by Vanessa Skye
“Very friendly,” Berg replied, doing her best to look nonthreatening and helpful. “Of course, if you were involved in your boyfriend’s wife’s death, then we’ll cease this friendly interview, read you your rights, and get you a lawyer straight away.”
Lauren looked at each officer then bit her lip.
Berg leaned forward and prepared to dish out her best good cop. “You look like a nice girl, Lauren, from a nice family, am I right?”
Lauren nodded, looking at Berg with her big, innocent eyes.
Berg felt a flash of pity—she couldn’t be more than twenty-five and had clearly found herself in too deep with the wrong man. “There’s no way a good girl from a nice family would be involved in anything like a murder, right?”
Lauren shook her head emphatically.
“That’s what I thought. See, Detective Arena? I told you she wasn’t involved.” Berg flung her hands in the air, gesturing to the poor, innocent woman and opening the floor to Arena.
“The hell she isn’t.” Arena actually growled. “We’ve got enough to charge her with accessory after the fact, at least, if not the murder itself. She’s right, let’s charge her and get her lawyer in here.” Arena shut the blank file he had been holding in front of him as a prop with a slap, and stood up.
Lauren looked horrified, shooting a pleading glance in Berg’s direction.
“Come on, Detective Arena. If a nice, law-abiding girl from a close family, like Lauren, knew something about this crime, of course she would tell us, because that’s the right, honest thing to do.” Berg nodded, subconsciously prompting Lauren to do the same. “She’s smart enough to know that we would be able to offer her a deal and immunity. What decent woman is going to go to a federal prison for at least ten years for a murder she’s not even involved in? Just to protect a brutal murderer who killed a woman he claimed to love?” Berg scoffed theatrically. “I don’t think so!” Berg rolled her eyes and smiled at Lauren apologetically, shaking her head.
Berg and Arena fell silent, letting their none-too-subtle manipulations sink in. At first, it looked as if Lauren hadn’t fallen for the routine at all.
After a few minutes of silence, while Lauren resolutely studied her now bleeding fingernails, Arena sighed softly and looked at Berg.
Berg twitched her index finger slightly, indicating he should wait a moment longer.
Berg opened the file folder, pulled out some photographs, and plopped them down in front of Lauren—images showing Elena Feeny’s dead body in stark detail. While the body had been cleaned, her hair was wet and hanging back from her face, which was missing half its forehead. White, jagged bone showed in shards through pale pink and blue skin. The brain cavity was empty.
Lauren stared at the images before turning white and looking away.
“I mean, honestly, Detective Arena, any smart woman would know that a man capable of doing this to his own wife to be free of her is capable of doing the exact same thing to the mistress to get rid of her, too. She would know that the safest place for her is with the police. And Lauren’s a smart woman. She’s worked hard to become the secretary of such a prestigious institution. Why would she jeopardize her position there, not to mention her life?”
Lauren took a deep, shaky breath and looked up at Berg. “I had nothing to do with it . . . but . . . what if . . . what if I know something?” she asked.
“Then give us a statement and we’ll talk to the state’s attorney about an immunity deal.” Berg scooped up the images, all theatrics gone. “Talk. Now. Deal’s good for thirty seconds.”
Arena stood and flicked on the recording device in the interview room as Lauren’s words tumbled over each other in her haste to be rid of them.
An hour later, they left a shaken, yet relieved, Lauren in the interview room with her appointed legal counsel.
Arena stood outside the interview rooms holding the ten-page, signed witness statement in his hand; the statement detailing how Lauren, while sitting on his yacht three months ago, had overheard her boyfriend on a disposable cell organizing the hit on his wife—a cell that unfortunately ended up in the lake.
“Gimme five, partner.” Arena crowed, delighted.
Berg smiled and slapped his proffered hand.
“Are we an awesome partnership or what?”
“That was a nice bad cop, Arena.”
“Well, your good cop was pretty impressive. It looked like you actually cared about her and had real human feelings and everything!” he said.
