Girl Three

by Tracy March

  You don’t know what you’re getting into with those people. His warning replayed in her mind. And for once, she had to agree with him. Except for Nina, she had no idea who to trust, if anyone.

  Traffic rumbled by on Pennsylvania Avenue. A convoy of motor coaches spewed exhaust fumes into the air, and the Capitol loomed in the background. Frigid wind whipped through Jessie’s hair and stung her face. Her fingers tingled in the pockets of her coat, and her ears were already numb. Across the park, flags snapped in the wind—massive red-and-white maple leaf flags, hung vertically between the giant columns that bordered the courtyard of the Canadian Embassy and encircled its rotunda.

  She hadn’t remembered that the courthouse was so close to the embassy. Philippe Lesort had invited her to stop by today, and now seemed like a good time to talk to her only willing source of information about Sam.

  She stood, stiff from the cold, and made the short walk to the embassy. After she was checked through main security, she entered the immense contemporary lobby, all circles and sharp angles, with a towering glass wall that gave the building an open feel. Passing the semi-circular red leather banquette that spanned the center of the room, she approached the staff security checkpoint. She stopped at the tinted window and slid her driver’s license into the trough. “I’m here to see Counselor Lesort.”

  On the other side of the glass, the middle-aged receptionist put on her reading glasses, then picked up Jessie’s ID. “Official business?” Her voice came through the speaker like a squawk.

  Jessie hesitated and shook her head once.

  “Is he expecting you?” The woman looked down at the driver’s license. “Ms. Croft?”

  “Yes. He asked me to stop by today.”

  “One moment, please.” The woman picked up her phone and turned her back.

  Jessie stepped away from the counter and studied a display map that detailed the trade and security relationship between Canada and the U.S. After several minutes, she returned to the window. Her license had been laid on the counter, on her side of the window, and the woman was gone.

  “Jessica?”

  She recognized the voice behind her and turned. “Counselor Lesort.”

  He managed to look both professional and casual in an open-collared white shirt and a charcoal-gray suit. “Counselor sounds stuffy. Call me Philippe,” he said with the disarming appeal of a cosmopolitan foreigner. “I’m surprised you came.”

  “Why?”

  “Last night seemed more about polite conversation than sincere interest.”

  “It was both.” She loosened her scarf and unbuttoned her coat. “It’s no secret that Sam and I had been out of touch before she died. I’d like to know what was going on in her life, maybe hear about some of the things I missed.” She needed Philippe to understand, and hoped he’d be honest with her. “You said you’d tell me more about Sam and the Hope Campaign.”

  The campaign itself was familiar to Jessie, as were others like it that raised awareness of bioethical issues. Over the course of her career, she’d helped many organizations establish guidelines for publicizing sensitive topics like cloning, organ transplantation, and the use of human subjects in medical research.

  “Maybe I should show you.” Philippe guided her toward a grand stone staircase that led to the lower level. “The campaign was launched a year ago—”

  “I know the basics.” Jessie sounded more bristly than she’d intended. “I’m interested in Sam’s recent involvement with the effort.”

  “I know you don’t need a primer.” His tone had sharpened. “I read your opinion piece in The Oliver Report last year. According to you, science and marketing don’t mix.” His words were melodic, yet harsh.

  She stopped mid-step, feeling defensive but afraid to alienate him. “The article was a researched perspective, not an opinion piece.”

  He lifted one shoulder. “Call it what you will. I happen to disagree.”

  Jessie followed him down the steps, one or two behind. He continued to the bottom, then turned to face her before she took the last steps. “If we don’t publicize controversial issues like embryonic stem cell research, how can we educate people, get funding, cure diseases?” He cocked his head, his jaw set.

  She took a deep breath. “My point was that you can educate and inform people without glamorizing a subject. We’re dealing with science and medicine—life or death for lots of people—not a Hollywood screenplay.” She’d had this same debate with Franz. He had been wrong, too.

