Shattered Virtue Read online

  “Madison, did you take these from the newspaper or copy them?”

  “I couldn’t make copies, not without anybody noticing.”

  A knock on the door interrupts what she’s about to say. “Madison, it’s Olivia. I brought you cookies and milk.”

  “Hide the folder.”

  I stuff the file inside my jacket, which is roomy enough to conceal it.

  “Don’t tell her, Madrigal. I don’t want her to know. She’ll tell Gramps.” She scrunches up her face. “She’s such a tattletale.”

  Much as I did at her age, she’s starting to resent Olivia’s intrusion into her life. But where I walked the straight and narrow rather than incur Gramps’s wrath, Madison has a wild streak that has gotten her into hot water more than once. Olivia watches her like a hawk, which, after all, is her job. But if Olivia does in fact tell Gramps about the photo theft, Madison might bolt rather than face the music.

  “Okay.” I walk to the door and let in Olivia, who’s holding a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk.

  “What’s wrong with her?” she whispers.

  “Cramps. Her period’s coming.” I hope to God that’s true. I don’t want Olivia questioning Madison’s actions more than usual. She might discover the truth, and then, God help us, there’d be hell to pay.

  Olivia sweeps into the room and sets the cookies and milk on the night table next to Madison’s bed. “Oh, my poor lamb,” she says as she embraces her. “Should I get you some aspirin and a heating pad?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Over Olivia’s shoulder Madison mouths to me, “Don’t tell.”

  All I can do is nod.

  CHAPTER 7

  Trenton

  The flight to Raleigh is uneventful. Well, as uneventful as it can be seeing how a living, breathing temptation is seated next to me dressed in a business suit, minimal makeup, her luscious hair caught in a knot and pinned within an inch of its life to her nape. None of which makes her any less attractive.

  At the prison, we present our credentials. I’d called ahead to give them a heads-up about Madrigal. Even so, we’re patted down and scrutinized as if we’re bringing in contraband. We have to leave everything in a locker and are given a number to reclaim our belongings when we’re ready to exit the jail.

  Once we pass through a myriad of security gates, we’re shown to an area where we will interview the inmate. We’ll be separated by Plexiglas and will talk to each other through a telephone.

  Willie shuffles in, dragging one foot. At 120 pounds, give or take, he’s been made a target by some of the other offenders. A couple of months back, he got into a fight with one of them. Although he received medical attention, his leg hasn’t been right ever since. Going by his dirty, shoulder-length hair, he appears not to have taken a shower for several days. Well, at least he doesn’t seem to have any fresh bruises on him.

  “Hey, Mr. Steele.”

  “Hi, Willie. This is my assistant, Ms. Berkeley.”

  “She sure is pretty.”

  Madrigal smiles at him. I should have warned her not to do that. Might put ideas in Willie’s head, like corresponding with her. At least she can’t talk to him. I have the telephone.

  “Willie, I’m going to go over the details of your arrest.”

  His gaze darts back to me from the object of his adoration. “Again? Told you everything I know already.”

  “Yes, but Ms. Berkeley hasn’t heard them. She may have a question or two.”

  “Okay.” He flashes her a smile that lacks a couple of teeth. The bicuspids were missing before he came to jail, so at least the tooth loss didn’t happen while incarcerated.

  “Now tell me what happened that night.”

  He scratches the back of his greasy head. “Well, like I said. Trixie.”

  “The murder victim?”

  He gulps. Hard. “Yes, sir. Earlier that night, I asked her if she wanted to see a movie. I’d saved enough money to take her, you see. But she laughed and said she wouldn’t go out with a loser like me. She could be cruel. But I loved her anyway.”

  I would never give my heart to a woman. My cock? Yes. My heart? Never. “So what did you do after you left her house?”

  “Went to the ABC store on Creedmore. Bought a bottle of Jack with the picture show money. And then I crawled into my van and got good and drunk. Didn’t even make it out of the parking lot. Next thing I know the cops are pounding on the back door and hauling me into their squad car.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “After I arrived at lockup where they took me, they told me they knew I’d done it. But I didn’t. I swear to you, Mr. Steele, I done none of it.”

