Shattered Trust (Shattered #2) (11 page)

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?”

“Nothing, I guess. Very well.” I stand up and go looking for him. He’s right where he should be, by the front door. “Hunter, I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

He comes to his feet. “Of course.”

“I’ve been investigating my parents’ murders. That’s why Charlie and Cristina are here.”

“I heard some rumblings about it, and of course I couldn’t help but overhear when Ms. Sanchez showed up.”

Darn. I’ll have to be more careful when I discuss the case. “Both Cristina and Charlie suggested you might be able to help us analyze the evidence. Would you mind?”

“No. Not at all. Let me get Alicia to cover the front door. She’s monitoring the security equipment.” Once he takes care of that detail, we head to the evidence room.

As soon as she spots him, Cristina’s eyes light up. Glad I made one person happy, because once Steele finds out, he’s going to be upset. No matter how much he denies it, he’s a bit jealous of our security guard. And when he discovers I’ve brought Stone into the investigation, he’s likely to go ballistic.

As soon as I firmly close the door behind Stone, I turn to Charlie. “Could you catch up Hunter on the facts of the case?”

“Sit over here, Chief,” Charlie says, patting a spot next to him on the settee.

Great. He’s calling Hunter “chief,” the same moniker he uses for Steele. Strike two.

After handing him the binder that contains all the known information surrounding the murders, Charlie walks him through the evidence. When he gets to the gruesome details, I ask Madison to leave. I don’t want her suffering nightmares again.

I’m proud of her when, without a single word of protest, she walks out of the room.

Once Hunter’s caught up, we spend the next hour discussing the evidence.

“Who was at the house that night?” he asks.

“My mother and father and Madison,” I answer.

“And your grandfather showed up in the middle of the night?”

“Yes.”

His brow furrows. “Wasn’t he on a business trip?”

“Supposedly.”

“Did he return early?” He flips through the pages in the binder. “That doesn’t appear to be noted here.”

“He must have, because the following morning he picked me up at my friend’s house where I’d stayed for a sleepover.”

“You’ll need to verify his whereabouts that night.”

“You’re right. I’ll have Charlie look into it.” We should have thought of it before Hunter suggested it, but with so much evidence to pore over, we hadn’t zeroed in on Gramps’s location that night. “For the sake of argument, let’s just say Madison saw him. But why was he there? You don’t drop in on someone that late at night.”

“Great question,” Hunter says.

“Maybe somebody who was there that night rang him up,” Cristina suggests.

“It couldn’t have been my mother. Not when she was being . . . abused. And my father wouldn’t have done it either. Not when he was the one abusing her.”

“Let me see those pictures again,” Hunter demands, sticking out his arm.

Cristina hands them to him.

He organizes them into various groups. First the photos of the entire room. Then the pictures of its different areas, and finally the close-up shots of my mother and father. The ones I find difficult to view.

“How did the newspaper get these pictures?” Hunter asks.

“If I had to guess, somebody got paid off,” Charlie says. “I can’t imagine they would have allowed a newspaper photographer to take pictures of a crime scene.”

Hunter leans over so his nose is practically buried in one of the photos. He taps it. “Your father’s body was moved. See how his feet angle the bed?” He taps another. “But in this one he’s parallel.”

“Maybe the way the photographer took the shot made it look that way,” I propose.

“Maybe, but my gut tells me differently.” He pats his very tight stomach, which Cristina does not miss. “I’d bet my bottom dollar that somebody moved him.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Do you have a magnifying glass, Charlie?”

The detective gives Hunter the fish eye. “Who do you think I am, Charlie Chan?”

I have to smile at him. “Olivia has a lamp she uses for her crafts,” I say. “It has a magnifying glass.”

“Go get it, please,” Hunter says.

When I return, we all gather around Hunter while he examines the photos in question. “There!” What was not apparent to the plain eye is quite obvious under the magnifying glass. My father’s body
was
shifted.

“Well, I’ll be,” Charlie says. “You’re right. He was moved.”

“Yeah, but the question is who did it and why,” Hunter states.

“Could have been a crime scene investigator,” Cristina suggests.

Hunter’s annoyed glare drills Cristina. “You know very well, Ms. Sanchez, they’re not allowed to move the bodies until everything has been photographed and evidence has been collected.”

Cristina bristles. Darn. I hope they don’t end up disliking each other. It would make things even more difficult than they already are.

“My grandfather. It had to have been him,” I interject, hoping to defuse the tension.

“He was there the morning after the murders?” Hunter asks.

“Yes. He was the one the police called. He was the closest next of kin.” Other than Maddy and me, and we were too young to be notified about the murders.

“They wouldn’t have allowed him into the room,” Hunter says, frowning.

“You didn’t know my grandfather. If he’d wanted into the room, a team of wild horses couldn’t have kept him out.”

“But why would he move the body?” Cristina asks.

“Maybe he saw something that he didn’t want entered into evidence,” Hunter says.

“Because?” Cristina asks.

“My guess?” Hunter says. “It would put him or someone else at the scene of the crime. Someone he wanted to protect.”

“But who?” I ask.

“That is the question. And once you find the answer, you’ll be a lot closer to discovering your parents’ murderer.”