by Vanessa Skye
Putting off going home until the very last second, Berg found herself driving to Chinatown in search of dinner. She wasn’t sure if it was the great food that drew her or the memory of their passionate encounter in the bathroom hallway the last time she and Jay were there, but soon enough, she was seated alone at the familiar Chinese restaurant.
Unlike last time, she wasn’t too late for the special, and within thirty seconds of being seated, she had grabbed some Chinese broccoli with oyster sauce as it was wheeled past.
Jay’s right, the dim sum is good here.
She resisted the urge to revisit the long corridor to the bathrooms, the corridor where she and Jay had groped at each other frantically. He had called her amazing that night as he’d cupped her face and kissed her . . .
Her body reacted to the memory and she flushed.
Until she had seen him at the deli with the blonde, everything had seemed so alive with possibility—her work and her life. He had said he loved her. No one had ever said that to her before, not in that way.
Her recovery had felt like it meant something. She had a goal and she was working toward it, for the both of them. Now she wasn’t sure what she was recovering for or if she even wanted to. She had gone so far as to cancel her evening session with Dr. Thompson, claiming work commitments. The fact was she just couldn’t face it. It was too tiring, too hard.
Some people just can’t be fixed.
She chuckled at the irony, remembering when she had likened herself to Jay’s old DVD player the night he and his ex-girlfriend, Cindy, had stumbled across her secret at an underground swingers club . . .
“Did I tell you, or what?”
Berg was jolted out of her daydream and snapped her head up at the sound of the familiar voice. She found Jay smiling back at her so wide it crinkled the edges of his blue eyes. He was staring so intensely at her, she’d forgotten the question. “W-what?” she asked, flustered.
“The dim sum here—awesome or what?”
Berg smiled. “Yeah, it’s pretty good, I must admit.”
Jay sat down opposite her, reaching for her hands. “So what brings you to Chinatown this freezing evening?”
I don’t want to go home. And your hands feel so warm . . .
“I wanted something quick and easy for dinner. I might go back to the office now I’m done. You?”
“I was feeling chained to my desk. I had to escape.”
“I’m about to go, if you’re not . . . alone.”
Jay frowned. “Of course I’m alone. Any leads on your cases?”
Berg was quite relieved he asked about work; it was a comfortable topic. “Very little. We interviewed Emma Young’s boss today. He was sad but not suspicious. He seemed genuinely disappointed that he had lost a good worker. He was going to pay for her training in graphic design. Apparently Emma had a talent for it. And the storage facility we hoped would have good video of the assailant? It didn’t.
“Arena’s heading semi-undercover tomorrow to play a round or two to see if he can’t drill a bit deeper on the Feeny case, and I’m considering releasing the image of the Young suspect to the media. That’s it. You’re all caught up on the headline cases.”
“That all sounds good. Just run with whatever you think is right. So . . . how’s working with Arena?” he asked.
“Oh, you know . . . he’s a Neanderthal,” Berg said with a straight face.
“Yeah, sorry about that.” Jay laughed. “He’s young. I’m sure he’ll settle down. Eventually.”
“Explain it to me again . . . how do I always get stuck with the oversexed partners?” Berg tried to scowl at Jay then, unable to maintain it any longer, grinned.
Jay laughed. “Dunno, must be your karma. I’m sure it’s nothing you can’t handle. You managed all right with me . . .” He brushed a finger down her face before hooking a lone tendril of hair behind her ear. He cupped her face. “I miss you,” he said softly.
“You see me every day.” Berg looked away and leaned into his palm slightly.
“It’s not the same and you know it.”
Berg smiled but refused to give in any further. They were heading into dangerous territory—territory she was too raw to get into. If Jay asked her back to his place, she’d go—even having his lack of long-term interest and need to sleep with ever-younger and more beautiful women dangled in front her, she wouldn’t be able to say no to him. She didn’t even want to.
