by Vanessa Skye
of a time when I tried so hard and got so far.
But in the end it doesn’t even matter.
–Linkin Park, “In the End”
She was trapped. That she knew it was a dream, and knew what was coming next, made no difference. She was doomed to relive the memory as if it was that same night all over again. It was like living it again and watching it replay on a movie screen all at once. She knew what was happening, what would happen next, but she couldn’t stop the physical or emotional panic. Each and every time it was like being that helpless twelve-year-old again. No matter what horrors or the deranged criminals she unflinchingly confronted daily, she returned to bed every night to become a powerless, scared little girl.
Berg hated that—herself and the dream—in equal measure.
She pulled the pink, ruffled covers up over her mouth and nose. Her eyes were glued to the door she knew would open at any moment.
Her senses immediately heightened with the rush of adrenaline and her breathing was fast and shallow. She smelled her own dread mingled with the apple scent of the fabric softener that the housekeeper always used on the linen.
She strained her ears for the muffled sounds of the soft footfalls that signaled his inevitable approach.
The door opened a crack at first, just as she had known it would. He slunk into her room silently, just as she had known he would. He climbed into her bed, just as she had known he would.
But knowing wasn’t accepting or desensitizing, and she started crying.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much, Alicia . . .”
As he bent to kiss her, his rank beer breath washed across her face and made her want to vomit. In between foul, wet kisses his face was illuminated by a shaft of light from the streetlights that pierced through the crack in the curtains.
Berg sat bolt upright in bed. It was the same dream she always had, yet . . . not. This one was slightly—horrifically—altered.
She looked around, squinting to make out the bedroom in the predawn light, and recognized nothing. As the frantic part of her brain heard the logic coming through, she realized the unfamiliar bed was actually Jay’s and warmth flooded down her body along with the barrage of memories.
At some stage during the evening’s activities, they made it to the bed. She didn’t remember when. The entire night was melded into a single stream of intense sensation and emotion that neither one had wanted to end.
It had felt so good to open up to him, to exchange small murmurs of love, to make plans in between the passion. For a few hours, she had felt real . . . normal.
Loved.
It had been unbelievable, bizarre even, but so, so good.
She waited as her eyes adjusted to the dim light coming through Jay’s ancient venetian blinds. It still looked very early. If she had to guess, it had only been a couple of hours of sleep before . . .
Her heart pounded so hard she realized her body was rocking from the force of it.
Never before had the dream strayed from its set formula. Over twenty years, nearly every single night, the dream had always been the same. The same bedroom, the same events, the same sounds and smells, the same reactions. Except this time, as her father’s face had caught the light, it hadn’t been his face anymore.
This time, the face had been Jay’s.
“I love you so much, Alicia.”
Berg felt ill.
She looked down at him, sleeping peacefully, his arms thrown wide across the firm bed, a cotton sheet draped across his hips and one leg. She studied his smooth, sleeping face and watched it morph into the leer of the dream. She turned away and dry retched quietly before bringing her stomach back under control.
The face that had prompted her to declare feelings she didn’t want to admit to last night now filled her with revulsion and disgust.
The dream words melded with the murmurings of love Jay had whispered throughout the night and echoed in her addled head as she hurriedly slipped out of bed and searched for her clothes on the floor near the front door.
She flung on what she could, noticing that the suit and shirt were torn beyond repair, and she tried not to sob out loud with the terrible realization.
I can’t do this.
She had wanted to, and she had had high hopes after she and Jay connected last night on a level far superior to good sex, but she couldn’t do it. She was incapable of sustaining that kind of emotion. It scared the fuck out of her, and not just because love felt could also be love lost. It was because one flicker of normal and her past intruded, reminding her of her deep, profound defects.
Last night had been a test, and she failed.
Despite Vi’s assurances, she couldn’t drag Jay into her shit. She had done more evil in her life than he knew about, things that would change his opinion of her forever. For one brief, beautiful moment she had believed Vi; she had believed she could cast it all aside and be happy, but she wasn’t ready for it. She wasn’t even made for it. It would end badly. There was no other possible outcome.
Berg cast one last look at Jay. He looked flawless, lying there in the dim light. For a crazy moment, she wanted nothing more than to get undressed and slip back into bed with him. They could both call in sick and pick up where they had left off. She fought the urge to run back to him, to beg him to love her. And he would love her, too, until her evil became too palpable for even him to ignore.
She knew, as she shut his front door softly behind her, that she simply couldn’t do it to herself.
Or to him.
Jay trudged unhappily up the stairs from the first to the third floor of the 12th. He had awoken unexpectedly alone earlier that morning, his dreams of sharing a long, romantic breakfast with Berg dashed as soon as he had peeled open his eyes.
She didn’t even say goodbye.
The irony that he had done the same to countless women over the years hadn’t been lost on him. But for one bright, shiny moment, it had seemed like all his dreams for the future would be realized—the career, the woman, the family, the sex . . .