  “What did you say to them?”

  “That I hadn’t done it. It wasn’t me.”

  “Did they read you your rights?”

  “Yeah, when I got to the county lockup.”

  “Now this is very important, Willie. Did you talk to them in the police car?”

  “Yeah. I asked them why they were taking me in. That I hadn’t done nothing. They said I’d killed Trixie. I blubbered like a baby. Told them I hadn’t done it. That I loved her. But they didn’t believe me. They said I’d gone and killed her. I told them I hadn’t, that she’d been alive when I left her house that night. After that, I’d been in the van the whole time.”

  “And were you?”

  “Yes, sir. As far as I can remember. I was. Except . . .”

  “Except?”

  “Something woke me up. A loud noise outside. I opened the back door of the van to investigate.”

  “And what did you see?”

  “Otis Wilson. My best friend. I said hey, but he didn’t say nothing back.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I must have fallen asleep again. Didn’t know nothing else until the cops woke me.”

  “They found Trixie’s earring in your van. It had been torn from her ear. Incriminating evidence. Did they ask you about it?”

  “Yes, sir. But I told them I didn’t know how it got there.”

  “This is very important too, Willie. When did they ask you that question?”

  “In the police cruiser.”

  Madrigal makes a noise, but I grasp her knee. “Thank you, Willie. We’ll be in touch.”

  “You think I have a chance, Mr. Steele?”

  “I’ll do my best, Willie. My very best.”

  On the way out, Madrigal’s eyes shine bright. “They should have—”

  “Don’t say anything.” I point to the cameras along the corridor. “Not until we’re in the car.”

  She nods, and we go through security. She retrieves her purse and briefcase, and I get my things. By the time we leave, the wind has kicked up. The car service that took us to the penitentiary is waiting outside.

  As soon as we slip into the sedan, the driver swivels to face us. “Bad news, folks.”

  “What?”

  “Flights have been grounded.”

  Damn. This is all I need. “Why?”

  He points out the window toward a group of trees whipping back and forth in the wind. “That tropical storm turned into a hurricane and is headed our way. Should be here in about six hours’ time. You folks better hunker down until it’s passed through.”

  “Can’t do that. I have to get back to DC. Take us to the airport.”

  “Didn’t you hear me, mister? No flights are leaving. They’ve shut down the airport.”

  “They haven’t shut down the car rentals. At least not yet.”

  By the time we arrive at the airport, the place is deserted. The only car rental place that’s still open is one I never heard of. “Gray Squirrel Car Rentals: Cars with Southern Hospitality,” the sign on the wall says.

  Who came up with that ludicrous name? Curious, I ask th
e beefy dude behind the counter, “Gray Squirrel?”

  He snorts. “It’s the state animal of North Carolina.”

  “A gray squirrel? Really?” Who knew?

  “You have a problem with that?” he barks.

  His Southern hospitality leaves a lot to be desired. “Nope. I want to rent a car.”

  “Okay, fine. We got one left.” He points outside the rental building to a car that clearly has seen better days. The paint’s peeling, it’s missing a windshield wiper, and the bumper’s loose.

  “Are you sure that’s the only car available?”

  “Yep.” The mountain behind the counter smacks his lips. “You want it or not?”

  “How much?”

  “Five hundred dollars.”

  I laugh. “For a one-way rental to DC? The whole car’s not worth that much. How about I just buy it from you. Two hundred dollars.” I peel a couple of hundreds from my wallet.

  He plants his ham hock hands on the ledge. “It’s not for sale, and the rate is high because we’ll need to haul it back from DC.”

  I snort. “If it makes it that far.”

  “You don’t want it? I’m sure one of these fine folks behind you would love to rent it.”

  A couple of yeahs behind me force my hand. “Fine. I’ll take it.”

  “I’ll need to see your credit card, license, and proof of insurance.”

  I hand over the cards. “I don’t carry proof of insurance with me.”