  They stood in a foyer in front of a glass door. A line of tiny Canadian maple leaves was etched across its middle. A placard hung next to the door, its text in English and French:

  HOPE: The Art of Science

  Exhibit sponsored by Geneticell

  “Politics have become Hollywood,” Philippe said. “If we want to affect policy, we have to make the science glitter.”

  “Call me a purist,” Jessie said.

  “I would if I hadn’t seen you on television putting some sizzle behind alternative reproductive choices.”

  Her temper smoldered. “There was no sizzle.”

  He reached out and lifted her chin with his fingertips, then met her gaze. “You were on the screen. It was scientific séduction.”

  Jessie swallowed hard. She ignored the you-know-I’m-right look on his face and reminded herself that this was about Sam, not her.

  Philippe opened the door and motioned her inside. “Sam felt the same way we do.”

  “We?”

  “Elizabeth, Helena, Ian, and me. Plus a host of others. She was willing to put herself out there for the cause.”

  “What do you mean?”

  They stepped into a large, rectangular exhibition room, the ceiling soaring forty feet high. The bottom third of the walls was painted blood-red. Above, the contrast of stark white. Photographs of color bursts hung on the walls—in unusual shapes in vivid hues—some hidden in alcoves created by partitions. Several glass display cases dotted the room.

  Philippe stood straighter and made a sweeping gesture. “My contribution.”

  Jessie moved closer to one of the larger photographs—a kaleidoscopic image of brilliant green, blue, yellow, and red set against a black background. She scanned the text of the placard hanging next to the picture. “This is your work?”

  He gave her a satisfied nod. “My art, my exhibit. I’ve harmonized photography and science and made it compelling. Also paid homage to McCulloch and Till—”

  “Your countrymen who discovered stem cells.” She glanced around the room. “Are all of these photographs of embryonic stem cells?”

  “Some are. Others are derivative cells. Realized potential.” He pointed to a smaller work whose colors exploded like fireworks in orange and fuchsia. “Neurons created from stem cells.” His footsteps clipped on the stone floor as he walked over to another picture that looked like an impressionist painting of a psychedelic butterfly. “Insulin-secreting pancreatic cells.”

  Jessie turned slowly on her heel, taking in each photograph. Philippe had transformed science into art. Stimulating and vibrant.

  “This is—” The last picture in the exhibit short-circuited her thoughts, and she covered her mouth with her hand. “Sam.” The name hissed out, muffled beneath her fingers.

  She gazed at the larger-than-life black-and-white image of her sister. Miniature full-color versions of all of the photographs in the exhibit bordered her picture, looking like celluloid film, Sam in the middle in a starring role. Serene, alluring, alive. Her shiny hair cascaded over her shoulders and spilled behind bold blue-gray letters that spelled hope. A tag line trailed beneath it: Embryonic Stem Cell Research. She wore a selectively colorized necklace. The facets of its large grayish-blue stone reflected the camera’s flash like a demure wink.

  “That’s the Hope Diamond,” Jessie whispered. “How did you manage—”

  “Elizabeth was recently appointed to the Smithsonian’s Board of Regents. We leveraged the opportunity to give
the Hope Campaign new life.”

  Jessie had kept herself up to date on the progress of the Hope Campaign and similar projects, yet this revitalization was news to her. “When did this exhibit debut?”

  Philippe shoved his hands in his pockets. “Last week.” He bowed his head. “Just days before she died.”

  Jessie tried to think past all the questions in her mind. Had her father known that Sam had starred in the updated campaign—for an issue he vehemently opposed? And who else would benefit now that Sam had been removed from the picture?

  “Where else has this photo appeared?” Jessie asked.

  “There’s an ad blitz coming.” Philippe looked away, his eyes troubled. “It was scheduled to start yesterday, but the agency postponed it out of respect.”

  Jessie nodded, yet got the feeling he knew more. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  His eyes widened, just enough to go unnoticed if she hadn’t been watching for a reaction. He shifted his weight, flattened his fingers over his mouth, then dragged his hand beneath his chin.

  Nothing good was coming.

