Chapter Ten

Michael hated that the atmosphere at Sam’s memorial seemed just as superficial as most functions in DC. On Secret Service detail, as a security consultant, and on assignment for Croft, he’d attended too many events like the one tonight. He had seen too much to be as impressed with the Washington insiders as they were with themselves.

But this soiree was different in one way. It was in memory of a dead girl. At the National Gallery of Art. Sam would have been impressed.

Michael’s flippant thoughts did little to soothe his sense of loss. They were simply a defense mechanism, well-honed after his friend Wes had been killed in the line of duty. Reminding himself to be more careful in the same emotional minefield, he made a mental note to call his mother later tonight.

He scanned the cavernous East Garden Court, a curious cross between a rotunda and a terrarium—all marble and stone, trees and plants. People looked like miniatures next to the massive round columns that towered beneath the lighted, arched ceiling. In the center of the expanse, a fountain gurgled and splashed.

Sam’s death had drawn an impressive crowd, dressed in their weekend party attire on a Thursday night. Michael knew how a lot of them had fit into Sam’s life. Now, he wanted to hear what they’d say about her death. On his way to the bar, he caught bits of conversation amid the din that reverberated off the walls. He heard tones of shock and dismay, yet everyone seemed to buy the idea that Sam had simply died.

Michael watched, listened, and waited for Jessie to arrive. He checked the GPS tracking map on his phone and followed the blinking icon. Jessie was in a cab and on her way. By his calculation, she’d be there within ten minutes. And before she arrived, he wanted a grip and grin with some of the people in the picture she’d received. He wondered if any of them had sent it to Jessie, and what they might know about Sam’s death. Jessie hadn’t gotten far with Helena this morning, but that had only been the first strike off the first pitch in the first inning.

Game on.

Michael searched the familiar faces, looking for any of the four who had been in the picture with Sam. He’d go all-in on a hand that had Helena and her husband, Ian, having information related to Sam’s death. Sam had been entangled with them professionally and personally, in a peculiar, codependent way that had now become even more suspicious.

With a glass of ginger ale in need of some Wild Turkey, Michael stationed himself near the entry—close to one of the bars and far from the guy playing the harp. Here, he could get a good look at who came and went, plus a view of Jessie when she arrived.

Nearby, the bartender uncorked a bottle of champagne and drained it into an army of flutes on a serving tray. The scent of alcohol hung in the cool, humid air.

Mourning—just another excuse to drink. And Michael was all for it. He counted on the alcohol to loosen some lips before he zeroed in on his marks.

Senator Elizabeth Briel crossed his line of vision, making his wait less painful. There were several reasons why they’d picked her as one of The Hill’s 50 Most Beautiful People, and her mid-thigh-length skirt revealed two of them. She was from Maryland, but she looked like a sexy Swede, all legs and loose blond curls.

A swift slap on Michael’s shoulder focused his attention.

“Enjoying the view?” asked a jealous-sounding man.

It couldn’t be her husband Philippe; there was no French twist in the accent. Michael turned, now shoulder to shoulder with Ian Alden.

You have to love it when your marks come to you.

Ian’s black suit, starched white shirt, and bright blue tie mirrored Michael’s getup. But Ian’s was probably double the price.

“You can get yourself in trouble gawking like that.” Ian sipped red wine from a half-full glass.

“I don’t see you averting your eyes,” Michael said with a grin that Ian didn’t return. “How’s the security system holding up?” Just before he’d been hired by Croft, Michael had consulted with Ian and Helena on the security plans for his medical practice and her lobbying firm. He’d met Sam one day at Alden & Associates after a meeting he’d had with Helena. She’d seemed like a wholesome go-getter who was smart and easy on the eyes. Most of his assessment had proven to be true.

“Security is one thing I can’t complain about,” Ian said. “And with all I’ve got going on in the lab, I might even need an upgrade.”

“Happy to help.”

Ian gazed around the room and raised his glass. “So this is Helena’s idea of a memorial.”

“Doesn’t it seem a little odd to you?” Michael asked.

“It’s better than suffering through a funeral.” Ian took a long sip of his wine.

“I meant Sam’s heart failure.”

“It’s hard to believe. She looked pretty healthy to me.” Ian swirled the wine in his glass, seeming mesmerized by it for a moment. “Her death has really shaken Helena and me.”

Michael couldn’t imagine Ian or his steel-souled wife being shaken by anything. They kept complete control over every aspect of their lives. From his practice to her lobbying firm, everything was run by tight protocol, everyone in lockstep. Sam’s death might have made them blink, but they’d be beyond the disruption by next week. Maybe they were over it already. Ian didn’t have the dazed look of someone genuinely grieving.