  “Then you’ll have to buy some.”

  “Sure I do. How much?”

  “Two hundred a day.”

  “Highway robbery,” I mumble under my breath while Madrigal’s shoulders shake, probably with repressed laughter.

  CHAPTER 8

  Madrigal

  Considering how worried I am about Madison, the last place I want to be is this fleabag motel. But what was Steele supposed to do with a hurricane warning posted for the next fifty miles and the storm blowing in every direction. He’d barely kept the rattletrap he rented at the airport upright after a windblast thrust us to the side of the road. After that terrifying moment there was no question we needed to seek shelter before we ended up dead in a ditch. So he’d fought his way into the run-down motel’s parking lot and ran into the rental office where he snagged the last vacancy.

  We grab our possessions—our briefcases, my purse—and do battle with the storm. As we climb the stairs toward our room, my foot slips. But before I tumble back down the steps, he grabs my arm and hauls me up, up, up to the second floor. The wind howls all around us like a banshee. A nearby tree groans in protest against the punishing wind. Branches strewn across the cement-floored outer corridor trip us up as we traverse the distance to the last room in the row.

  When we finally arrive at our destination, Mr. Steele lets go of my hand to jiggle the key into the lock. It doesn’t give easily, but he wrangles it into submission until it finally, blessedly clicks. A gale blast bursts open the door. When it bounces against the wall, he catches it on the rebound before it can close again. Grateful for the shelter, I rush inside. The room is not much to look at—a double bed covered by a spread with suspicious-looking stains, a nightstand, and a floor lamp with a missing shade. A lumpy sofa upholstered in 1970s avocado. One round table and two rickety-looking chairs complete the Salvation Army decor.

  He heaves a deep breath and scrubs his face. “Christ. You take the bed. I’ll take the couch.”

  “Thank you.” The furniture might have been here for decades, but the room appears clean. Looks can be deceiving, though. I pray the mattress isn’t crawling with bedbugs.

  The storm rattles the door behind us. I hold my breath, expecting it to pop open, but the wood holds.

  “Don’t mind that. Give me your things.” He holds out his hand, and I let him have my briefcase. My purse I retain. Lipstick, makeup, a credit card, ID, and emergency toiletries. I’ve learned never to travel without them.

  “Let’s eat.” He drops our briefcases on the chair and dumps our stash of food on the table. After our jail visit, we hadn’t found any fast-food restaurants or coffee shops open, so when we’d spotted vending machines in the motel lobby while checking in, we’d pooled our resources of dollar bills and change and bought as much as we could. By mutual agreement we drop into the chairs abutting the small round table that doubles as a desk. He splits our bounty of Mr. Goodbars and Planters Salted Peanuts—two each for him and me. After we tear open the wrappers, we fall on the candy like starving pilgrims. Food never tasted so good. But we’re soon done; not even crumbs remain.

  Rising, he grabs the detritus and dumps it in the cracked avocado-green plastic trash can before he retrieves his cell from his jacket. Brows hunched, he stares at it.

  “Still dead?” I ask.

  He nods. “I can’t even get a bar.” And this motel is not exactly Wi-Fi friendly, which means we’re pretty much incommunicado with the outside world.

  I’m worried to death about Madison. Last night she managed to get through dinner without breaking down, probably afraid of being drilled by Olivia. When she announced she was going to bed, Olivia gave her something that knocked her out, and this morning she was still asleep when I left at the ass crack of dawn, so I didn’t get a chance to check in with her. There’s nothing I can do but hope she’ll manage until I get home.

  For the umpteenth time, I yank down on my skirt. I really should have listened to Olivia and chosen the blue pantsuit, but I’d opted for the one with a skirt. I have a nice pair of legs, and I wanted to show them off. Given our circumstances, not the best choice. The darn thing not only keeps riding up on me, but, wet from the storm, it clings to me with a vengeance.

