Shattered Virtue

by Magda Alexander

  After we’re served, Mitch unfurls his napkin over his lap before he asks, “How’s Madrigal doing?” He leans forward, causing me to think his interest is more than casual.

  “Smart, focused, dedicated to the law. She’ll make a fine lawyer from what I can see.” She might have been forced on me, but I have to give credit where credit’s due.

  “That’s good,” he says after biting into his chicharrón.

  I may have been warned off the subject, but I can’t let it go. Something about Madrigal pushes me to find out as much as I can about her. “What happened to her parents?” Their murders occurred before I came to work at the firm, but I’d learned about them through the office grapevine.

  His gaze turns glacial. “That subject is off-limits.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s none of your business, that’s why,” he spits out.

  “She’s my intern.”

  “And her parents’ murders have nothing to do with that job.”

  “Mitch, one way or another, I’ll find out. Wouldn’t it be better if it came from you?”

  His hand tightens on his water glass before he takes a sip. “The Berkeleys’ house was broken into. A home invasion gone wrong. That’s how Holden ended up with the girls.”

  “And the killers were caught but let off on a technicality.”

  “Yes, they were.”

  “Did Holden conduct his own investigation into the matter? I can’t believe he wouldn’t have done so.”

  “He didn’t, as far as I know.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “After his daughter was murdered, he had to contend not only with the girls but his own grief. He had more than enough to deal with at the time.”

  “But—”

  Mitch holds up his hand. “Enough. That’s as much as I’m going to say about this topic. Can we get back to our dinner, please?”

  He knows a hell of a lot more than he lets on, but I won’t get anything else out of him. At least not tonight. I’ll have to do some digging on my own.

  I think we’re done with the subject, but after we finish with the appetizers, he surprises me. “She’s the spitting image of Marlena, her mother.”

  Madrigal’s lovely enough to make a saint weep, so if she resembles her mother, she must have been something else. “Is she? Beautiful name.”

  He nods. “Beautiful girl. After prep school, Marlena went off to William & Mary while I headed to Harvard. She fashioned herself a poet.” The small smile that lights up his face conveys fondness and a touch of sadness.

  “Did she become one?”

  “No. She met Tom, her husband, at William & Mary, and that was that. She married him right out of college and settled into complacent domesticity. Madrigal was born soon after their wedding.”

  The way he talks about Madrigal’s mother makes me think there’s more to the story than a friendship, but Mitchell only shares what he wants to share, so it won’t do any good to push him. I’ll need to find out another way.

  Our waiter interrupts once more with our main entrées—suckling pork for him, Angus New York steak for me with a side of Idaho baked potatoes stuffed with Parmesan cheese, bacon, chives.

  “How’s Dick Slayton?” he asks once we’ve dug into our food. An obvious attempt to change the subject.

  Fine. I’ll play along. “Pissed because I stole the twelfth-floor suite from him.”

  “Be careful, Trenton. He’s the wrong man to make an enemy.”

  “Is that why you left? Because you got in his way?” He’d never shared his reason for leaving the firm, but I always suspected it’d been a disagreement between him and Dick Slayton.

  “No. It was time. After twenty years at Gardiner, I needed a fresh pasture.”

  “Sure you did.”

  Eight years ago, I’d been brought on board at Gardiner by Mitchell, who vouched for me. Even though I didn’t attend an Ivy League school like most of the partners in the firm, Holden hired me on his word. I’d come through, bringing in business right away. Once I’d managed to keep a congressman from landing in jail, my place in the firm had been secured. But I never would have been hired in the first place without Mitchell’s support.

  “Your money is still in a blind trust?” Old habits die hard. From the time we first met, he’s tried to keep me on the straight and narrow, so he asks that question regularly, to make sure I don’t mess up.

  “Where else would it be?” Legal ethics require I don’t invest in any business associated with the firm. So to keep from getting into a conflict of interest, I placed the money I made playing the stock market in college into a blind trust that earns hundreds of thousands a year, so I’m not hurting for money. But without Mitchell I never would have learned how to invest in the first place.

  “With your financial savvy, Trenton, I never understood why you didn’t work as an investment banker. You could have made millions.”

  Biting into a succulent slice of the steak, I smirk. “I have made millions.”

  “You could have run your own investment firm.”

  I shake my head. “I never wanted to manage other people’s money. Only my own. Now I don’t even get to do that.” I lift a shoulder. Once I’d figured out how to make money off the stock market, it’d become less of a challenge. Defense law, on the other hand, is another thing entirely. You never know the outcome. Too many variables involved. “But I do get to defend those who can’t afford decent legal representation.”

  “As well as those who are guilty as sin,” Mitch says. Even though he understands what drives me to represent those charged with a crime, he’s never cottoned to my practicing criminal law. He’s much more comfortable advising clients, which he’d done when he worked at the firm. In his current job as the head of the Investment Management Division of the SEC, he deals with the same issues, albeit from the government side.

