Shattered Trust (Shattered #2)

by Magda Alexander

  She wriggles free. “I’ll let her know. See you in a few.” I swat her bottom before she leaves.

  That night I’m sitting up in bed with my hands folded behind my head, and she’s lying cuddled up against me when I decide to bring up her meeting with my client. Might learn something after all. “So what did you and Mitch talk about?”

  “Oh, this and that. I caught him up on everything that’s been going on with Madison.”

  “You didn’t tell him about Philippe?”

  “I mentioned she had a boyfriend, that’s all. He wants me to bring him a photo from his bedroom and a couple of books to read.”

  “Let me know what the books are, and I’ll stop at his place tomorrow.”

  “That would be silly. He lives off Route 15. That’s out of your way. You shouldn’t have to make a special trip. Besides, I want to do it.”

  “Why?”

  When she sits up and plumps her pillow, I instantly miss her warmth. “Because he asked me, Steele, not you. If he’d wanted you to do it, he would have asked you.”

  “He probably didn’t think of it.”

  She grabs a bottle of her lavender-rose lotion and spreads some on her hands. “Or you never asked him. I want to do this for him.”

  I’d offered to bring Mitch anything he needed, but he just didn’t ask.

  “Please, Steele.”

  She knows what those pleases do to me, the witch. I tweak her chin. “Very well. The key’s in my apartment. I’ll bring it back with me tomorrow, unless you want to meet at his house?”

  “Why don’t I follow you into Crystal City in the morning and get the key from you then? The Arlington Commonwealth’s Attorney’s office wants to meet with me. I need to provide them with some documentation and security details before I start working for them. Might as well kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Now hand over that lotion.”

  She bites down on her lip. “What are you going to do?”

  “Rub it all over your beautiful skin, among other things.”

  Her eyes round with wonder as she hands the bottle to me.

  Chapter 27

  Madrigal

  “Thank you for coming, Charlie. You called to say you have news.” He’d rung me up the day before to request a meeting. When I’d prompted him, he’d told me it’d be better if we discussed the information in person. Since then, I’ve fretted, wondering what the heck he has to relate.

  “Yes. I didn’t want to trust this to the telephone. Never know who might be listening. Can we go to the evidence room to talk?” He points in the general direction of the converted parlor he’s come to know so well.

  “Of course.” As soon as we step inside and close the door, I ask, “What’s wrong?”

  He sits in his usual spot, the chintz floral love seat, and pulls out a folder from his briefcase. “You asked me to look into your stay at the Meadowlark Mental Health Facility the year after your parents’ deaths.”

  “Yes.”

  He props open the folder on the cream-colored coffee table in front of him. “Well, according to their records, you were never there.”

  “What? That can’t be. I spent an entire year in the facility as Dr. Holcomb’s patient.”

  “I know, but there are no official records of that. After spreading some money around, I finally got a nurse to talk. Apparently, some patients stay there without records being created. Either the families don’t want anyone to know, or for some other reason.”

  I jab my hand at the air. “Why would they conceal my time there?”

  He rubs his chin while contemplating my question. “I don’t know. What do you remember about your stay?”

  Wrapping my hands across my waist, I pace up and down the room. “My bedroom was pretty. I remember that. Blue wallpaper with little flowers on it. Yellow primroses, I think.”

  He makes a note of that.

  “The same nurse would come in every morning, take my temperature and blood pressure. She’d give me my morning pills. Then an orderly would roll in my breakfast on a cart.”

  “You didn’t have breakfast in the common room with the other patients?”

  “No. Never.”

  He makes a note in the folder. “And then what?”

  “I’d be escorted to the shower room.”

  “You didn’t have one in your room?”

  “No. Only a toilet and a sink. After my shower, I was escorted to Dr. Holcomb. He would talk to me, ask me questions.” Jagged memories of my time at Meadowlark crash into my mind like birds against glass. I’d been petrified of what they’d do to me, of never seeing Maddy again. I’d buried those memories long ago, but recalling them is one more painful step I must take to get to the truth of my parents’ deaths. God, will it ever stop?