Berg shot him a sour look.
“What say we go out and celebrate later, just you and me? Anywhere you want to go.”
Berg sighed. “Arena,” she said. “Give it up. It’s never gonna happen.”
“Come on, just a beer! One single beer to celebrate catching a murderer?” he whined.
“No. I’m not comfortable with that. Plus, I’m . . .” She started to say involved, but then she remembered that wasn’t the case.
“Is it O’Loughlin you’re worried about?” Arena asked. “Because you don’t need to worry about him. He gave me the green light.”
“No, of course it’s n—wait. What?”
“Yeah, his exact words were ‘be my fucking guest.’ ” He shrugged. “So I guess he’s okay with it. Maybe he thought dating you wasn’t worth the hassle? He mentioned something about you being in recovery?”
She was hit with a surge of anger so forceful she took a step back and became incapable of speech. Storming up the steps to the detectives’ level, she barged into Jay’s office and slammed the door behind her.
Jay quickly glanced up, his brow furrowed and mouth open before the look on Berg’s face registered. He mumbled something about calling back into the phone and hung up abruptly. “Berg, look—”
“Save it. Did you tell him about me?”
“Berg, listen to me!” Jay reached out a hand, his face a mask of desperation. “He’s manipulating you. He barged in here last night and told me as much.”
“Did. You. Tell. Him?” Berg repeated slowly.
Jay looked away and nodded once reluctantly. “He doesn’t know the specifics. He tricked me. Sorry.”
“Sorry?” Berg replied incredulously. “You’re fucking sorry? You’ve just blurted out the one secret that could end my career to the most indiscreet person in this building, and you’re fucking sorry?” she yelled.
“I told you, he tricked me. He wants me out of the way. He sauntered in here like he owns this office!”
“It sounds to me like you’re already out of the way. Be my fucking guest, remember?”
“Jesus, I was being sarcastic. You know I don’t want that. I’ve been waiting for you to be ready so we could be together!”
“Really?” Berg raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms. “And the woman at the deli the other night?”
“A cadet I was interviewing!” Jay lowered his voice, his hurt easily coming through in the softer tones. “How can you not trust me, after everything? I’ve known about you for months. Have I ever once used it against you? Have I ever said anything to anyone?”
Berg looked at Jay, her gaze raking over his tall, hard body and stopping at his compassionate face. His blue eyes were shining with unshed tears. “I can’t do this anymore,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. It’s just too hard, Jay.”
“But Arena—”
“I’m not stupid. I can see what Arena’s doing, and he won’t get anywhere. This has nothing to do with him, Jay. This is about you and me. I may be new at these kinds of feelings, but it shouldn’t be this hard, should it? I can’t sleep, I can’t eat . . . I just . . . can’t. I can’t deal with this right now. Life’s hard enough.” She pushed down the tears. “Please, don’t wait for me. Just get on with your life. I know your history. I know too much about you to ever trust that your feelings for me are real, and you obviously know too much about me.”
Berg turned quickly and walked out, closing the door softly behind her.
Chapter Seven
I get lost
in the night, so high I don’t want to come down.
To face the loss of the good thing that I had found.
–Kings of Leon, “Revelry”
Berg was back at her desk, business as usual, when Arena wandered up from the interview room. She instantly bristled and glared at him as she muttered an affirmative into the phone, then hung up.
“You okay?” Arena asked, trying to look concerned.
“Save it, Arena. Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m a moron,” Berg said, standing up. A tall woman anyway, she was nearly as tall as her partner in her low heels. She stepped closer so they wouldn’t be overheard, and so she could make her meaning clear.
“I would nev—”
“Shut up!” She glared at him, her lip curling slightly to complete the look, and she crossed her arms. “You have about as much subtlety and finesse as a sledgehammer, so know this—you can manipulate, lie, and pretend to be my friend all you want, you are not getting into my personal life or my bed. We are partners only. We will discuss cases only. We will do so in this office only. There will be no beers, coffees, or anything else outside these four walls. Ever. And if you betray my personal business to anyone, I will make you wish you had never been born.” She never broke her stare, not a single blink, while Arena remained silent, unable to meet her eye. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, the Youngs have asked to see me.” She grabbed her coat and keys and stalked out.
