for the past, or at least start from a new beginning.

  “I’ll see you then,” her father said, and he hung up.

  Jessie showered and dressed for the single-digit cold outside. She took the Metro, and walked the rest of the way to the Federal Courthouse, pleased that she’d gotten there ten minutes early. The nondescript gray building sprawled along Constitution Avenue within sight of the Capitol. What it lacked in style and flair outside, it made up in drama on the inside. So many historical events had happened here, like the Pentagon Paper arguments and the Watergate trials.

  This morning, the security guards at the entrance were taking their time moving the line through. Jessie’s patience thinned as the minutes crept by. She hated being late, and she wanted to respect her father’s time. Despite their past, she was ready to meet him halfway.

  At 8:05, she arrived at his third-floor office. She expected a gatekeeper, yet came face-to-face with her father, who stood just inside, fastening his long black judge’s robe. A paper-covered hanger topped with wrinkled plastic hung from a nearby coat rack.

  He glanced at Jessie, then looked at his watch. She scrunched her face. “Sorry. I got hung up in the security line.” She wished she’d left Sam’s place earlier.

  “I have a case at eight thirty.” He waved her into his chambers.

  She wasn’t surprised to see that awards, accolades, and pictures of him with various power brokers crowded an entire wall of his office. A large cherry-framed mirror hung at the end of the opposite wall. If he swiveled his high-backed leather chair in that direction, he could see his reflection as he sat at his desk.

  Bookshelves covered the rest of the walls. Jessie scanned the shelves, focusing on several candid photos displayed among the law tomes. Her father boating with a blond woman, in black tie with a brunette, snow skiing with a redhead. It was like a hair-color commercial in still shots.

  Her breath caught when she saw a picture of their family—the same one she had of them at Disney World with Minnie Mouse, taken just months before her mother died. The photo sat on a high shelf in a corner, situated at an awkward angle, as if someone dusting had moved it and never set it right.

  “I don’t want you associating with that group I saw you talking to at Sam’s memorial,” her father said, immediately dashing Jessie’s hopes that something good might come from their meeting.

  “What group?” she asked.

  “You’ve got no business with the Aldens or Lesort and his wife.”

  “Senator Briel?” Disappointment drove Jessie to say the senator’s name out loud, using it as a barb. The political contention between Elizabeth Briel and her father was well documented. She had already publically opposed his probable Supreme Court nomination.

  Ignoring Jessie’s remark, her father stepped behind his massive desk. “I’ve asked you to settle Sam’s estate. That doesn’t involve them.”

  “Sam worked for Helena Alden.”

  “Have you gotten Sam’s personal things from her office?” He picked up a file and flipped through the pages inside. “If you haven’t, I’ll send one of my staff.”

  Jessie imagined some random judicial aide riffling through Sam’s desk, with Helena watching like a cat. “I went there yesterday.”

  He settled into his chair. “Then you have no further reason to contact any of them. If you find that there is, let me know.” He motioned toward a pair of chairs in front of his desk, all cordovan leather and brass tacks. “Sit down.”

  Her disappointment simmered into anger. “No, thanks.” Instead, she stood in the middle of the room, her hands shoved into the pockets of her coat. “Are you threatened by them?”

  His expression tightened. “No, I’m not threatened by them. They have little influence over anyone or anything that concerns me.”

  Jessie wondered whom he was trying to convince.

  He sipped coffee from a black mug that said, Judge not, lest ye be judged in big white letters.

  “Why the personal meeting if that group, as you call it, doesn’t concern you?” she asked. “My association with them has nothing to do with you. All you’ve managed to do this morning is call attention to it.”

  He set the mug on the desk, but held on to its handle. “You don’t know what you’re getting into with those people.”

  “Those people?” Jessie asked. “What’s the difference between them and your friend Senator Talmont and his possessive wife?”

  Her father seemed to give this a cursory thought, then he sighed, looking frustrated. “I’ll hear enough arguments today without having to listen to yours.” He took a quick swig of coffee. “I’m trying to prevent another situation like the one I had with Sam.”

  Jessie’s senses sharpened. “What kind of situation was that?”

  His chair creaked as he turned it, and he studied himself in the mirror. “Contentious.” He swiveled back and leveled his gaze on her. “Complicated.”

  Jessie thought about ten-year-old Sam, who had gone on without parents for all these years, doing well for herself despite his abandonment. She and Jessie had dealt with him in different ways. Sam had been angry and willing to take him on. Jessie had simply withdrawn.

  “What did you expect?” Jessie fought to control the rage that uncoiled in her chest. “Considering the kind of father you were to her—or weren’t—you’re fortunate that all she did to rebel was lobby for policies you don’t support. She could’ve made things a lot worse for you.” Jessie shrugged. “Both of us could have.”

  He frowned and thrummed his fingers on the desk. “You weren’t here. You couldn’t possibly know
or understand.”

  Jessie wouldn’t allow him to play on her guilt. “But you were here, and look what happened.”

  He stared for a moment, but he didn’t blink. “As if I could have healed a heart defect.” His voice wavered.

  Jessie took a step back. For once, his emotion seemed sincere.

  He intertwined his fingers and rested his hands on the desk. “Go home, Jessica,” he said flatly. “I’ll settle Sam’s estate. Go home.”

  Jessie steadied herself, weighing his one show of emotion against so many other heartless acts. “Two days ago, I would’ve gladly gone back to Charlottesville. But I’m not leaving now.” She stepped closer to his desk. “If you want me out of Sam’s condo, fine.” She pointed to their family picture high up on the shelf. “But I’m staying here because of Sam.”

  He looked at the picture and his brow creased, as if he had forgotten it was there.

  Jessie choked back sixteen years of heartbreak. “I should have been here for her before, and I wasn’t,” she said. “But I can do something for her now. Instead of sending your aides to take care of Sam’s business, let’s keep it in the family, like you said. She deserves respectful treatment from someone. And I certainly can’t depend on that from you.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jessie escaped her father, left the courthouse, and found a bench to sit on in John Marshall Park, a not-so-green space that stretched between C Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. A disturbing number of pigeons gathered around her, and she shivered in the cold. Why had she allowed her father to disappoint her again? She had directed her anger at him, but she was just as upset with herself for forgetting all of the harsh emotional lessons he had taught her.

  He hadn’t changed. But his uncharacteristic flash of emotion had her second-guessing his involvement in covering up Sam’s murder. Sure, he was a judge and a politician, and all of them were actors in a way. But she never would’ve guessed he could deliver sentimental one-liners so convincingly.

  As if I could have healed a heart defect.

  So who were her suspects now? Helena and Ian Alden, Philippe Lesort, Elizabeth Briel?