  After taking more notes, Charlie asks, “What did you discuss?”

  “How I felt. At the beginning, my grief over my parents’ deaths overwhelmed me. Sometimes I’d cry; other times I would sit there and stare at the wall. When I became agitated, he’d inject me with something. Things got fuzzy after that. Then it would be lunch. If the weather was nice, they’d serve it on a private balcony, adjacent to my room. If it was raining or cold, I’d eat indoors. After lunch, I usually napped or read depending on whether I could stay awake. I’d take daily walks on the grounds, again if the weather cooperated.”

  “By yourself?”

  “A nurse would hover over me. I never saw anyone else. It was a pretty place filled with flowers in the garden.”

  He jots something down. “And then what?”

  “In the evening after dinner, they’d wheel in a television set. I’d watch shows from seven to nine, and then it was lights out. Next day I’d do it all over again.”

  “And you did this for an entire year?”

  “Yes. The routine never varied. At first I accepted it, but as time went on, I balked at the pills, the injections. That’s when they strapped me down and forced the medicine down my throat. I learned to acquiesce after that. I’d take them and hide them under my tongue, but then the nurse caught on, and I went back to being force-fed the pills. If they couldn’t get them down my throat, they would give me an injection, which made me stupid.”

  “Did your grandfather ever visit?”

  “Every Sunday afternoon for exactly one hour. I begged him to let me come home. But he said Dr. Holcomb wouldn’t approve. Finally, after a year, I was allowed to go home, except of course it wasn’t home but Gramps’s house. Terrified I’d be sent back to Meadowlark, I didn’t step a toe out of line. At least for the next couple of years. Gramps relaxed when he witnessed my good behavior, but he imposed strict curfews on me, just like he’d done with my mother. When I turned fifteen, I rebelled. One day I decided to go shopping with my friends after school. When I arrived home, my grandfather punished me by locking me into my room. If it hadn’t been for Olivia, who threatened to call the police, I wouldn’t have been given any food for the entire weekend.”

  Charlie mumbles something under his breath. The only word I catch is bastard. He waves his pen in the air. “Did your grandfather keep a diary?”

  “If he did, I haven’t found it. I searched his room and study.”

  “Could he have kept one on his computer?”

  “No. He was old-school, wrote everything down.” Just like Charlie.

  He puts down his pen, shuts his trusty notebook. “He’s the key to solving your parents’ murders. His actions were too arbitrary, both the night of their deaths and when he committed you to the mental health facility. It was like he was afraid of something coming out.”

  “But what could it possibly be?”

  “I don’t know, but if we want to figure out who killed your parents, we’re going to have to find out. Is there someone he could have confided in?”

  “Yes, Joss Stanton.”

  “Talk to her. See what she says.” He pauses a moment before he proceeds. “If I may suggest something, Ms. Berkeley?�
��

  “Please do.”

  “You’re keeping Trenton Steele out of the loop because you want to handle this yourself.”

  My shoulders tense. I swallow hard. “That’s not the only reason. He’s got enough on his plate with setting up his new practice and Mitch’s case.”

  “I think you’re making a mistake. You need to bring him in. Everything in your case keeps circling back to your grandfather. Something tells me the two are related. Solve your parents’ murder case and you may find out who killed your grandfather.”

  He may have a point. Am I letting my pride get in the way of solving my parents’ murders by shutting out Steele? Would his assistance help me get to the truth? “I’ll consider your advice, Charlie. Thank you.”

  “One more thing I wanted to mention. I looked into Dr. Holcomb’s finances. He’s close to bankruptcy. Too many expenses and not enough income. His mental health facility doesn’t bring in the patients it once did. In my opinion, desperate men are dangerous, so I’d keep my distance from him.”