  He cleared his throat. “There was another, more unrestrained version of the Hope Campaign that involved Sam. You need to know this because you might find some… evidence of it when you’re going through Sam’s things.”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  “Maybe some—” A humming vibration interrupted him. He snatched his cell phone from a clip on his belt and glanced at the screen. “Sorry, I have to take this. Excuse me.” He stepped out into the foyer.

  Jessie tensed, remembering the calls that had interrupted her meeting with Franz and the presidential aide, and the shocking news that had followed.

  Philippe whisked back into the gallery with firm steps, his face determined, and his focus redirected. “The ambassador needs to see me tout de suite.”

  “Now?”

  “Five minutes ago.” He pulled a business card from the pocket of his jacket and scribbled on the back of it. “You have more questions.” He took her hand, pressed the card into her palm, and curled her fingers around it. “Come see us tonight. Meet us in the lobby around eight. We’ll have more time.”

  His phone vibrated again. He gave her an apologetic look, held it to his ear, and walked away. “Lesort.” The door closed behind him.

  Alone in the exhibit hall, Jessie sank against the wall next to the photo of Sam and stared at the ceiling. Jessie caught the faint scent of Sam’s perfume from the sweater she had borrowed from Sam’s closet.

  The door swished open and the sound of footsteps echoed in the gallery.

  She didn’t bother to look.

  “Jessica Croft?” a woman asked.

  Jessie jumped to attention and faced the receptionist from the security checkpoint upstairs.

  The woman held out a familiar-looking envelope. “Someone just left this for you.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The envelope contained another photo of Sam. This one was of her and Helena, wearing similar designer coats, standing outside the Millennium Building on K Street, their expressions grim. Sam held a cardboard box like the one Jessie had used yesterday to carry Sam’s things out of Alden & Associates. Dated February 20th, the picture had been taken almost a month after the first photo Jessie had received. Its caption confused her more than the picture itself: Sam quits Alden & Associates.

  Jessie rushed out of the embassy, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever had delivered the envelope. But the only people she saw were bundled-up passersby who didn’t even glance at her. Feeling foolish, she went back in the embassy and approached the woman at the security window.

  “Who brought in this envelope?” Jessie asked, catching her breath.

  The receptionist shook her head. “Just a regular guy. He looked like a tourist.”

  Whatever that meant.

  “He had on a black and gold Steelers jacket,” she said. “Counselor Lesort saw him, then he told me to take the envelope to you.”

  “Did Counselor Lesort know him?”

  She shrugged. “Didn’t seem to.”

  Jessie was sure they had the mystery deliveryman on surveillance tapes, but she was also sure he hadn’t been the true messenger. Trying to identify him would be a dead-end waste of time.

  She returned to the embassy’s lower level, passed the door to Philippe’s exhibit, and found an empty foyer outside a deserted theater. She checked her phone for a signal and dialed.

  “Alden and Associates,” said a perky receptionist. Other lines rang in the background.

  “This is Jessica Croft calling for Helena Alden.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Jessie pinched her eyes closed and waited.

  “Mrs. Alden is in a meeting. Would you like her voice mail?”

  “No,” Jessie said. “Interrupt her, please. This is urgent.”

  “I’m sorry, but she’s—”

  “Put Helena on the phone or I’ll be in your lobby within fifteen minutes demanding to see her.” Jessie regretted snapping at the receptionist, but the words were already out of her mouth. Desperate for answers, yet faced with more questions, she hoped she could keep her composure when she spoke with Helena.

  An awkward moment passed. “Hold, please.”

  Jessie’s gut clenched. She paced the plush carpet.

  “Jessie,” Helena’s voice flared on the line. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes, something’s wrong. I lied about the picture I said I found in Sam’s things. Someone sent it to me anonymously. Now they’ve sent me another one. If you’re my secret pal, cut the act and fill in the blanks. If you’re not, then it should interest you to know that two faces are common to both pictures. Yours and my dead sister’s.”

  Silence. Then, the sound of a door closing.

