Innocent (Inequitable Trilogy Book 2)

by Lesli Richardson

  My timing from this point on has to be nearly perfect. It’s the only part of my plan I don’t have nailed down exactly, because there was no way for me to do a dry run first. I walk to her bedroom, close the door, pull out the burner phone, and turn it on. On it, I call up the Amazon app.

  Logged in as her, natch.

  Other than the very first time I powered it on at Leo’s, the only times it’s been powered on are when I’ve been here, at Grace’s.

  “Hey, Alexa. Text Jordan Walsh.”

  I wait while the app responds and asks what I want to say.

  “I’m sorry. Please come back. I didn’t mean it. Send.”

  Seconds later, my personal phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and, sure enough, there’s the text.

  I shove it back into my pocket. Ripping off the nitrile gloves, I hurry to the apartment’s front door and make sure the knob’s unlocked. Storming out, I slam the door behind me, and make it about halfway down the hall, where I pull up short, like something stopped me.

  I take out my personal phone, check it, and pause for a moment, so to any casual observer it looks like I’m thinking about something, before I turn around and head back to her apartment.

  Okay, that’s the first exact time locked in. It should line up nicely, between the CCTV footage and the text message time. A few seconds off here or there will be discounted as lag time or a difference in the time settings of the systems.

  I lock the front door, just in case, and go check on Grace.

  Still breathing—barely. I pull the gloves on again, peel one of her eyelids open, and gently tap her eyeball.

  No response.

  Checking her phone, I find the text I just sent myself mirrored there. While I’m in her phone, I look through the pictures and video albums and don’t find anything regarding me. I also delete her Dropbox app from the phone, just in case. When I replace the phone in her hand, I make sure the keypad function is open and all other apps are closed out.

  Next, I log in from her computer and delete her entire Dropbox account, along with the notification e-mail that appears in Gmail seconds later. I also go into her trash and delete only that message. Her tablet is in her laptop bag. I unlock it—same code, of course—and delete the Dropbox app from it, too. Then I replace it in her bag.

  Sloppy, Grace. Really fucking sloppy.

  I grab our martini glasses, wash hers, dry it, and replace it in the back of the cabinet, swapping it out for a different one. Then I mix a real martini—sans olives—and pour it into my glass. I take off my gloves, add some of the drink mix to the new glass, swirl it around, and then dump it all into the sink, making sure to let the water run for a moment to flush it out of the drain. Leaving my glass unwashed in the sink, I carry the other glass over to the sofa, press her fingers all over it, touch it to her lips several times to smear lipstick on the rim, and then set it on the coffee table, next to the drugs.

  I check her again—she’s nearly gone.

  For good measure, I retrieve the bottle of vodka from the kitchen, dump half of what’s left of it into the sink, and flush the drain with water. Then, I carry the bottle out to the living room, remove the cap and, after pressing her fingers to the cap, I drop it on the floor in front of her. Not sure how detailed CSI will get, but she is a congresswoman. My prints can be on it, but hers have to be on top of mine.

  After touching her fingers to the bottle in several places, I splash a little vodka on the coffee table, just a tiny bit in the glass, and leave the bottle sitting there next to the glass, both well within reach of where Grace lies on the couch. I tap the empty bag of Fentanyl over the glass, so a little residual powder drifts into the glass.

  Perfect.

  Pausing, I take several long, slow, deep breaths and shake my hands out to try to calm myself. Surveying the scene, I carefully look for anything I’ve missed. Me being here isn’t the problem—I will absolutely admit I was here. That’s a necessary part of the plan.

  Nothing I leave behind can contradict my story, though. The timeline has to be perfect.

  I stare at her. I’m totally fucked now if she really does have a hidden camera. I’ve swept the living room twice with a cell phone app on previous visits and didn’t find anything. So now I turn off all the lights and carefully look for any LED lights in the darkened room, in places they shouldn’t be.

