Shattered Trust (Shattered #2)

by Magda Alexander

  “To get your take on things.” We’d taken Criminal Law I and II at Yale, and Cristina had gotten the highest grade in both classes. She can analyze cases like nobody’s business and understands the intricacies of criminal jurisprudence better than anyone I know. Except for Steele, that is.

  With her behind me, I stroll into our newly created evidence room and hand her a binder outlining the facts of the case. The board clearly delineates the timeline of all the known events. Charlie managed to get his hands on photos of all the players, from the two men who broke into the house to my parents to the house staff. We’ve pieced together what happened, what I remembered from my mother’s diary, and what I recall from before that day.

  After I introduce her to Charlie, who’s studying the detective’s file and scribbling away, Cristina taps the binder. “Can I make notes?”

  “Yes. That’s your copy.”

  It takes her an hour to review the narrative. While she reads, I jot down a couple of things I want to ask her.

  Once finished, she sits back, rubs the space between her eyes. “Are you sure those two burglars didn’t do it?”

  “About ninety-nine percent. Neither had ever committed anything but robberies or been involved in anything violent before they broke into our house. The one that’s still alive doesn’t appear to have the smarts God gave him. Of course, he’s a stoner, so his brain could have been fried from too many drugs. But I don’t believe they killed my parents.”

  “Why do you think that?” she asks.

  “The one I talked to liked my mother. He liked the fact that she served him food and attended to them. I don’t think he had it in him to kill her, especially as horribly as . . .” I catch my breath and will away the images.

  “What happened to the house you lived in? Was it sold?”

  “No. My grandfather kept it, maybe for sentimental reasons. Or maybe he had another motive.”

  “Have you gone there?”

  “No. Not since”—I wave my hand at the board—“the murders occurred. Aside from the fact my grandfather would have never approved, I couldn’t make myself return.”

  “It won’t be easy for you to visit your old home, but you know you’ll need to do so, don’t you?” Kindness shines from her eyes, as well as a bit of tough love.

  “Yes, I do. And I will. Soon.”

  Rather than push me on the subject, she flips to a page in the binder. “The summary states that Madison saw your grandfather burying something in the backyard.”

  “That’s right. She was only four at the time, though.”

  She tosses her head. “An unreliable witness at best.”

  A knock on the door interrupts us. “Come in.”

  My sister pokes in her head, her face bright with curiosity. “Hi.”

  Talk about the devil. “Back from your ride already?” I ask.

  “Yeah. It’s too hot out there,” she says, stepping into the room. “Marigold was having a hard time with the heat. So I came back. After I hosed her down, I took a shower myself.”

  A braid of gold hangs down her back. Her T-shirt and jeans are crisp and neat. I’m glad she took the time to clean up before dropping in on us. Sometimes she brings the eau de stable with her. “You remember Cristina?”

  “Yeah, hi.” She waves at her. Even though she’s been on a regular course of her meds for only a few days, she’s calmer, less volatile. Still a bit restless, though.

  “What are you guys doing?” she asks. Like she doesn’t know.

  “Cristina’s helping me go over the evidence. Fresh set of eyes and all that.”

  “I can be a fresh set of eyes.” Her eagerness tugs at my heart. She wants to help, but I’m afraid of what it might do to her. I couldn’t eat for a day after looking at those photos.

  “I don’t know about that, Maddy.”

  “I can handle it, Mad. I saw those pictures, remember?”

  Cristina’s gaze swivels back to me. “What pictures?”

  “Madison discovered photos from the crime scene at the Washington Courier morgue the week she interned there.”

  “Why aren’t they up here?” Cristina points at the big whiteboard, which outlines every known fact of the case.

  Recalling the bloody images, I shudder. “Too gruesome.”

  “I can take a look at them to see if I can spot some clues. If you don’t mind, that is.” Even though I will not allow Maddy to lay eyes on those pictures again, Cristina is another matter entirely. And she’s right. She might see something in those images that I can’t. But it’s already six, and going over all of the evidence we’ve collected as well as the photos will take some time.