He had plummeted to Earth with an audible thud this morning.
He walked through the stairwell doors on his level, his eyes immediately seeking out Berg’s desk. She had her head down, intent on her work. She was wearing different clothes to the ones he had ripped off her last night, so she must have woken early, gone home and changed, and still beaten him in.
Not that she could have worn the same thing she’d had on last night. It had looked like an escaped zoo animal had mauled the T-shirt he’d been wearing, and it had gone straight from the floor to the trash.
He paused before he went into his office, willing Berg to look up and meet his eyes, but she was obviously having none of it. Of course, the pause meant he was fair game for everyone who needed him for something.
“Captain! I—”
“Can you—”
“Just fuck off, all of you,” he muttered as he headed to his office, leaving his gob- smacked subordinates where they stood.
“Hey,” Arena said before Jay had a chance to walk through his door.
“Arena.” Jay nodded. “Tell your partner I need to speak to her when she has a moment.”
“Am I your errand boy now? You’ve got legs and lips, tell her yourself,” Arena retorted, pointing with a flip of his head.
“After the insubordination you’ve been throwing my way lately, you’d be lucky to be a fucking errand boy. Just tell her!” Jay yelled. He went into his office.
Jesus. Not even eight in the morning and my head’s already pounding.
Arena sauntered in a few minutes later. “Berg says she’s busy with a lead, plus we’re about to interview Feeny. So if it’s anything about our cases, you can discuss it with me.”
Okay, she’s dodging me.
“This is bullshit,” Jay muttered, standing up and striding out to Berg’s desk. “Can we have a moment please? In private,” he asked the woman who had opened up to him so completely not even twe
lve hours ago and now stared stonily at her computer as if he meant less to her than a flasher on the El.
“I’m busy right now,” Berg replied. “We’re really lucky Feeny finally granted us a voluntary interview, so I need to concentrate.”
“I’m asking you nicely,” Jay said through gritted teeth, fully aware that the entire level was straining to hear every word of their conversation.
“And I’m saying not now, also nicely.”
“When, then?”
“Another time.”
Jay almost walked away, but stopped, shook his head in disbelief, and turned back to Berg. “So that’s it, then? No conversation, no explanation? After everything . . . that’s all I get?” Jay was losing it and he knew it.
“Keep your voice down!” Berg snapped.
Arena hovered near Berg protectively.
“Unless you have a professional question, I think it’s best if we keep our distance. This is better for you, trust me.” Berg never even looked up before turning back to her work.
“How the hell is this—”
Arena stepped in front of Jay. “The lady said to keep your distance. Try to have enough respect for her to listen.”
Jay stared around Arena at Berg, trying to catch her eye. He tried to shove Arena out of the way, but Arena quickly recovered and stepped in front of him, cutting him off once again.
“Are we going to have a problem here, O’Loughlin?” Arena asked, not even trying to hide his eagerness.
“No.” Jay answered Arena but stared at Berg. “We’re not going to have a problem, Arena. There’s nothing here worth fighting for.” He turned and stalked back into his office and slammed the door behind him.
“What the fuck was that about?” Arena asked as he and Berg headed down to the basement floor interview rooms where Feeny was waiting—no doubt with his lawyer—as requested after returning from New York.
“Difference of opinion,” Berg muttered.
“About what?” Arena asked, none too subtle in his nosy approach.
About how fucked up I am.
“Nothing you need concern yourself with. It’s no big deal.”
Arena raised an eyebrow, but left it.
The detectives opened the door of Interview Three and strode in. They carried little by way of props, Arena sporting a thick, yellow file labeled ‘Feeny’, which detailed the murders of his wife and mistress, their autopsy reports, the scant few leads they had, and little else. Feeny and his lawyer stood and they all shook hands politely, like the civilized people they were pretending to be.
Feeny’s lawyer—Berg had missed his name—eyed them shrewdly. His designer suit and leather briefcase reeked of a Loop blue ribbon law firm.
She sighed inwardly—clearly Feeny had no intention of making this easy. “We appreciate you coming in, Mr. Feeny. This won’t take long. We just have a few standard questio—”
“If we could get to it?” Feeny’s lawyer said. “My client’s a busy man.”
“Fine. So how long were you in a sexual relationship with Lauren Wesley, Mr. Feeny?” Berg asked before they even sat down.
Feeny’s lawyer unbuttoned his silk jacket slowly before indolently lowering himself onto the hard metal interview chair as though he was reclining in a comfortable leather armchair at whatever exclusive club he was sure to be a member of.
“I was not in any such relationship with Miss Wesley,” Feeny replied, unruffled. “I knew her in her capacity of secretary of the golf club only.”
“Really?” Arena replied, feigning surprise. “Because we have a very interesting signed statement from her saying you were, in fact, having an affair, and that you were planning on leaving your wife for her until that got too complicated, and you just offed your wife instead.”