Jay looked concerned at her sudden silence and grasped her hands firmly. “Are you . . . okay?” he asked. The implication was clear—he wasn’t just asking about her immediate mood.
“I’m totally fine, just tired is all,” Berg replied.
You can’t put off going to sleep forever . . .
“You sure that’s it? I detected some . . . weirdness . . . in my office yesterday?”
“It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
Jay caught Berg’s gaze and held it as his face moved closer and his hands grabbed her shoulders, holding her steady.
Their lips touched.
A cell beeped.
Jay sighed, released Berg, and dragged his cell out of his pocket. “Fuck. So much for dinner.”
“It’s fine, you go,” Berg said as she motioned to a waiter that she wanted the check.
“I can stay for a few more minutes. It’s not that important,” Jay replied, grabbing an uneaten dumpling off Berg’s plate and stuffing the whole thing in his mouth, before choking on the hot sauce. He sniffled and looked around for water, grabbing for her glass at the edge of the table.
“No, go. You don’t need to stay . . . I totally understand.”
The waiter brought over the check in a maroon, faux-leather folder.
She grabbed it and rammed a twenty in it without checking the amount. “Have a good night,” she said, sliding on her coat and walking to the exit before Jay had recovered enough to argue.
She never saw the confusion written on Jay’s face. She never saw his shoulders slump, or heard the resigned sigh as he pulled his cell out and hit redial.
Berg knocked on the heavy wooden door, a door identical to hers in every way except for the fake silver number nailed on the front: 5B. She waited as the occupant checked the peephole and threw back the multitude of locks.
“Hi, Alicia! Busy day?” her neighbor asked cheerfully.
“Hi, Vi. Yes, another busy one, sorry. Was Jess okay?”
“He was fine. We went out a few times. That silly ball of fur has become the most important part of my day,” Berg’s elderly neighbor said with a smile.
“Yeah, he gets under your skin. He did have the option to run with me this morning before five, but he snubbed me totally.”
“Can’t say I blame him—it was below freezing last night. I took him out a few hours ago, so you might want to take him out to do his business again before bed.”
“Thanks, will do.”
Berg’s smile faded as she entered her own apartment. The sudden silence was oppressive and she felt a trickle of fear creep across her scalp and ooze down her spine.
Shaking it off, she ruffled Jesse’s head as she adjusted the thermostat. It was a little chilly, most likely because of Jesse’s almost man-sized doggy door, which led out to her tiny balcony and offered a scintillating view of the apartments next door. Even with shared doggy custody, Jesse still needed a place to pee in an emergency.
Two hours later, she had taken the dog out, set a fire, cleaned the apartment, ironed her clothes, and sorted her linen closet meticulously.
She couldn’t put it off any longer.
Wearing her warm, fluffy robe and nothing else, she wandered into the bedroom where an exhausted Jesse was already asleep. She stared at the bed for a moment, feeling nothing but dread and nauseating fear.
Maybe a change of scenery.
She grabbed her pillow and a cream, woolen blanket from the closet, carried them out to the living room, and threw them on the couch. Turning off the lights, she returned to the couch a
nd snuggled down, watching the dying embers of her warming fire flicker in the small fireplace.
No sooner had she closed her eyes than she saw his face.
“I love you so much, Alicia,” her father whispered.
Berg’s eyes flew open again. She tried desperately to stay awake, staring at the fire without blinking, but she had gone forty-eight hours on only a few hours of sleep and her eyelids were leaden. Her lids slowly closed again and her body relaxed as she drifted off into a mercifully dreamless sleep.
You’re broken and you know it.
The voice started her awake and she sat bolt upright, sure that someone was in the apartment. Her heart pounding, she searched the darkness with a probing gaze, wishing she had taken her personal revolver from the bedside table where it usually resided.
She realized in dismay that she was alone.
Instead of calming at the thought, her heart rate accelerated and her fingers and toes tingled with primal fear.