  “I’ve also learned about Sam’s involvement with the Hope Campaign,” Jessie said. “Both versions. Have I got your attention?”

  More silence. “What do you want from me?” Helena asked.

  “Answers. And I’m on my way to your office to get them.”

  “Today’s not a good day.”

  “Tomorrow won’t be any better. Call the lobby and put my name on the list.”

  “I won’t be here. There’s a vote next week and with Sam gone—”

  “Then I’ll go see Ian.”

  “No,” Helena said, too fast. “Don’t do that.”

  “Then give me a reason not to.”

  For a moment, Jessie thought the line had gone dead.

  “I’ll meet you after work,” Helena said. “Six o’clock, in the bar at the Market Inn.”

  Jessie had never heard of the Market Inn but had Googled it and gotten directions. After fighting the rush-hour crowd on the Metro, she’d emerged from the underground L’Enfant Plaza station amid mostly unremarkable office buildings and headed for the restaurant.

  Even at this early evening hour, darkness had toned down the gray atmosphere to near black, and it was hard for her to tell where one building ended and the next one began. She passed several government workers with their coats open to the cold, their ID badges swinging from lanyards around their necks. Most people were heading toward the Metro as Jessie walked away from it. The farther she got from the station, the fewer people she saw.

  She crossed the street to the next block of office buildings, and the area became bleaker. The few restaurants and retail shops she passed were already closed, the nine-to-five crowd they catered to gone until tomorrow. It didn’t make sense that Helena would want to meet her in this part of town when her K Street office was surrounded by swanky bars and cafes.

  By the time Jessie reached the middle of the block, she wondered if she were lost. She checked her directions. If they were right, she was on track, with a little farther to go. Glancing behind her, she saw a man standing by a trash can lighting a cigarette, a few other people walking in the other direction, and the driver of a BMW inching the car out from an underground par
king garage. Every noise seemed amplified by the concrete and the cold—the static of her heels on the grainy sidewalk, the rev of the car’s engine.

  Paranoia crept up Jessie’s spine and wrapped around her neck, tighter than her scarf. She hadn’t seen anyone specifically, but she felt like someone was following her, matching her steps but hanging back. At the next corner, she whipped around in time to catch a sliver of movement. Someone had ducked into the entrance alcove of the building she’d just passed. Or had her eyes been tricked by the glare of the headlights of the approaching taxi?

  Jessie decided to hail the cab, then saw that it was occupied, so she picked up her pace, hurrying toward the next block. The streetscape became a dimmer rerun of what had come before, with fewer people around.

  Fewer witnesses.

  Had she been set up? Fear gripped her as she sensed the person following her moving closer. She broke into a run, each strike of her heels on the frozen concrete reverberating up her legs.

  Slowing a bit, she turned to look behind her and the toe of her boot caught on an uneven seam in the sidewalk. She stumbled forward, lost her balance, and tried to catch herself. In what seemed like slow motion, she fell. Her hands skidded across the sidewalk, ripping one of her gloves, her palm burning as it tore. She drew in a quick breath, winced at the searing pain, and scrambled to her feet, expecting someone to have appeared to take advantage of her fall. But a quick scan of the area revealed no one. Jessie continued walking.

  Fast.

  After another block, the sound of highway traffic hummed in the near distance. At the end of the street, tucked beneath an overpass in a small, gloomy corner, she saw the Market Inn. A rush of relief almost dulled the sting of the cuts on her hand.

  A low burgundy awning covered the entrance and a deserted outdoor dining area. And the place wasn’t an inn like she’d imagined, just a restaurant and lounge.

  Jessie glanced behind her.

  No one there.

  She crossed the street and hurried inside. In the cramped foyer, she gingerly pulled off her torn glove. Her hand was cut and bloody, grainy with sand and tiny rocks. She asked the hostess to point her toward the ladies’ room. As she made her way to the back of the restaurant, she pegged it as circa 1945, all dark wood veneer and worn red Naugahyde. But the ladies’ room had been updated—sometime around the early seventies.