  “It’s kind of late to start that now. Can you stay until tomorrow?”

  Her head bobs up and down. “I can stay the whole weekend. Scott’s in Minnesota with his senator. They’re getting ready to launch an initiative, and they want to drum up as much support as they can in her home state. Won’t be back until Monday night.”

  I’m thrilled to hear that. Cristina’s got a wicked sense of humor, so having her around will be fun. Something Maddy and I sorely need. “Great. I’ll have one of the maids prepare a room for you.”

  After I work out the details, I head off to my bedroom, where I’ve kept the photos that Madison “borrowed” from the Washington Courier when she interned there. After Gramps’s death she never resumed her internship and so didn’t have the chance to put the photos back where they belong. Frankly, I don’t want her to do so now. If she were caught, God only knows the kind of trouble she’d be in. Given she was asked to look for something else in the newspaper files during the one week she worked there, even someone without brains could figure out that she was the one who took the photos. So we’ll have to find a way to return them. In the meantime, Cristina’s right. We’ll need to examine them to get a clearer picture of what happened that night.

  Unlocking the file cabinet where I keep important papers, I retrieve the photos, head back downstairs, and hand them to Cristina.

  While Cristina studies the images, Madison’s busy inspecting the evidence board, which runs the gamut from the timeline to photos of our parents while they were alive, to accounts of the evidence she contributed the night of the murders, and to the interviews with the staff the morning my parents were found. After the maid who discovered them screamed down the house, everyone had come running—the other maid; Helga, our cook; Hans, our gardener and general jack-of-all-trades; and, of course, Olivia.

  Madison turns back to me. “Sally discovered Mom and Dad?” Sally had been only eighteen at the time. To say the discovery had traumatized her and she’d needed to be calmed down is an understatement. She’d quit that day and never returned, which was just as well, since our household transferred to Gramps’s mansion, complete with cook, handyman, Olivia, and us. The other maid, whose name I can’t remember, had quit as well.

  “Yes. You don’t remember that?”

  She scrunches her brow. “No. I remember Olivia waking me and telling me I had to stay in my room. I played with my dolls until Gramps came and took me away. I recall hearing a lot of people in the house, coming and going, someone sobbing.”

  “What did Olivia tell you?”

  “That I was going to spend some time with Gramps. I wanted to say good-bye to Mom, but she wouldn’t let me. On the way out, as I walked by our parents’ bedroom door, the smell wasn’t right. You remember how Mom always smelled of honeysuckle?”

  “Yes, it was her favorite cologne.”

  “It didn’t smell like that. It smelled strange. Like copper.”

  Blood. She’d smelled the blood. I shudder while mentally thanking Olivia for rushing my four-year-old sister out of the house. At least she hadn’t been traumatized by the sight of that blood-drenched room.

  Cristina’s eyes mist at Madison’s tale. She clears her throat. “Where’s Trenton?”

  “Setting up his new office in Crystal City. The Realtor is showing him some properties.” />
  Her head comes up. “You’re not helping him?”

  “He wants to surprise me, so he won’t let me see it until it’s all done. He should be back by dinnertime.”

  “When’s that?”

  “Seven.”

  Time passes while everyone resumes their activities—Charlie continues with his inspection of the detective’s file and Madison scrutinizes the board. At one point she grabs a legal pad and a pen, pulls up a chair, and starts making notes.

  After a while, Cristina asks, “Does Mr. Stone come and go or is he a permanent fixture?” It’s a casual question, but she doesn’t fool me for a minute. She’s interested in Hunter Stone.

  “He comes and goes. Today he’s got the evening shift from four until midnight. He’ll be back tomorrow as well.”

  “Will he join us for dinner?”

  “No. He eats in the kitchen with the staff.”

  “Darn.”