  “He was my grandfather’s friend, not mine. Never mine, not after what he did to me.” He’d also been Madison’s doctor. But he won’t be anymore.

  “Weren’t you almost engaged to his son?”

  “He proposed. I didn’t accept.”

  “Well, he might come calling again given the family’s financial straits.”

  “I’ll instruct Hunter to refuse entrance to both father and son.”

  “That would be wise.”

  I’d been so worried about what he had to report that I’d failed to offer him the usual tea and biscuits. Seeking to remedy my sad lack of manners, I ask, “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

  “Regrettably, no. I got some work to do for Steele.”

  “I’ll see you over the weekend, then? We’ll need to put this information on the boards and discuss it with the team.”

  “Of course.” He thrusts his notebook into his briefcase and stands. “I’ll be here.”

  No sooner does he leave than Dr. Durham calls. “I received Madison’s records from Dr. Holcomb. According to him, your sister suffers from a form of delusion referred to as confabulation.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask, confused.

  “It’s a memory disturbance, the product of fabricated, distorted, or misinterpreted memories without the conscious intent to deceive.” After a pause, she continues, “Did you verify your sister’s story about running away with the people she mentioned?”

  “Yes, I did. Madison was telling the truth.”

  “Hmph.” She sounds frustrated. No, more than that, disgusted. “Frankly, Ms. Berkeley, I saw no evidence of mental illness in your sister. She seems pretty grounded in reality. I’m quite concerned about the medication and the high dosages she was prescribed. It makes no sense to me.”

  Yeah, I don’t think my sister is delusional either. Which begs the question: Why did Dr. Holcomb prescribe that medication for such a long time? Was he just incompetent or did he have some other motive?

  Chapter 28

  Trenton

  Despite filing a change of address with the court and the Loudoun County Commonwealth’s Attorney’s office, a court document in Mitch’s case gets sent to my ex–law firm. By the time I get it straightened out and have the legal document delivered to me, I’ve lost two days.

  The misdirected document sets the date for the preliminary hearing. At that time, the Commonwealth’s Attorney must show that probable cause exists that Mitch murdered Holden. The preliminary hearing is the first step before a full-blown trial. If the judge finds probable cause, he or she will certify the case to a grand jury. It will be up to them to issue an indictment. And Beauregard Jefferson intends for Mitch to be indicted for capital murder.

  What circumstances could he be relying upon to support such a claim? Only the death of a police officer, a pregnant woman, or a murder-for-hire scheme would support such a charge. The first two clearly do not apply. Does Beauregard Jefferson have evidence that Mitch hired someone to murder Holden?

  Eager to find out what evidence they have, I call the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s office. I’m transferred to an assistant attorney who gives me the runaround, claiming Beauregard Jefferson’s tied up in a meeting. Is this more posturing by the Commonwealth’s Attorney in his bid for a congressional seat? Or does he have some evidence to back up the charges?

  I call Charlie to see if he can pick up some scuttlebutt from his contacts at Loudoun County. I don’t have long to wait.

  “They’re wet-their-pants excited,” Charlie says when he returns the call.

  Fuck. “About?”

  “Don’t know, Chief, but they seem to think they have a slam dunk.”

  “They’ll have to show their hand at the preliminary hearing. But it will be two weeks before that happens. In the meantime, Mitch’s in jail when he should be free.”

  “Face it, Chief. He’s in jail for the duration. No matter what you do.”

  Much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. “See what else you can find out. I’m at my new place. Furniture’s being delivered today. Once it is, we’ll set up an evidence room.” At one point or another, we’ll have to pull an all-nighter.

  While I’m on the phone with him, someone buzzes to get into my new suite. Charlie promises to keep digging until he finds something while I walk up to the glass office door. Rayne Adams stands on the other side, holding a pizza box and a couple of bottles of pop.

  “You’re here,” I say with a forced cheerfulness I’m not feeling in the least.

