Chapter Nine

Jessie peered up at the silver façade of the Millennium Building, squinting at the gray morning sky. Like contestants in an architectural pageant, similar buildings lined K Street, notorious for its law firms, lobbying groups, and PR agencies. All of them traded on their power addresses, including Alden & Associates. Jessie knew too well about their ability to influence decisions on Capitol Hill, in the White House, and in numerous federal agencies.

“Street Sense,” a voice called out. “Street Sense.” She glanced down the sidewalk, where a man in a tattered parka waved a tabloid-style newspaper. “Street Sense.”

A woman stopped and bought one while people dressed in bulky coats bustled past. Some glanced at Jessie, then looked away. Others stared through blank city-eyes. She tugged at the ends of her scarf, pulling them tighter around her neck.

Jessie imagined Sam’s everyday life working in one of DC’s trophy buildings for a big-name lobbying firm. It made sense that her sister had been attracted to a place like this. Growing up, she’d been the more social of the two of them, always trying to influence people—for better or worse. She’d found a perfect way to make a living, yet someone had wanted her dead.

But why?

Maybe Helena Alden knew something that would prove significant. After her online research yesterday, Jessie had called Alden & Associates. The receptionist had connected her to Helena’s line, but the call had gone to voice mail. She’d asked if she could stop in this morning and left her cell number. Helena had texted back: 8 am OK check in with lobby guard.

Jessie took a deep breath of wintry air and stepped inside the expansive lobby of the Millennium Building. She checked in, got on the elevator and pressed the button for the ninth floor.

When she reached Alden & Associates, the lobby was deserted. She unbuttoned her coat and glanced around the waiting area. Streamlined and chic, it was almost austere with its black leather, glass, and chrome. A large Jackson Pollock–style abstract dominated the wall.

Jessie’s stomach fluttered with apprehension. Just as she started to take a seat, Helena came into the lobby from the office area beyond. Jessie recognized her from the picture, but she looked more severe in person.

“Jessica?” Helena extended her hand, her fingernails painted fiery red. “I’m Helena Alden.” Their handshake was firm and brief. Helena tipped her head and a section of her side-parted hair fell across one of her eyes. “We’re so sorry about Sam.”

“Me, too.”

After an awkward moment, Helena turned and said, “Follow me.” She led Jessie into the workplace version of the lobby, stark and contemporary with lots of light. Near the back, Helena stopped at a glass-blocked space and gestured toward the desk. “Sam didn’t keep a lot of personal things here. But feel free to take whatever you find.”

Helena’s tone had a sharpness that matched her hard edges. In the picture, low light and maybe a few martinis had softened her. This morning, she looked nowhere near as friendly, with the stubborn set of her jaw and the challenging tilt of her chin. Jessie wondered what had attracted Sam to her.

“Sam and I weren’t close over the last couple of years,” Jessie said, unsure why she felt the need to tell Helena what she probably already knew. “I regret that. She had a lot more courage than I do, working here and doing what she did.”

Helena toyed with the belt of her emerald-green wrap dress. “She thought the same about your work.”

Jessie wanted to hear what else Sam had said about her, to fill in some of the hollows of the last two years, and to know that Sam had still loved her.

Helena seemed to see it in her eyes. “She read all of your articles in The Oliver Report. You’ll probably find copies in her files.”

Jessie smiled wanly, pleased that a connection, no matter how slight, had remained between her and Sam. “I hope she found them useful, even though my approach is different from hers. She was out there, taking the fight to policymakers. That takes a special kind of determination.”

“Or the naiveté of youth.” Helena gave her a Cheshire smirk. “Maybe it was a simple case of disdain for your father.” The idea seemed to please Helena. “He was a bitter foe of her cause. Especially now that she’d become the de facto poster girl for embryonic stem cell research.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Hope Campaign,” Helena said as if that thoroughly answered the question. She glanced at her diamond-studded watch. “I’ve got an eight thirty with a stubborn senator, and I can’t be late.” She rubbed her thin lips together, yet managed to keep her lipstick from smearing. “Like I said, take whatever was Sam’s.”

Jessie couldn’t let Helena get away before she asked her about the picture. She took off her coat and draped it over Sam’s chair. “I have a question about—”

“You’re wearing Sam’s clothes.” Helena stared at her, aghast.

Jessie crossed her arms and gripped the gauzy sleeves of her white blouse. “Yes, um, I am. I hadn’t planned to stay after her funeral yesterday,” she said quickly, “so I didn’t pack anything extra.” She brushed a speck of lint from her charcoal-gray wool slacks. “We’re about the same size. I haven’t had time to shop.”

Jessie had debated whether to wear Sam’s clothes, and had been a little freaked out by the idea at first. But Sam had two closets full, some items with the tags still attached. And when Jessie had tentatively tried on the blouse, she remembered how happy Sam had been to wear the clothes that had once hung in Jessie’s closet. The uncomfortable feeling had ebbed away, and in its place, she felt a connection to Sam.

Helena narrowed her eyes as she looked Jessie up and down. “You’re a little taller, and more slender through the hips.”

A pang of self-consciousness ricocheted through Jessie as she was sized up by a stranger, but she wouldn’t be distracted. “There was an event that Sam attended with you a couple of years ago. January twenty-third. I came across a picture of you, Senator Briel, Dr. Alden—”

“You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got that meeting.” Helena walked away, then hesitated and turned around. “I’m having a memorial event for Sam tonight. It’ll be more social than solemn, but she would’ve wanted it that way.” Helena glanced at her watch again. “National Gallery of Art, West Building, East Garden Court. Seven o’clock.”

With that, she left.

Jessie stood for a moment, staring after her, then sat at the desk that used to be Sam’s.

More social than solemn.

As much as she dreaded it, Jessie knew where she had to go tonight.