“It hasn’t gotten as much news coverage as I’d expected,” Michael said.

“We figure Croft is trying to manage the bleed in case rumors get started that Sam inherited her heart defect from both him and his wife. Could make the president think twice about nominating him when the time comes. It would be a lot of wasted effort to go through the whole confirmation process and have the guy drop dead.” Ian adjusted the knot of his tie. “But if that would keep him off the bench, I’m all for it.”

“So much for the Hippocratic Oath,” Michael said.

Ian sneered. “In his case, I’d defer to Darwinism.”

It was no secret that Ian worried about a reproductive assistance case making it to the Supreme Court, anything from in-vitro fertilization to gender selection. A bad decision could result in restrictive legislation that would derail his entire practice, not to mention his cash flow. Helena worked the lobbying angle to minimize the damage in case the worst should happen.

Michael shook his glass, hoping to coax some more ginger ale out of the ice cubes in the bottom.

Ian looked over his shoulder and down the vast Sculpture Hall, where people entered and exited. Something had caught his attention.

Michael followed his line of vision.

At the far end of the hall, Jessie stood viewing a sculpture of a young girl holding a conch shell. She was the only person who had stopped to appreciate the art. Michael was intrigued by her curious mind, and he wondered what else interested her outside of bioethics.

Ian gazed at her the same way Michael had looked at Elizabeth Briel. “That’s Jessica Croft,” he said.

“Sam’s sister.”

“Helena didn’t mention that she’s so…”

“So what?” Michael struggled to keep the defensiveness out of his voice.

“Captivating,” Ian murmured.

Michael’s gut clenched. “Helena met her?” At her office at 8:05 this morning.

“Earlier today.” Ian nodded, his gaze never leaving Jessie. “She said Sam and her sister were complete opposites.”

Just as Michael had hoped.

Jessie made her way down the hall toward them, pausing before each sculpture. It was easy to see why she’d caught Ian’s eye. Her red strapless dress accented promising curves, coming off as provocative yet tasteful, and the black shawl she wore had slipped off her shapely bare shoulders. Tendrils of her auburn hair fell from a casual updo. Her lips glistened with an understated, natural blush that enticed Michael more than any red lipstick ever had.

Of course Ian found her captivating. Any man would. Michael certainly did, and that would only make his job harder.

Jessie entered the Garden Court, glancing their way but not focusing on them. Michael watched her eyes. Not the uninhibited eyes he had seen when she was with Nina, but the mysterious eyes he saw in her television interviews. Pulling him in, pushing him away. He inhaled deeply, the air crisp and electric, as if there’d been a lightning strike. He popped a couple of ice cubes into his mouth and crunched loudly.

“My, my,” Ian said, his gaze following her as he took the last sip of his wine.

“What else did Helena say about her?” Michael asked.

Ian smirked. “Don’t get any fresh ideas, Gillette. Jessica Croft is way out of your league.” He winked at Michael and strode away toward the bar on the far side of the room.

Michael shook his head. He’d expected a dig from Ian. The guy probably couldn’t stand the fact that Michael looked better in his suit.

Jessie got in line at the bar nearest Michael, confidently standing alone. People glanced her way, but no one approached her. Some pointed while her back was turned and covered their mouths, whispering.

Michael crunched his last ice cube and figured he could use a refill. He wove through the crowd, keeping a bead on Jessie. Halfway to the bar, he hit a snag, a sturdy grasp on his bicep courtesy of Judge Ryan Croft. The man was probably desperate to find a neutral party in the group, much less a sympathetic one. Michael was neither.

“Sir?” Michael’s greeting was more of a question. A why-are-you-publicly-associating-with-me question. Especially with Jessie close by.

“What is Jessica doing here?” Croft asked, his words hushed and accusing, as if Michael could’ve kept her away.

“The same thing you are, I suspect. Paying her respects to Sam.” Although Michael would argue that Jessie’s were much more sincere.

Croft tightened his grip on Michael’s arm. “I suggest you dispense with your attitude.”

Michael swallowed a string of curses, his gaze never leaving Jessie, whose back was to them.

Don’t turn around.

“Helena Alden invited her,” Michael said.

“I would like to have known to expect her here.”

Michael looked Croft in the eyes. “Quite frankly, I didn’t expect you to be here. I planned to check in with you after the event.” He refocused on Jessie. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think it would be detrimental for Jessica to see us together.”

Croft shook his head. “Relax, Michael.” His mouth turned up at one corner. “What makes you think you’re that memorable?”