The prospect of being alone was even more terrifying than an intruder; it meant the voice was back. And it was different.
Cold sweat broke out on her upper lip.
This time, it wasn’t her mother’s familiar leering.
No. This time, the voice was Leigh’s.
You’re broken and you know it.
Chapter Six
I loved you with a fire red.
Now it’s turning blue, and you say,
sorry like the angel heaven let me think was you.
But I’m afraid,
it’s too late to apologize.
–One Republic, “Apologize”
“Pay dirt,” Arena said excitedly as he slid into his seat late the next afternoon.
“Oh?” Berg said, looking up and jerking back her chair. “What the fuck are you wearing?”
Arena looked down at his skin-tight, baby blue woolen V-neck Ralph Lauren sweater, a T-shirt and a collared shirt peeking out the top, his white golf pants, and pristine white golf spikes. He winked at Berg and adjusted his matching golf cap jauntily—it was the icing on the most ridiculous cake she’d ever seen. “If you want to swim with the fishes, you can’t look like a shark. Don’t knock it—it worked.”
“That outfit actually worked?”
“Of course it did,” Arena said. “My ass looks great in white. I just discreetly hung out in the parking lot until some poor, lone female player needed assistance with her clubs. An invitation to join her for a round was a done deal after that.”
“Jesus. I just lost all respect for Chicago’s elite.” Berg dropped her head into her hand and shook her head. “So what did you get?”
“Naturally, Feeny’s banging the secretary,” Arena said smugly.
Berg glowered. “His secretary? We already interviewed her and dismissed her as a possibility. She’s over sixty and must weigh north of two hundred pounds!”
Arena raised his finger and wiggled it back and forth. “Not his PA, the secretary to the general manager of the golf club. Check it. After my lovely golf partner happily filled me in on all the weaknesses and predilections of her fellow players, and bought me a very expensive lunch,” he said, patting his stomach in satisfaction, “I did a bit of snooping. There’s a huge bunch of expensive flowers on this secretary’s desk. The card was unsigned, but the bunch is from the same florist in The Loop that Feeny regularly uses.”
Berg checked her watch. It was after five and she still had to approve the distribution of a press release and image of the Young suspect for PR, so it could make the six o’clock news. “Let’s get her in here first thing,” she said. “Great work, Arena.”
“It was your idea,” he said. “I must admit, I thought it was a random attack.”
“You work long enough with me, you’ll find out nothing’s ever random.” She sighed, massaging her temples.
Arena’s phone buzzed. Checking the caller ID, he frowned and rejected the call. “You okay? You look wrecked,” he asked Berg.
She sighed again and grabbed her phone from the console. “Just tired.” She reviewed the press release, attached the image from the Metra surveillance tape, and hit send. “Young suspect image and press release—sent.”
“Why don’t you go home and catch an early night? I’ll stick around in case PR has any follow-up questions.”
Berg was touched by his offer, and she had to admit it was tempting. She was so tired that earlier in the day she had visited the drugstore and bought some over-the-counter sleeping pills. Sitting in her purse and practically calling to her, she was desperate to go home, take two, and sink into dreamless oblivion for at least eight hours. “Really?” she asked. “You wouldn’t mind?”
“Not at all. Go,” he said, waving to the door.
“Thanks,” she said gratefully, grabbing her coat and purse. “I owe you one.”
Arena smiled as Berg left—he had every intention of collecting on her IOU.
He checked his e-mail for a few minutes until he was sure she had left the building, then, hands in pockets, he sauntered into Jay’s office without knocking.
Jay looked up from his screen, irritated at the intrusion, and waved toward a chair. “What is it, Arena?”
Arena remained standing. “I’m here out of courtesy. It’s about Berg,” he said.
Jay sat up a bit straighter.
“I’m throwing my hat in the ring, as they say. I thought it would be gentlemanly to let you know.”
