Girl Three (20 page)

“We fired the last cleaning service over an incident like this,” Ian said. “Don’t believe them when they crow about a strong work ethic.”

“Don’t get so worked up,” the woman said. “Let’s just find a broom and sweep up the glass.”

“You didn’t come here to sweep, Cinderella,” Ian said huskily.

“Then have your secretary clean it up in the morning.”

Another pause, then the sound of kissing.

“Focus, Ian,” she said. “What was so urgent that you had to tell me tonight, in person?”

“Jessica Croft was here this morning, asking questions about Sam.”

Jessie strained to hear them better.

“You couldn’t tell me that on the phone?”

“I didn’t think it would be wise,” he said. “Not with reelection campaigns coming up next year. You know they’re trolling for scandals.”

“Are you worried?” Now she sounded serious.

“We both should be.”

“What do you have to lose that you wouldn’t feel glad to be rid of?”

“My practice—”

“Would only gain from the exposure.”

“You,” he said. “I could lose you.”

“Cut the melodrama. Do you really think Jessica Croft is a threat?”

“Yes,” he said. “But I’m going to take care of her.”

Like he took care of Sam?
Jessie shuddered at Ian’s tone.

“Don’t do anything rash,” the woman said. “The thing with Sam has caused enough of a mess as it is.”

Jessie listened for more conversation but heard none, just more kissing.

“Over here,” Ian said, “against the wall.”

Jessie leaned against the charts, trapped, nervous, and disgusted, while Ian and the woman made out on the other side of the wall.

“Be careful,” the woman said, breathless. “You ripped a button off my blouse.”

“Worry about it later.” Ian murmured.

Jessie tuned out their mercifully short tryst, reminding herself that she’d gotten what she came for. Now all she needed to do was get out.

“I don’t know what I would do without you,” Ian said to the woman, sounding satisfied and sappy even though his voice was muffled. “My beautiful Elizabeth, my sexy senator.”

Philippe’s wife?

Jessie’s stomach plummeted. Instinctively, she slapped her hand over her mouth and nudged a stack of charts off the shelf with her elbow. The files tumbled, paper rustling, and landed on the floor with a sickening
thud
.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

An explosion of shattering glass interrupted the rustle and the
thud
. Jessie stood motionless behind the shelf, as if her blood had stiffened even though her heart pumped furiously. Seconds passed like minutes while she waited for Ian and Elizabeth to react.

“What the hell was that?” Ian asked.

Jessie wondered the same thing.

“Sounds like it came from your office,” Elizabeth said.

“Stay here.”

No, go with him.
If she and Ian went into his office, Jessie would have a straight shot at the stairs.

“I’m coming with you,” Elizabeth said.

Yes.
Jessie got ready to make her move. She slipped file 03 into her purse, peeked around the shelves, and watched the doorway. Ian stepped past cautiously. Elizabeth—it
was
Philippe’s Elizabeth—stayed close behind him.

Jessie hoped they would stay in Ian’s office long enough for her to reach the stairs. After a moment, she risked easing out into the hallway with quick, light steps.

“Some son-of-a-bitch busted the window with a rock,” Ian said. “First the vase, now this.”

Jessie started to dash for the stairs, but hesitated when she saw Elizabeth’s jeweled button glinting on the floor. She stopped, picked it up, and headed for the stairs.

“I can’t stay here if you’re going to call the police.” Each of Elizabeth’s words became fainter as Jessie crept down the steps on tiptoe. When she reached the bottom, she heard footsteps above and Ian’s voice, closer.

“I’m going outside to look around,” he said. “Pull yourself together and get out of here.”

Jessie hurried down the hallway to the door but stopped short when she saw the solid red light on the alarm panel.

Armed
—a single word on the LCD screen.

No doubt she would trigger the alarm when she left, but she had to get out now.

She held her breath and opened the door. A siren blared as she tore into the bitter cold, across the concrete porch, and down the steps. She ran up dim and deserted Q Street until the sound of the alarm dissipated in the mist and became silent.

With the Dupont North Metro entrance in sight and several people in view, she slowed to a walk, sweating and shivering, fighting nausea. Her purse weighed heavily on her shoulder, full of all kinds of trouble—Sam’s files, Elizabeth’s button. And a gun.