“You sure you want to do this? A second mortgage is a big decision, and we’ve only just released the suspect’s image to the press. At least give it a few days,” Berg gently argued.
Alex Young, Emma’s father, looked over at his comatose child. Her head was wrapped in a huge white bandage that obscured half her face and covered the top of her remaining blond hair. The features that were visible were grotesquely swollen, giving her face a disconcerting, lopsided appearance. Her visible eye was closed and black, and her mouth hung slack, forced open by the breathing tubes that were keeping her alive.
Even in the best-case scenario of a permanent vegetative state, Emma would never again be the beautiful, vibrant daughter they had loved and cherished. For all intents and purposes, she was gone, and deep down they must have known it. Her parents looked like they had aged a decade in a matter of days. Haggard didn’t even begin to cover it. Berg was convinced they’d never smile again.
“We just feel that we need to concentrate on her recovery,” Mr. Young whispered. “We can’t do that while he’s still out there . . .”
Berg nodded sympathetically.
“Lizzy’s been looking into it at her firm, she says there’s a chance of a much faster result with a reward. The house means nothing without Emma in it anyway . . .”
Elizabeth inhaled shakily and finished outlining their plan for her now incoherent father as she rubbed his back. “We thought one hundred thousand might be enough to encourage some new information? What would you need to prosecute the animal that did this?” she asked.
Berg doubted that their meager house was even worth that much in the current market, but didn’t say so. “Probable cause to get DNA, evidence, and a confession are the most effective,” Berg said. “We got plenty of male DNA from the rape kit and the crime scene, according to forensics—”
Elizabeth looked away in distress.
“Sorry.” Berg winced as she recalled all Elizabeth had seen the night of the attack. “But the DNA is not on any local or national offenders’ database. We need a DNA match to make our case. It’s a slam dunk from there. Juries love DNA.”
Elizabeth nodded as her father wandered back to the bed. “Any response from the image yet?”
Berg shook her head apologetically. “Nothing firm. The image is ambiguous, but we’ve had a few calls. We will follow up absolutely every lead . . .”
“I know you will,” Elizabeth replied softly. “I just think, for them . . .” She looked at her distraught parents as they clung to each other desperately at Emma’s bedside. “The faster we get a resolution the better. They’re holding out a lot of false hope. Maybe if we find him, they can move on and let poor Em go.” Her voice wavered and she covered her mouth to stifle a sob.
Berg touched Elizabeth’s hand for a moment, hoping to give her some kind of comfort. “I understand. I’ll put out a statement offering the reward.”
Weeping, Elizabeth nodded before making her way back over to her parents.
Berg walked out to the car, dialing CPD PR as she went. She explained the reward request to the communications manager who promised to release it to the media immediately. Berg muttered her thanks, hung up, and drove back to the station, taking the long way to delay her arrival as much as possible. She needed the extra time to prep for dealing with the nonsense the male of the species brought into her daily life.
“Hey,” Arena said warily as she strolled back to her desk. “The tip line’s going crazy, apparently.”
Berg smirked. “It’s amazing what a hundred thousand will do for people’s memories. It’s sad it takes money to motivate them to help.” Berg sat down heavily. “Any of the tips looking credible?”
“Not yet. A lot of people think it was their neighbor, or the weird guy down the street who doesn’t recycle, or their ex who broke up with them via e-mail—the usual.”
Berg nodded.
“Look, I wanted to apolog—”
“Save it. I’m not interested in anything you have to say.”
“Can we just start over? Pretend none of this even happened? I promise I’ll be good.”
“Whatever. Let’s just follow up leads,” Berg said, already digging into the piles of paperwork.
Berg turned up the Kings of Leon track playing on the car radio until it was deafening as she drove home.