  “Who amongst us isn’t, Mitchell? Haven’t you done your share of sinning? I know I have.” Last night after the cocktail party, I’d visited the delectable Selena. I owed her after canceling our date because of Bernie’s arrest. But burying myself in her heat did nothing for me. My heart hadn’t been in it. Not anymore. All I could think about was another face, a much younger one, with dark hair and pansy-blue eyes. After we fucked, I’d left Selena’s bed and headed home. I don’t think I’ll see her again.

  “So anything new on the horizon?” he asks.

  “A trip to North Carolina to visit Willie Vaughn.”

  “The death row inmate?”

  “Yes. His case is finally coming up on appeal. Holden asked me to take Madrigal.”

  His fork clatters to his plate. “Why?”

  “I told you. He’s hoping that she’ll switch sides. Plus, Willie’s case plays right into her wheelhouse. She’ll be able to apply what she knows.” I might not be totally on board with her tagging along, but the case will be a great learning experience for her.

  Resting against the back of his chair, he studies me. “You’ve changed so much since you were a kid. Sometimes I forget how far you’ve come.”

  I may object to his interfering and questioning of my career choices, but I owe him much. So I lift my wine goblet to him in acknowledgment of everything he’s done for me. “Thanks to you.”

  He clinks his water glass with mine. “And Holden. He took a chance when most partners wouldn’t have given you the time of day.”

  “Including Slayton.”

  “Most especially him.”

  After dinner, I head to my condo in Crystal City with its breathtaking view of the nation’s capital. Ditching my suit, I slip into a pair of silk pajama pants and a robe and pour a glass of my best Chardonnay. The night is clear, the moon’s full, so I let my mind drift back to those childhood days. Dinner with Mitchell always brings back painful memories. I suppose it’s
the price I have to pay for the good he did me. A snotty-nosed kid from one of the worst sections in the city, I was a fourteen-year-old badass, a drug mule. When I was caught with contraband, he’d been the attorney assigned to my case. After a fifteen-minute conversation, he’d personally vouched for me, promising the judge he’d keep me out of trouble. When the judge agreed, Mitch sat me down and told me in no uncertain terms exactly what I would have to do. Terrified as I was of going to juvie hell, I agreed to his plan.

  He worked with social services to find a foster care family that actually gave a damn about the kids they took in, and then he followed up with me twice a week, checking to make sure I went to school and did my homework. He hauled me into a Boys & Girls Club where he not only helped me with my homework but also taught me what it would take to make it in life. After I met him, I did my best to stay out of trouble, but trouble found me one day. When I refused to join their gang, some crackheads almost beat me to death. If it hadn’t been for Bernie, I would have met the grim reaper that day. So, yeah, I owe both of them—Bernie and Mitch. And I always pay my debts.

  CHAPTER 6

  Madrigal

  A management committee meeting keeps Gramps at the office, so I head home by myself. I want to figure out what to wear the next day to prison. The absurdity of such a thing is not lost on me. But, of course, it’s not just concern about what to wear to prison but what to wear around him. Trenton Steele.

  As I’m digging through my closet, someone knocks on my door.

  “Come in,” I yell.

  Olivia strolls in, looking worried about something, but then she always is. Between managing the house, keeping up with Maddy and me, and dealing with Gramps’s occasional flare-ups, both emotional and physical, she’s got her hands full. “Your grandfather didn’t come home with you?”

  “No.” I explain what kept him in the office.

  “Should we delay dinner?”

  “No. God only knows when the meeting will end. If it goes long enough, they’ll have food brought in.” Not the first time that’s happened.

  I grab a navy-blue pantsuit and hold it in front of me while glancing into the vintage full-length mirror I inherited from my mother.

  “Figuring out what to wear tomorrow?” she asks, wringing her hands.

  “Yes. I’m flying to North Carolina. With Trenton Steele.”

  “Why?”

  “He has to interview a death row inmate, and Gramps wants me to go along.”

  “It’s just the two of you?”

  “Yes.” I stop looking in the mirror to glance at her. Her brows are scrunched together. Clearly, she doesn’t approve.

  She’s such a worrywart. When I was a teenager, she worried about my interaction with boys. I chalked it up to her mama-hen side coming out. Now that I’m twenty-four, though, her attitude rankles. Still, I know she’s coming from a good place. “Don’t worry, Olivia. It’s only a one-day thing. We’ll go down in the morning and fly back in the afternoon.”

  “I don’t understand why your grandfather wants you along on this trip.”

  “He thinks a visit to an inmate in prison will somehow sway me to the criminal defense side.”

  “But it’s so dangerous.”

  I toss the outfit I’m previewing on the bed and hug her. “Don’t worry so much. The prisoners are behind bars. And there are lots of guards.”

  “Sometimes those prisoners manage to break out. And it’s not just them I’m worried about.”

  “You’re worried about Trenton Steele?”

  “I’ve . . . heard stories about him.”

  “Such as.”

  “He loves women.”

  I grin. “As most men do.”

  “He has quite a reputation.”

  “And how do you know this? He’s never attended any of Gramps’s picnics.”

  “People . . . talk at those picnics and the holiday dinners.”

  “Who talks?”

  She looks down at her hands. “I’d rather not say. It would be tattling.”

  “And it’s not tattling to talk about Mr. Steele behind his back?” I don’t know why I’m defending him when he was such a troll at the office.