  The only ones I see are on the TV, DVD player, cable box, and modem. I know the TV itself doesn’t have a camera on it, fortunately.

  Leo taught me well, showed me what to look for to help protect Elliot. Short of a full, official sweep with expensive equipment, it’s the best I can do.

  But a woman stupid enough to use the same password for multiple accounts probably isn’t smart enough to install sophisticated surveillance equipment on her own.

  One more thing—I make sure to play with the TV remote and I flip through the Netflix app on her Fire TV. One of her favorite shows is queued, so I start it bingeing.

  A sort of rattling breath softly puffs free from Grace. When I look, I see her chest is no longer moving.

  I give it another five minutes. When I check her pulse in several places, I can’t find one. I try pinching her nose shut and covering her mouth, and there’s absolutely no reaction whatsoever, involuntary or otherwise, even after a minute.

  She’s gone.

  Never even had to draw Leo’s gun, which is tucked under my shirt, inside the waistband of my compression shorts in the concealed sticky holster pouch he has for it. My belt is cinched tighter than I usually wear it as extra insurance to keep the sticky pouch in place. My backup plan was to dope Grace with the roofies and force her to drink the Fentanyl concoction at gunpoint, if I had to.

  Fortunately, that wasn’t necessary. It’s certainly a better, kinder, and more peaceful death than she deserves. No telling how many lives she’s ruined, or helped ruin, based on what Leo told me about her. Yeah, it’s tempting to rifle through the apartment, but I’m not going to do that. This must look like an accidentally self-inflicted death, and the clock’s ticking. Time of death isn’t a perfect science. As long as I have a small window where I can be seen on CCTV leaving the apartment, and I have received text messages from her after that time—which can be confirmed by them triangulating my cell phone’s location from what towers it pings in the city—I should be clear.

  From my earlier visits, I know Grace likely has no incriminating notes on her laptop. So I’m not stupid enough to do something like try to delete folders in hope of getting rid of stray files. After one more turn around the apartment, and verifying the nitrile gloves and slip of paper with dates on it are in my pockets, I move to the front door and pull out my personal cell phone. I’ve recorded our parting every time I leave, and use one from three visits ago, carefully edited.

  Opening the door, I lock the knob and then step out and turn around. I hold the door mostly closed, like she’s standing right behind it, with my head still through the gap as if I’m talking to her behind the door. I play the good-bye recording, then pull the door shut, turn, and casually head down the hall toward the elevator.

  Now my pulse spikes, the adrenaline dump really hitting me. Because I can’t fuck this up when I’m sooo damned close.

  While waiting for the elevator, I’m careful to hold my phone so the security camera can’t see the screen as I delete and purge the sound file. The hardest part of this is forcing myself to remain calm, keep my movements casual.

  I cannot act weird, jumpy, nervous. Likewise, I can’t look unusually casual, either.

  Because these videos will be reviewed by the police, I’m certain. I have to appear exactly like I did every other time I’ve left her apartment, so they can compare them, if it gets that far.

  I wait until I’m a block away from her building, where I already know there’s not a surveillance camera right on top of me, to pull out the burner.

  “Hey, Alexa. Text Jordan Walsh…”

  On foot, I hurry toward Leo�
�s apartment, texting a series of messages to my personal phone, which I reply to.

  Grace: Can you please come back later and spend the night with me?

  Me: No. I told you, I’m not coming back. Especially while you’re drunk and high.

  Grace: Please just give me a chance to show you how I feel.

  Me: Sorry, I’m not coming back tonight. We’ve talked about this.

  Grace: I’m going to drink some more if you don’t come back. And other stuff. Come save me from myself.

  Me: That’s your decision. You’re an adult. I really think you need help and should call that program you’ve been talking about. I’m not responding to you again tonight. If you need to talk to someone, call that program. I’ll talk to you tomorrow when you’re sober. Please stop texting me.