What had started off a good day with a breakthrough on the Feeny murder had deteriorated quickly. Not only had Feeny not arrived at O’Hare yet, but the judge had also been reluctant to issue a warrant to search his home and safety deposit boxes on the word of an alleged mistress. All of it only compounded her guilt over the Youngs’ need to give up their family home to find a murderer—that was her job, after all.
And then there was Jay.
As if to mock her suffering, the latter’s voice rang out as an introduction to the evening newsbreak. He must have given the media a sound bite to go with the reward information.
Berg flicked to another station quickly, but it was too late.
She didn’t know if it was the cumulative effects of the day or Jay’s achingly familiar voice, but she suddenly felt sick to her stomach.
Flashes of the last twenty-four hours played in her mind: Arena, Jay, the Youngs, every upsetting scene melded together, replaying until she felt her head couldn’t contain the disturbing images anymore and might explode.
You’re losing it, Alicia, Leigh whispered, just like I told you you would while you continue to deny who you are.
Finally reaching the respite her apartment provided, Berg slammed the door and quickly headed to the bathroom.
Stripping naked and sitting on the cold tile, she grabbed her knees, hugging them tightly in an attempt to smother the unidentifiable and unwanted emotions by sheer force.
Only one thing was clear in her muddled mind—the blackness was back. And because she had felt better over the previous two months, she had lost her tolerance for it. It now seemed even more oppressive. Thicker. She didn’t have the strength, or the inclination, to fight it again.
“Stop!” she screamed to no one in the clean, white room.
Leigh cackled in her head.
Dr. Thompson had called her blackness depression. All she knew was it was deep and dark and tinged everything she saw. She could actually feel herself dropping into it—sinking slowly, feet first, as if into a tar pit. And like the tar, it was sticky and she didn’t know how to stop herself from drowning. When she looked at life through its filter, colors faded, the sun was less warm, and the very edges of her vision seemed shady, like an old-fashio
ned photo.
She was so stupid to have thought a little therapy would fix her! What had she thought would happen? She’d talk about her fucked-up feelings for a few hours a week to some total stranger and everything would be okay?
Just like Leigh had told her, people like her, people who were broken in childhood, never grew up to be normal. It was pathetic to even try.
Did she think should would marry a man with a roving eye? Have his children? Trade the one thing that made her feel like she was worth something for spit-up and lullabies? What kind of mother could she ever be anyway?
She and Jay might have been happy in the beginning, but eventually the cracks would show. She would sabotage their happiness with her problems.
He would pay for loving her.
You’re broken and you know it . . .
I love you so much, Alicia.
You’rebrokenandyouknowit . . .
IloveyousomuchAlicia.
She rocked back and forth on the cold floor, suppressing the urge to scream again.
She wiped her face and her shaking hand came away wet. Taking a deep breath, she stood up to splash cold water on her reddened cheeks, but found herself starting at her reflection instead. She loathed that woman who stared back at her—detested her inability to function in even the most basic way.
Picking up the heavy stainless steel cup that held her toothbrush and toothpaste, she stepped back and hurled it with every ounce of her strength at the reflection she abhorred. The projectile flew into the mirror, smashing the glass into jagged pieces that fell off the wall and shattered onto the porcelain basin and floor.
Tears streaming, she picked up a long, jagged piece of cold glass and dragged the razor-sharp point up the inside of her right forearm, relishing the instant pain and relief it brought with it.
She hadn’t gone deep enough to reach a vein—quite deliberately—but a trickle of blood dripped down her arm.
But it wasn’t quite enough—she could still feel, still think.
Grasping the glass in her left hand so tightly she felt it piercing into her palm, she sat down on the edge of the tub and dragged her right hand along the soft skin of her right inner thigh, the razor leaving a thin, shaky line behind marking its path. Both cuts stung intensely and immediately began throbbing in time with her pulse. She sat back against the bathroom wall to relish the wave of endorphins and concentrated on the physical instead of her emotions. Blissfully, all was quiet.