She passed the steep escalators that descended to the Metro station, found a bench, and sat. People passed by on the sidewalk along Connecticut Avenue. No matter the weather or the time, this city never slept. It made her weary just thinking about it, wondering if she could keep up. As the adrenaline drained from her system and leached her energy, she decided she couldn’t. She’d gotten what she wanted from Ian’s practice, but she hadn’t made it to Sam’s in time to meet Michael. She should’ve been there almost an hour ago. Certainly he knew the difference between
a little late
and
stood up
. He’d be crazy if he was still waiting for her, and she wouldn’t blame him if he wasn’t.

She pulled her phone from her purse and checked to see if he’d left a message. He hadn’t, so she called him but got no answer. Considering her state of mind, she figured it was best not to leave a voice mail. She slipped her phone back into her purse, propped her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her hands. Her warm breath heated her cheeks.

“We’ll call it even if you show me what’s in your pocketbook.”

Jessie jolted upright. Michael Gillette stood in front of her, looking even taller from where she sat. A chill skittered over her. Did he know what she had in her purse, or was he just bluffing? “I’m sorry I didn’t show up to meet you at Sam’s place, but—”

“You were trapped inside Ian’s practice and couldn’t get away?”

Jessie reeled, but she started to make sense of things. “You broke Ian’s window?”

A corner of Michael’s mouth hitched up in a stomach-flipping half grin. “Former left-fielder.”

Jessie looked at him self-consciously. “I can explain.”

He pulled off one of his black leather gloves and reached toward her. With warm fingers against freezing skin and a slow, gentle motion, he smoothed a lock of hair away from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. “I can, too.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Michael tipped his head toward a row of restaurants and coffee shops across Connecticut Avenue. “Let’s go someplace where we can warm up and…explain.”

With a look in her eyes that he couldn’t decipher, Jessie nodded and stood.

Michael led her across Connecticut Avenue, against the crossing signal. He wanted to get her off the sidewalks quickly and into someplace relatively private. The fewer people who saw them together, the better. Croft’s influence reached further and deeper than Michael wanted to admit. Any eyes could be Croft’s eyes, and anyone could be hired to watch Michael the way he’d been hired to watch Jessie. Like the countless reflections of a mirror in a mirror, there was no telling how many layers of intelligence Croft employed. At this point, Michael could only hope that Croft himself wouldn’t materialize and catch him with his daughter.

“Hang a right,” he said, when they reached the sidewalk.

After passing the liquor store on the corner, Michael led Jessie beneath the next awning, opened the door to Kramerbooks, and motioned her inside.

She stepped into the store, stopped just beyond the threshold, and turned to face him. “We’re going to
explain
in a crowded bookstore?” she asked.

She didn’t mean crowded with people, she meant crowded with books—from floor to ceiling around the perimeter, and piled atop lower shelves and tables everywhere else. Even in the windowsills. Strangely sorted, racked, and stacked. Everywhere. Like Hitchcock’s birds, but books.

“This isn’t just any bookstore,” he said, nudging her forward. “It’s Kramerbooks, an esteemed Washington institution. Also known as a pickup joint for the literati.”

She gave him a puzzled look.

“Keep walking,” he said, “toward the back.”

They threaded between low tables and shelves and stopped at an unattended hostess stand located at a choke point between the front and back of the store.

“Great books,” he said. “Even better food.”

Jessie looked more confused.

A wiry, shaved-headed waiter dressed in casual black and white approached them from beyond the hostess stand, a faded tattoo of a peace sign on the side of his neck. “Evening. Table for two? Or do you guys wanna sit at the bar?”

“How about upstairs?” Michael asked, pointing toward a dark, narrow stairwell.

“Not serving up there tonight, man,” the waiter said.

Damn.
The dining area upstairs was small, and semi-private. Michael unbuttoned his coat, grabbed his wallet, and pulled out a crisp fifty.

Jessie’s eyes widened.

He folded the bill and held it out to the waiter. “Think we could get a table up there?”