  “That’s different. I’m trying to look out for you.”

  I toss my arm around her shoulders and hug her to me. “You have nothing to worry about, my dear Olivia. The man can’t stand me.”

  “Why?”

  Well, that ruffled her feathers. “Because Gramps demanded he take me to North Carolina. I dare to say right now I’m his least favorite person.”

  “That’s good.”

  I laugh. “Come on. Help me choose what to wear. Should I wear a dress”—I grab a red dress and swish it in front of me—“or the pantsuit?” The navy-blue outfit gets the same treatment.

  “The suit. Makes you look more professional. If you wear a dress, those prisoners and Mr. Steele might get ideas.” She steps behind me, grabs a mass of my hair, and coils it at my neck. “And downplay your hair and makeup.”

  I retrieve a skirt suit from my closet, but she shakes her head. “No. Not that one. The navy-blue pantsuit is the better choice. More comfortable on the plane. Low heels. Nondescript purse. And no jewelry.”

  “Not even my gold studs?” I ask, pinching my ears.

  “Don’t want to give anyone ideas.”

  “Okay, the navy-blue pantsuit it is.”

  “Here.” She takes it from me and grabs a pair of navy-blue low-heeled pumps from the cedar shoe drawer. “I’ll have Katie press it and shine the shoes.”

  I smile, which prompts a questioning look from her.

  “It’s odd to worry about how to dress for jail.”

  She tosses her head, and her brown bob sways over her shoulders. “Not odd at all. You want to wear your best for every occasion.”

  “Including visiting a death row inmate.”

  “Yes.” She darts a glance toward the door and looks back at me.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I’m worried about Madison.”

  My senses go on alert. “Did something happen to her?”

  “Today was her first day at that newspaper internship.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Well, as soon as she came home, she holed herself in her room. I knocked on her door to see if she wanted a snack before dinner—you know how she is about food.”

  “Yes.” Madison can eat anything and not gain an ounce. I, on the other hand, so much as look at a pastry and blimp up ten pounds. There’s no justice in this world.

  “Well, she said she wasn’t hungry.”

  I shrug my shoulder. “Maybe she got something to eat on the way in.”

  “No, she didn’t. She looked like she’d been crying.”

  Okay, not wanting to get a snack is one thing, but combined with red eyes means something else. “I’ll go talk to her.”

  “Thank you. Dinner will be ready in an hour. That should give you enough time to find out what’s wrong.”

  “Here’s hoping.” Mad doesn’t always share her trials and tribulations with me. Sometimes she keeps things to herself. That’s what comes from being so many years apart in age. An eight-year difference means I was in law school when she suffered through her early teens. I never developed the role of a confidante. I try to make up for my absence during the times we are together, but it’s not nearly enough.

  Her room is right next to mine, so I don’t have to go far. I rap my knuckles against the wood. For good measure, I jiggle the doorknob only to find out it’s locked. “Maddy. It’s Madrigal. Let me in.”

  “Go away.”

  “Come on, Madison. Olivia’s worried about you. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

  Feet pound across the room, something clicks, and she throws open the door. She does not cr
y pretty. Her eyes are red, and so is her nose. “Satisfied?”

  “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Things didn’t go as expected at your internship?”

  “They went fine. They love me.” She throws herself on her bed and cuddles the teddy bear she’s had since she was two against her chest. Uh-oh. She’s definitely upset. She only grabs Mr. Blue when there’s something seriously wrong.

  I lock the door behind me before I take a seat on her bed. “So why are you crying?”

  “Because.” She sniffles and pulls a tissue to wipe her face.

  “I’m going to need more than that.”

  “I was assigned to Ted Hollingsworth. The investigative reporter who won the Pulitzer Prize.”

  “Yes, I know.” Ted Hollingsworth had reported on a scheme that had been going on for years where highly ranked officials took kickbacks from construction companies in exchange for contracts for street construction projects in DC.

  “He’s working on something confidential. He wouldn’t tell me what it was, but he sent me down to the newspaper morgue to get some files on something that happened several years ago.”

  The morgue is the newspaper office where files and materials from former newspaper investigations are kept. “And?”

  “I called ahead, but when I got there, they couldn’t find the file he wanted, so I volunteered to help them look. The file he wanted was from 2002. And . . . while looking, I came across . . . a file on our parents’ deaths.”

  Oh, my God. “Tell me you didn’t look at it.”

  “Of course I did. It was right there. I pulled it along with what he wanted. Gave him his file but kept the other one. I looked at it over lunch.”

  “Madison, that’s . . . You shouldn’t have. You could get into a lot of trouble if they find out.”

  “That’s the least of our problems, Madrigal. There were pictures there of the m-murder scene.” She dissolves into sobs.

  I hug her. “Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.” I’ve never seen those pictures. Gramps would never allow it.

  “The pictures. They’re so . . . gruesome. How could anybody do that to our mother? How could anybody beat her to death, slit her throat? She was so beautiful. She wasn’t beautiful in those pictures. And now . . .” She digs under her pillow. To my horror, she pulls out a manila folder. “Here. Take them. I don’t want them near me anymore.”