  I factory wipe the burner and power it off before I duck into an open coffeeshop to buy myself a latte with my credit card. While I’m waiting for it, I use their restroom. I pull on the nitrile gloves, pop the battery out of the burner phone, and remove the SIM card. After wiping down the battery, phone, and SIM card, I run water over them, and bend the SIM card back and forth to crack it under the stream of water. I make sure the moisture indicators on the battery have changed color and then toss it in the garbage. Then I dry the phone and SIM card, wrap them in paper towels, and pocket them. The nitrile gloves go into the garbage.

  Retrieving my coffee from the barista, I walk out and head the wrong way for a block, dropping the SIM card wadded in paper towels in a public trash can as I pass.

  It’s easy to pretend I’m a little out of it, like maybe I’m drunk. I look around, like I’ve just realized I’m heading the wrong direction. Then I change course and walk to Leo’s.

  He’d be pissed at me if he knew how many times I’ve walked around the city alone, at night, but it can’t be helped. Hopefully, he’ll never need to know.

  I dump the phone itself in another garbage can after I slip it into the nearly full latte cup a couple of blocks before. I use a napkin to remove the zip-top baggie from my pocket, and wad it up, dumping it in yet another garbage can.

  It has to be good enough.

  I’m hoping the police won’t dig too deeply. I’ve left them a clear trail to follow, and I won’t act evasive. If I don’t trigger their suspicions, chances are they won’t hunt down CCTV footage of me once I’ve left Grace’s apartment building. Especially when I present the receipt from the coffeeshop, and can have Leo hand over alarm logs for his apartment.

  Please, let it be good enough.

  * * * *

  A brief moment of panic hits me when I arrive at Leo’s and realize he’s home. I wasn’t expecting that. I thought he’d be gone until later.

  Now my hands are shaking so badly I can barely function.

  Thankfully, he’s in the shower. After three tries, I finally manage to get the combination right and open the safe so I can replace the gun. Pulling his clothes back into position and fluffing them a little, I realize…

  I think I’ve done it. Time will tell.

  Only then do I stick my head into the bathroom. “Hello, Daddy.”

  “Hey!” Leo’s smiling as his head pops around the shower curtain, his eyes darkly glittering. “What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight.”

  “Had errands. And I needed to decompress before I go get Elliot.” Technically, not a lie.

  Just not the whole truth.

  It’s still early. I don’t have to be there for over an hour yet.

  He waggles his eyebrows at me. “Care to join me?”

  Smiling, I nod. “Absolutely, Daddy. I’ll be right there.” It gives me a moment to slow my breathing, but at least shower sex will give me a legit excuse for my elevated pulse and hopefully hide why I’m agitated.

  I strip and step over his pile of dirty clothes to climb into the shower with him, where he kisses me. He must be tired to not put things in the hamper when he arrived home. He never drops his clothes on the bathroom floor like that.

  A flash of guilt hits me. When I lived with him, I took care of all of that for him.

  “Why’d you stop by earlier, baby boy? You weren’t here very long.”

  This answer was one I struggled to come up with, knowing he’d probably ask. The simplicity of what I settled on can’t be beat, even if it is a lie. “I had to poop,” I mutter, like I’m a little embarrassed to admit it.

  He bursts out laughing. “Hiked up three floors just to poop, huh?”

  The hot water feels damned good. As I close my eyes and dunk my head under the spray, I force the memory of Grace’s dead face out of my mind. “I knew it’d be a clean bathroom.”

  “Well, there is that.”

  “And I might have wanted to sniff your pillow.” That is absolutely the truth, because I knew if this operation went sideways somehow, it might have been the last contact I ever had with Leo.

  “Aww. I missed you, too, boy.” He makes love to me and I’m damned glad to have him distracting me right now, every hard thrust, every scrape of his nails along my back—all of it.

  When we finish, we’ve both come and I’m barely vertical. Still, I need a moment. “I’ll be right out, Daddy. I’m just…” What am I? Really?