The guy raised his eyebrows. “No problem.” He grabbed the money and stuffed it in his pocket. “Let me set a table for you.”

“We’ll just head on up, and you can work around us.” Michael flattened his hand over the small of Jessie’s back and guided her toward the narrow, winding stairs, ignoring curious looks from both her and the waiter.

At the top of the stairs, he checked out the bleak, rectangular dining area with its built-in wooden benches and dim lighting. This place was known more for its food than for its design. One of the longer sides of the dining area overlooked the bookstore, the other flanked a wall. Michael chose a table in the far corner next to the wall, where he had full view of the small space, and the only people who’d see them were the waitstaff who came upstairs.

Jessie unbuttoned her coat and gave him a measuring look. She looked flushed and gorgeous and still a little shaky. “Why did we need to come up here?”

Michael took her coat and draped it over one of the extra chairs at the four-top table. He caught the scent of her perfume and inhaled deeply. “I think we can use a little privacy.”

He pulled a chair out for her and she sat. After he slid onto the opposite bench, he looked her in the eyes. “What you’re doing is kind of dangerous, and it worries me…a lot.”

The waiter arrived with silverware, napkins, and menus. He took their drink order and quickly disappeared. Michael’s fifty bucks was paying off.

“I don’t know you very well,” he said, “but you seem like an unusually intelligent woman. I understand that you want to find out what happened to Sam, but some ruthless people are feeling pretty threatened by you right now.”

“I know.” Intensity burned in her eyes. “But I owe it to Sam to find out who killed her.”

Michael stayed quiet and hoped she would keep talking.

“I don’t know if I can trust anyone,” she said after a moment. “And I’d probably be smart not to.” She leveled her gaze on him. “But I want to trust you. Something—maybe your connection with Wes—makes me think you might be different.”

He swallowed hard at the mention of Wes, but was determined not to get sidetracked by his emotions. “I’ve spent my entire career looking out for people and places, and trying to make them safer. But it seems like more than that with you.” Michael was treading in unfamiliar waters and worried he might sink. “What I’m trying to say is…you can trust me.” His conscience nudged him as if he’d told a lie. But she
could
trust him, couldn’t she?

She sat silently, her eyes narrowed, as if she were waiting for him to say more.

He was suddenly worried that she’d find out about his contract with Croft, even though that seemed impossible. Croft didn’t want Michael telling her anything, but he was going to be as honest with her as he could. “I hope you’ll understand that there are things I just can’t tell you.”

Her expression clouded with doubt, and her shimmering lips turned down at the corners. “Likewise,” she said quietly, but offered no reason for her remark.

Michael felt like he’d lost ground. “I can’t tell you certain things because it would put you in greater danger. But I can tell you that you’re my first priority.”

She glanced away quickly, as if she’d heard the same thing before and knew better than to believe it. Her eyes welled with tears and glistened in the half light. “Say that again.”

Michael’s heart clenched. “You’re my first priority.”

Jessie locked her gaze on his. “Why?”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Jessie swallowed hard, regretting that she’d gotten teary-eyed in front of Michael, but wanting to believe he meant what he’d said.

He sat across from her, thinking about her question, his eyes more gray than green—taking on the hue of his fleece pullover. Clad in dark jeans, his long legs were stretched out, his ankles crossed beneath her chair.

Without a word, he leaned forward, reached across the table, and invited her to take his hand.

Jessie could swear she caught a glimpse of vulnerability in his eyes. She hesitated, then she remembered what Philippe had said earlier tonight
—Sometimes you have to let yourself go and let life surprise you. There are so many unexpected pleasures, you just have to be open to them
.

She touched her fingertips to his. Softly and tentatively.

He gently clutched her fingers, and his eyes met hers. “This is why.”

Jessie held his gaze, her head swirling with emotions that had been dormant for way too long.

Michael’s eyes shifted. He looked beyond her shoulder and the floor vibrated with the tremor of footsteps. Jessie had a flashback of herself in the chart room, Ian’s footsteps in the hallway outside. The waiter came up behind her with Michael’s coffee and her hot chocolate. She self-consciously slid her hand from his and pressed down the ends of the bandages on her palm.