  Chapter 17

  Trenton

  At Friday’s dinner, Rayne Adams had shown an interest in the new office location. So when she calls to find out when I’m meeting with the Realtor, I’m not surprised that she asks if she can accompany me. The three of us spend a couple of hours touring several listings. Rayne points out the weakness in one of them—the building only has tenant parking, which would make it difficult for our clients to park nearby. Another space, she says, would face the sun during the hottest time of day, which would not be a good thing during the summer. But the third location is perfect. Although the building is older, some of the build-out work has already been done.

  “How big is it?” I ask.

  “Five thousand square feet,” says the Realtor. “A not-for-profit corporation leased the space, but halfway into the negotiations, their funding fell through, so they had to back out. The owner is eager, so he’s willing to cut a deal. First year’s rent is thirty-five dollars a square foot.”

  “This could work,” I say. The building is centrally located right in the heart of Crystal City and only a block away from the Metro stop. Five large offices, three smaller ones, a kitchen/employee lounge, and a nice-sized reception area. We would share the lavatories with only one other tenant on the floor. “Okay. I’m sold.”

  “Not so fast,” Rayne interjects. She rattles off a bunch of requirements I’d never dreamed of asking for. By the end of the conversation, I’m reasonably assured we’ve gotten an excellent deal.

  “And the best part is you can move in right away,” Rayne says over a quick lunch at an eatery across the street. “Once you sign the lease, we could go shopping for furniture, paintings, and such.”

  “Paintings?” An interior designer I’m not. I paid somebody to furnish my apartment.

  “You need something to hang on the walls, at least in the reception area. Don’t worry; I know a place. We could go look now if you want.”

  “Sure. No time like the present.”

  We spend the afternoon picking out office furniture at a warehouse and paintings and other decorative accents at an Alexandria, Virginia, antiques shop. “How do you know about these places?”

  “I live down the street. I’ve window-shopped at this store on weekends more times than I can count. I could never afford most of the things here,” Rayne says. “That painting you bought of a Virginia foxhunt is perfect. You have great taste.” She’s being generous. My idea of decor is a coatrack by the door. But Rayne managed to cobble together a bunch of items that I believe will lend the right tone. “Virginia country-manor chic, that’s what it is.”

  Never heard of such a thing, but then what do I know?

  “Where shall we deliver the goods, sir?” the clerk asks.

  “Can you hold it in storage? Shouldn’t be more than a week.” I can’t very well ask them to deliver to the new office before I’ve signed the lease.

  “No problem. Just sign here.” The price for the decorative items would have floored a lesser man. Thank God I can afford it.

  “All these furnishings sprinkled in the reception area will instantly give the place class, you’ll see.” Rayne glances at her watch. “Gotta run. Have a wedding to attend. I need to go home and prepare for it.”

  “Thanks for the help, Rayne. Couldn’t have done this without you.”

  “You’re welcome. Hope the space is available by next weekend. All the stuff could be delivered by then. I’ll help set up. You’ll want to welcome new clients as soon as possible.”

  “The smell of sawdust and fresh paint will still be in the air.”

  “They’ll understand. Don’t worry. See you next Saturday?”

  “You bet.”

  Being so close, I decide to stop by my Crystal City apartment and pack more clothes. I run into my maid, who’s busy vacuuming.

  “I put your mail on the counter, Mr. Steele.”

  “Thanks.”

  I go through the usual—sales flyers, bills, solicitations from charities, and discover one letter with no return address. Curious, I open it.

  Trenton Steele,

  You think you’re good enough for Madrigal Berkeley? Ha. What a laugh. You’re nothing but a guido. Your father was a fall-down drunk, your mother a whore, and your brother a drug mule. Did you enjoy what you did with your foster brothers in your room? I bet you did. I bet you loved getting fucked in the ass.

  You faggot.

  Madrigal Berkeley is too good for the likes of you. Stay away from her, or I’ll tell her what you did the summer you were ten.

  “Anything wrong, Mr. Steele?” Manuela asks.

  I breathe hard before letting the air out. “No. Nothing. Just some bills, that’s all. I’ll be in the bedroom. Got some packing to do.”

  “Going somewhere?”