  She cocks her head to the side as if she can’t believe my obvious statement. “Yes. I took half a day off. Thought I’d come by to help you set things up. Brought sustenance.” She points to the pizza box. “Hope you like mushrooms and pepperoni.”

  “I do. Thank you.”

  Having nowhere to sit, we camp cross-legged on the rug. I devour half of the pizza in nothing flat, while she limits her share to one slice.

  I point to the box. “Is that all you’re going to eat?”

  “Watching my girlie figure,” she says, patting her stomach.

  The gesture focuses my attention on her. With her mocha-shaded skin and lustrous brown eyes, she’s strikingly beautiful. If it weren’t for my obsession with a certain brunette and her pansy-colored gaze, I might be interested. But Madrigal’s the only woman I want in my bed. Or in this instance, her bed. Coming to my feet, I offer my hand to help her up. “Thanks. I needed that.”

  “My pleasure,” she says.

  Within the hour, the office furniture arrives. Slowly but surely the space comes to life as the movers arrange the desks, chairs, and credenzas in the private offices, and sofas and chairs around the reception area.

  “You’ll need a sign over the receptionist’s desk with the firm’s name,” Rayne points out.

  “I’ll need a logo as well.”

  “You can work on that later. What’s important is the name.”

  “Trenton Steele and Associates. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

  Laughing, she gestures to the telephone console now resting on the receptionist’s desk. “I see they installed the phones.”

  “This morning. Now all we need are clients.”

  Almost as if the gods heard me, my cell phone rings. I don’t recognize the number, but I pick up. “Trenton Steele.”

  “Hello, Mr. Steele. My name is Bernard Bates.”

  The name sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it. “What can I do for you, Mr. Bates?”

  “I’m the general manager of the Washington Stars. One of our players is in trouble, and I heard you were the go-to guy.”

  “Which player?”

  “Mikhail Robinson, one of our rookies.” As he rattles off the details behind the arrest, I gesture for a pad and pencil to Rayne. She fishes out what I need from her briefcase and hands them to me. Taking a seat at the receptionist’s desk, I jot down the details. A wide receiver caught with drugs
at a club. Arrested last night but freed on his own recognizance. Makes sense they let him go. A football player about to attend training camp is not going anywhere.

  “Can you help him?” Bates asks.

  “Of course. Where is he?”

  “He’s at our Ashburn training facility. He’s scared shitless. Done nothing wrong his whole life. If he were found guilty, it would totally devastate him and his family. They’re as straight as they come.”

  I recall reading something about the young man’s background when he was picked up by the Stars. Religious family, strict parents. Of course, that could all have been PR spin. Guess I’ll find out. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

  After I hang up, I turn to Rayne. “Looks like we have a client.”

  Her face lights up with a smile. “Congratulations.”

  “I have to go. Can you stay and sign for the rest of the stuff? Those things you picked out in Alexandria are due to arrive this afternoon.”

  “Of course. Don’t worry about it. By the time you get back, everything will be set up.”

  Three hours later, after my interview with Mikhail Robinson, I return to find a totally transformed office. Paintings hang on the walls, area rugs cover the floors. All those things Rayne chose now adorn every room in the place. I arrive to find her arranging flowers in the reception area vases. The lobby appears cozy and classy at the same time. “This looks fantastic. Where did you get the flowers?”

  She flushes a little at my praise. “From the florist shop downstairs. It doesn’t look bad, does it? I called the rest of the team. They’ll be here tomorrow to set up their offices. How did it go with Robinson?”

  “Great. He was definitely set up by someone trying to make him look bad.”

  “Who?”

  “A groupie. On the way back, I stopped at the DA’s office. Once I explained about the groupie, they promised to look into it. Pretty sure I can get the charges dismissed. They’re not eager to enrage the Washington Stars’ fan base by dragging their number-one draft pick through the mud at the start of the season.” I pop open the bottle of bubbly I picked up from the liquor store downstairs and pour it into the two plastic glasses I grabbed as well. “To our first client.”