  Relieved? Terrified? Nervous?

  All of the above.

  Leo thinks he knows. “Worn out?”

  “Yeah.”

  He leans in and kisses me. “Take as long as you need, baby boy. Glad to see you. I really have missed you.”

  “Missed you, too, Daddy.”

  “Love you.”

  I steal one more kiss. “Love you, too, Daddy.”

  Once I’m alone in the shower, I press my forehead against the tile and suck in sharp breaths to stave away my relieved tears.

  Killing Grace wasn’t my preference, but I had to protect Elliot.

  Now, I just have to make it through the next few days.

  And pray harder than I ever have in my life.

  Ironic, huh?

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Not going to lie—I don’t sleep very well that night. Oh, I wish I could say I was having a crisis of conscience about killing Grace, but that’s not it at all.

  It’s worrying about Elliot, and how to handle things if they try to charge me with her death.

  It’s unlikely the dealers I purchased the drugs from will remember me, or want to get involved, even if they did recognize me. I took off my glasses and dressed differently when I made the buys, and I used three different dealers spread out across three different clubs.

  That’s if my name even makes it into the news. Just because I’m the last person to have seen Grace alive doesn’t mean they’ll give my name to the press if they don’t feel I was involved. Especially since I work at the White House. I’m counting on the text messages to show I wasn’t in the apartment when she died. That she was still alive after I left. As long as they don’t do any in-depth digging, if it’s even possible to trace the location of the app and pin it to the burner phone, I should be okay.

  In my head, the official version of the evening is that Grace was drinking excessively, admitted she was high, came on to me, and I didn’t want to admit to her that I was gay. So I used her drinking and drug use as an excuse to fake umbrage at something she said, and I stormed out. But she texted me immediately, so I returned, and I tried to get her to sober up and ask for help.

  Then I left again, picked up a coffee, and stopped by Leo’s because I’d had a martini and I wanted to completely sober up before returning to campaign headquarters.

  Yes, that was my second visit to his apartment, the first earlier being that I had to poop.

  No, I never confided in Leo what was going on with Grace, because I was trying to keep my visits with her quiet. She’d confessed her history of drug abuse to me on a prior visit, and I tried to talk her into rehab. I wanted to help her, because she’s Stella’s best friend, and I felt a certain sense of loyalty because I’m friends with Elliot.


  Knowing that little factoid about her history of drug use—which Stella can confirm, if she chooses to—will give me an extra bit of veracity. Obviously, with my job and Grace’s, and the family connection through Elliot, I didn’t want to cause a scandal. I was trying to keep things quiet, but I didn’t want to be mean to Grace, or have her causing me trouble with the White House.

  I’ve slept maybe an hour total when it’s time to get Elliot up and moving the next morning.

  My boy is more observant than I wish he was. “Are you all right, Sir?”

  “I’m fine, boy. Long day yesterday, and I didn’t sleep well. Not your fault,” I quickly add. “I grabbed a coffee late in the evening, and I shouldn’t have. My own fault.”

  Again, that’s the truth, although I hate bending the truth for my boy. Even for such a noble purpose as this.

  From this point on, we’re moving so fast Elliot doesn’t have time to question me further. I go about my normal workday morning, getting Elliot to the White House and to his morning briefing, before I sit down at my desk.

  Elliot’s still in his briefing when Special Agent Stephen Lyman, the head of Elliot’s detail, walks up about fifteen minutes later, followed by two other suit-clad men who I don’t recognize but can guess who they are. “Jordan, can we talk in private for a moment?”

  This is actually not unusual, because sometimes we have to discuss campaign security and travel logistics. He always asks me down to the Secret Service office on the ground floor to do that, so we can have privacy, and so I’m not at my “government” desk when we discuss campaign matters.

  It is unusual for him to come get me in person, however.

  “Sure.” I grab my work cell and my personal cell, and we head downstairs to the Secret Service office, where the four of us are soon alone in a room.