Jay clenched his jaw. “That hat?” He nodded toward Arena’s golf cap that was still sitting jauntily on his dark hair. “Because that hat is ridiculous.”
“Whatever, funny man,” Arena replied sarcastically as he snatched off the cap and turned to go.
“Arena, wait,” Jay said quickly.
Arena turned back laconically, defiance in his every movement.
“Look, I totally get it and I don’t blame you. But give Berg some space. She needs it right now.”
Arena laughed shortly. “Sitting back and doing nothing may be your style, but it ain’t mine.”
Jay clenched his jaw. “Back off, Arena, I mean it. She doesn’t need this shit.”
“No,” Arena replied, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. “What she doesn’t need is you jerking her around, keeping her on a leash, and then dating other women.”
“Other women? What the fuck are you talking about?” Jay asked, his voice rising with every word.
“I mean we saw you the other night at the deli as you romanced some kid.”
Jay’s face fell. “Berg saw that?”
Arena nodded smugly.
“But I was interviewing a newbie out of the academy at the deli that night! I need more headcount in patrol.”
Arena shrugged. “Whatever. You and Berg are done,” he said. “Step aside.”
Jay stood up abruptly, his fists clenched. “Wow, way to suck up to your captain, you moron. I hope you weren’t planning a long career here?”
Arena shrugged.
“Look, Berg is in a vulnerable place, the last thing she needs is a bastard like you who won’t take no for an answer! If you care about her, you’ll give her some space.”
“Why should I? Unlike you, I know what I want. You snooze, you lose, O’Loughlin.”
“Fuck you. You want to take a run at Berg? Be my fucking guest. She’s way too smart for you and will see through your bullshit.”
“You trying to convince me or yourself of that?”
“Leave her the fuck alone! She’s in recovery—” Jay froze as the color drained out of his cheeks.
“Really? In recovery for something, hey? That’s interesting. Thanks for letting me know,” Arena said softly as he turned back toward the door.
“Fuck. Arena, wait!” Jay shouted.
Arena stalked out of the office, a small smile playing on the corners of his mouth, grabbed his cell off the desk, and wandered into the deserted stairwell of the building’s fire escape. He quickly dialed and put the phone to his ear.
�
�You rang?” he said, before listening intently. “Yes, everything’s on track.” He nodded as the voice on the other end gave instruction. “Yeah, divide and conquer. It’s all set. I have some other information that you might find useful. Just let me see how it pans out . . .” He felt a momentary stab of guilt. “I do this, and I become the youngest captain of the CPD ever, right? I got your personal guarantee?” he asked. He listened to the reassurance on the other end. “Okay, good.” He hung up and wandered back out to his desk.
The young woman sat across the interview room on a hard chair, fidgeting.
Looks pretty staid and proper for a mistress.
Berg wasn’t sure what she had expected, really, but a brunette with her hair carefully tied back in a knot, wearing librarian glasses and a modest black pantsuit was definitely not it. Lauren Wesley looked more like the wife than the mistress. For some reason, Berg had imagined someone bleached blond with huge fake tits and a trout pout.
Berg took another sip of her coffee and narrowed her eyes as she stopped evaluating the woman and reevaluated herself.
Obviously, I need to stop thinking in clichés.
The detectives had visited Lauren at the Cook County Golf Club that morning and invited her to have a quick chat. They had explained this was all voluntary, no lawyers needed. She wasn’t in trouble, after all.
Of course, once they had gotten her safely in front of them in an interview room and laid out their theory about her boyfriend’s involvement in his wife’s brutal murder, Lauren had looked as though she was regretting the decision to be so cooperative; with every word, Feeny’s mistress had looked more and more disturbed. Then the silent fidgeting had begun.
“Maybe I should call Mike’s lawyer,” she eventually said, staring down at her fingernails as she picked them anxiously.
“Why?” Arena asked. “Do you have something to confess? Because we’re just having a friendly chat here, aren’t we, Detective Raymond?”