  Oblivious to my travails, Steele tangles a hand through his hair while his frustrated gaze searches out the nooks and crannies of the room. There isn’t much to see. Besides the table and the chairs, there’s only the couch, the sagging double bed, and a night table that is sure to contain a Gideon, deep as we are in Bible Belt territory. Well, at least we’re safe. For now.

  “I need a shower,” he says.

  “Me too.” The car we rented reeks of body odors, which have somehow attached themselves to my clothes. I can still smell them on me.

  He darts a thumb toward the bathroom. “Ladies first.”

  I shake my head. “No. It’s okay. You go.” When I was a child, a spider once crawled out of the bathtub drain. Olivia killed it, but ever since, I’ve been leery around shower stalls, especially strange ones in fleabag motels. If he showers first, he can deal with whatever might be lurking in the corners of the bathroom.

  Twenty minutes later, he strolls out wearing his long-sleeved shirt open, his slacks zipped halfway and barely hanging on his hips. My breath catches at the sight of him. He’s toweling his dark, wavy hair. Short on the sides, longer and spiked in front, with strands of silver running through it. But that’s not the focus of my attention. His eight-pack abs are—along with the winged tattoo over his right pec and the sprinkling of dark hair on his chest that almost, but not quite, obscures his nipple ring. Holy Mother of God, not only is he gorgeous, but he smells yummy. Like an expensive pine forest. Maybe it’s the shampoo. Or the soap. But underneath there’s another scent that I suspect has nothing to do with shampoo or conditioners, just him.

  “Nice fluffy towels in there,” he says, gesturing toward the bathroom.

  “Really?” I ask once I recover my powers of speech. Don’t see how that can be. The one he’s using appears pretty threadbare.

  “No.” He huffs out derision, probably at my naïveté.

  “Oh.” He tosses the towel over the back of the chair, and my gaze zeroes in on the opening of his slacks where his briefs peep through.

  While I stare at him and delve into wicked thoughts, one of those large hands of his goes to the zipper. And pauses. “Should I zip it all the wa
y, or do you want to look at it some more?”

  Busted! “Excuse me.” Face flaming red, I grab my purse and race to the bathroom, where I slam shut the door and try to calm down. God. How could I have stared so blatantly at him? I’m not a teenager. I know what lies beneath a man’s briefs. And yet I couldn’t help but ogle, wondering about the size of him. I breathe in and out, shake my hands while I try to settle my nerves. Once I’ve done so, I remove the toiletries from my emergency kit—toothpaste and toothbrush, travel sizes of shampoo, body wash, and lotion. I search out the corners of the bathroom and am happy to find nothing lurking in the shadows. I don’t have to rinse the shower. Thankfully he took care of that much. As the tub fills with water, I grab my body wash and shampoo and arrange them like little soldiers on the edge.

  I’m rushing through my bath routine when the window rattles from the madness outside. Jumping out of the tub, I grab the only towel in the room and wrap it around me. The window opening has grown wider, so I reach to close it. That’s when I realize someone’s standing outside, peeking in. Racing out screaming from the bathroom, I crash into Steele.

  My knees buckle, but he grabs me by the shoulders and keeps me upright. “What’s wrong?”

  Trembling like a leaf, I blurt out, “Someone—” I can barely get a word out I’m breathing so hard. “A Peeping Tom . . . bathroom window.”

  Cursing, he darts around me.

  The wind rattles the front door to the room, and I jump. I don’t dare close my eyes. What if the Peeping Tom breaks in? Oh, God. What will I do?

  Steele rushes out of the bathroom, digs in his briefcase, pulls out a gun, and cocks it. He yanks open the door. It slams back, letting in the rain, the wind, the fury of the storm. A volley of thunder cracks across the heavens as dark, menacing clouds writhe and coil on the horizon.

  Battling the insanity, he steps outside. After I entered the bathroom to shower, he must have ditched his slacks, because all he’s wearing are his briefs. My gaze takes in his tight ass, his muscled legs braced against the storm. He wields that gun like some avenging angel, ready to fight the devil himself if need be. A shard of lightning blazes across the sky, illuminating his perfect body and outlining that rock-hard erection of his.