  “I—” How do I explain what I’m doing? Temporarily moving in with my girlfriend? Madrigal is so much more than that. “Yes. Something like that.”

  I pull out my biggest suitcase and spend the next hour picking out suits, shirts, oxford blacks and tennis shoes, underwear. The sweats remind me I’ll need to find a place close to Madrigal’s house to work out. She doesn’t own a single piece of gym equipment. A temporary fitness membership will do. Of course, I don’t know when I’ll find the time with everything that’s going on.

  The maid comes to the door and knocks. “I’m leaving now, Mr. Steele.”

  “Thanks, Manuela.”

  When the apartment grows quiet and I know she’s gone, I head to the kitchen and pour myself some wine. My hand trembles as I stare at the goddamned letter. Who sent it? And how the fuck does he know about my past? Except for those sons of bitches who jumped me, held me down and raped me, nobody knows what went down that night. After it happened, I’d run away and hidden under a bridge. It’d been fall and bitter cold. God only knows what would have happened to me if a policeman hadn’t found me huddled under a cardboard box. He’d hauled me to juvie while they straightened things out. Too ashamed to talk about what they’d done to me, I refused to talk. But two days later, one of the bastards who raped me got busted for dealing drugs and was thrown in juvie with me. I avoided him and his new buddies as much as I could. But they found me again. If it weren’t for some members of a Latino gang who came to my rescue and kicked the shit out of them, they would have made me their bitch. Two days later I went to a different foster home. The boy I shared my room with was younger than me, and there were no older foster kids in the house. So I’d felt safe, at least for a little while.

  The memories I’ve fought so hard to suppress riot loud and clear across my mind. Once again the bitter taste of blood fills my mouth. God knows I’d tried to fight back. But a ten-year-old is no match against two fourteen-year-olds. They’d punched me, almost broken my nose. Took turns raping me. One held me down while the other had a go at me. And afterward, when I’d lain torn and bleeding, they’d laughed and tossed me on the blood-soaked mattress like unwanted refuse. Other than the day I learned my brother was dead, that was the worst day of my life. And somebody knows about
my shameful past. Somebody who intends to use that information to take Madrigal from me.

  I grab the edge of the counter, throw back my head, and howl with anger, sorrow, and pain while hot tears rain down my face. With one arm, I sweep everything off the counter. The goblet and bottle crash to the floor, and the pungent scent of the burgundy rises up. Wrapping my arms around me, I collapse against the refrigerator door. Its cold metallic surface cools my rage. Gradually my breathing slows until the air whooshes in and out of my lungs and my heart beats in a saner rhythm.

  The wine bleeds over the tile while the glass shards sparkle in the bright kitchen light. Manuela would be upset to see all her hard work gone to waste. Exhausted, I grab a mop and broom and get to work.

  Chapter 18

  Madrigal

  “I think you should bring Hunter Stone into the investigation,” Cristina says. Honestly, she doesn’t give up.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Fresh set of eyes, and he’s an experienced investigator.”

  I smile. “You just want him in here so you can ogle his fine ass.”

  Charlie chuckles and shakes his head. He’s so quiet, sometimes I forget he’s here.

  “Hello? Teenager in the room,” Madison exclaims.

  “Oh, like you’ve never noticed a man’s ass before,” Cristina tosses in her direction.

  “I have.” She twirls the end of her braid. “But I don’t talk about it.”

  “Well, you’ve missed out on some serious girl talk. I’ll have to teach you some of its finer points.”

  “I agree with Ms. Sanchez,” Charlie pipes up.

  What? “You think Hunter Stone has a fine posterior?” I ask.

  Laughing, he holds up his hands. “I meant his expertise. Hunter Stone has extensive experience investigating criminal matters. I’ve used him a couple of times when I’ve run into walls.”

  I rub my bottom lip while I think about it.

  “You are paying him,” Cristina offers, “and he must be bored to tears sitting out there all by himself.”

  “That’s the job,” I say.

  “It still has to be tedious as all get-out. What do you have to lose by showing him the evidence?”