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.

His commitment to Sam had been a she-could-be-my-little-sister kind of loyalty. After he’d spent eight hard-boiled years in the Secret Service, getting a high-dollar offer to keep tabs on an unpredictable twenty-four-year-old had seemed like an overpaid babysitting job—a stress-free way to transition into civilian life while Croft fed him security-consulting leads. But he’d gotten attached to Sam. She’d been his own personal proving ground for the past two years as a civilian. She’d been his responsibility, and now she was dead. Croft had been right about his emotional involvement with her, but not for the reasons he assumed; Michael had been attached to Sam because she’d been his responsibility.

And he had failed her.

But he’d been given a chance to redeem himself—to bring Sam’s murderer to justice and to look out for Jessie.

Now that he knew about the picture she’d received at the inn, all of her online searches from this afternoon made sense. Already familiar with Senator Briel, Philippe Lesort, and Ian and Helena Alden, Michael hadn’t been looking forward to learning more. He already knew more about them than he cared to know and had spent more time with them than he’d wanted to spend. Even so, the picture Jessie had described to Nina intrigued him. He’d caught sections of it through his binoculars and snapped some photos. Hearing about it had given him a better view.

Judging from the date Jessie had searched over and over online, he figured the photo had been taken a couple of years ago, almost to the day, early in his assignment to Sam. He hadn’t attended the event where the picture was taken and didn’t know why it was significant. Yet he had to agree with Jessie and Nina. Pursuing the source of the picture would be like trying to find a specific pellet from a spent shell of double-ought buck. But the picture was a starting point, and it marked four of Sam’s closest so-called friends as persons of interest.

Or red herrings.

Michael needed to figure out which. But he couldn’t divert his attention from Jessie long enough to do the grunt work himself. She’d have to take the steps or missteps, and he would be right there with her.

The clause from Croft’s contract echoed in his mind: refrain from developing a physical or emotional relationship with Jessica Ryan Croft. Michael wished he could accuse Croft of having been presumptuous. But as he watched her now, he had to confess—she captivated him in a way that Sam had not.

A way paved with mystery and danger and longing. He exhaled loudly.

Use her, protect her, and resist her. A risky proposition.

Michael couldn’t help thinking that if Croft had been a proper father, things would’ve turned out differently. Sam’s death would have been investigated, and he and Jessie wouldn’t be chasing clues. Croft had enough power to get to the truth, but not enough balls to pursue it.

Selfish bastard.

Judge Croft was supposed to be all about the rule of law. Bringing Sam’s killer to justice was the last thing he could have done for her, but he’d picked politics over parenthood.

Again.

Croft had probably been made aware of the toxicology report, then masterminded a cover-up. Michael didn’t have the evidence to expose him for it, but he intended to at least make him worry about the security of his secret. As far as Michael knew, Croft had no clue that he and Jessie knew about the semen sample submitted for analysis, and the alcohol and Rohypnol cocktail that had stopped Sam’s heart.

Michael set the binoculars on the windowsill, picked up his cell phone, and speed-dialed Croft. In mid-ring, the line connected.

“Croft.” The guy could make his own name sound like a four-letter word.

Silverware clinked in the background, along with muffled music and conversation. “Checking in, sir.”

“Hold a minute,” Croft said.

The background noise came in waves, then quieted to hollow static.

“Is Jessica at Sam’s place?” Croft’s question reverberated as if he’d relocated to the men’s room.

“She is. With a friend.”

“She brought someone with her from Charlottesville?”

“No, her friend lives here.” Michael checked his notes even though he knew from memory what he planned to say. “Her name is Nina Daniels, formerly Nina Harrison, Jessica’s college roommate for four years. You remember her?”

Croft’s silence was interrupted by a toilet flushing.

A silent yes or a silent no? Michael couldn’t decide. “Nina Harrison Daniels, age thirty, DC native. Graduated from the University of Virginia with honors, alongside your daughter. Married to deployed Marine Nathan Daniels. A one-year-old daughter, Sophie Claire.”

“I don’t need a biography.”

“You might.”

“Watch your tone,” Croft said.

“Nina Daniels is a forensic toxicologist at the DC Medical Examiner’s Office,” Michael said. “You interested now?”

Croft missed a beat. “No more than I was before.”

Michael second-guessed the wisdom of delivering the information by phone. But even if he’d done it face-to-face, Croft probably wouldn’t have reacted. Lawyers who argued in his courtroom said that the judge never flinched and he never showed emotion. His advocates called him judicious. Michael called him cold.

“What else have you got?” Croft asked, as if the bullet Michael had just fired were a spitball. Water ran behind Croft’s words, followed by the rip and crinkling of a paper towel.

“Jessica’s going to Alden and Associates in the morning to get Sam’s personal things.”

“Then check in afterward, and let me know how that goes for her,” Croft said, back amid the music and conversation. “And check your attitude before you call.”

Croft clicked off.

Michael tensed with the urge to wring The Rooster’s neck, but he steadied his breathing and refocused. He’d keep a check on Nina through Jessie. If anything went awry with her anytime soon, Croft would be responsible.