Feeny nodded toward his counsel.
“Sadly, it seems Miss Wesley had some unrequited feelings for my very happily married client. My client was hoping her feelings would resolve themselves, but it seemed they recently escalated. And, as we all know, desperate women can be . . . mistaken,” the nameless legal mouthpiece drawled.
“Really? Lauren also claimed to have been on your yacht and overheard you ordering a hit on your wife. She gave a very detailed description of the interior of the vessel. Care to explain that?” Berg asked.
“As I said, desperate women often resort to desperate tactics. She was upset, a stalker, and lied to get my client’s attention. Sadly, now she’s deceased, we won’t ever have the chance to expose her lies face-to-face. How unfortunate.” Feeny’s lawyer used the words ‘sadly’ and ‘unfortunate’ in tones that instead screamed ‘fuck you’ and ‘loser’.
“Yes. How unfortunate, and convenient, for you, Mr. Feeny,” Berg said sarcastically, ignoring the lawyer. “So you’re really going to maintain there was no relationship? That’s what we’re doing here today? Lying?”
“Asked and answered. There was no relationship.” The lawyer leaned back in the chair and smiled the phoniest smile Berg had ever witnessed.
“Interesting. Because we have a credit card receipt with your name on it for very expensive flowers delivered to Miss Wesley the week she died. How do you explain that, Feeny?”
Feeny flicked a glance at his lawyer, who nodded slightly. “I’m not denying I sent her flowers. She helped me with my swing the previous week, and it really improved my game. I wanted to thank her. That’s it. I’m terribly sorry if she read more into it.”
“It seems you thanked her quite regularly. There were multiple charges from that florist to your card.” Berg watched Feeny closely for a tell.
“I think you’ll find the other flowers were delivered to my wife, whom I loved very much,” Feeny said, knowing the florist didn’t keep address records beyond the delivery.
“When did your wife find out about Lauren?” Berg asked.
This time, the glance Feeny threw his lawyer was more than a little annoyed.
“My client has already stated categorically that he was not in a relationship with Miss Wesley. Move on,” the lawyer said coolly.
“Did you hire someone to kill both your wife and Miss Wesley, Mr. Feeny?” Berg questioned, leaning forward intently. The movement set her back ablaze as her clothes settled against the carpet-burned skin. She suppressed a wince.
“Do you honestly expect me to answer that?” Feeny said angrily. The lawyer touched Feeny’s hand briefly, and Feeny took a deep breath and calm himself down. “No, I did not. Why would I do such a terrible thing?” he said with a smirk.
“Maybe because your wife found out about your affair and was going to take you to the cleaners?” Berg retorted. She knew she was losing it, but she didn’t care—the asshole was not going to get away with two murders if she could help it.
Arena cleared his throat and gave her a ‘what the fuck are you doing?’ look.
The lawyer reached over again, silently signaling Feeny. “I assume you have some kind of proof that the late Mrs. Feeny was seeking a divorce? Otherwise, you are just making baseless accusations.”
Smug bastard.
Of course he knew the CPD didn’t have any proof. Any pending divorce proceedings were likely being handled by his very law firm and neatly buried behind client confidentiality laws. As much as they had tried calling every other law firm across Chicago, they couldn’t find anyone willing to admit they had been approached by Mrs. Feeny to handle a divorce.
The detectives were spitballing, and they all knew it.
“You don’t seem very upset over the brutal murder of your wife.” Arena rested his elbows on the table and clasped his hands in front of his mouth.
“How my client handles his considerable grief is not relevant and certainly none of your business. I would ask you keep the questions respectful, or this interview will be over. I remind you that we don’t have to be here today.”
“How do you explain that your wife, plus another woman you claim not to be having an affair with, were both killed within weeks of each other?” Berg
tried to sound casual, but she knew she was pressing it.
Feeny’s lawyer practically pounced on the table to answer. “My client is devastated at the loss of his wife, plus another innocent woman in an increasingly violent city. Apart from my client, is there anything linking these crimes whatsoever? Evidence? Bullets?”
Berg pursed her lips. “The bullets from the crimes did not match, but as we suspect a silencer was used in the killing of your wife, Feeny, that’s not unexpected.”
The group all stared at each other, each waiting for the other to fill the silence. The minutes felt like hours.
Berg took a deep breath, trying to get her temper under control. “You’ve got to be feeling pretty unlucky about now, Feeny. What are the chances of two women you were involved with being murdered within weeks of each other? About a billion to one?”
“Oh, at least a billion,” Arena said, nodding.
“This is pure coincidence and nothing but speculation on your part. If you had any evidence of any wrongdoing, Mr. Feeny would be in custody and this interview would be over. But as you know full well, he was nowhere near either of the women at the times of their murders. There is no proof he ordered the murders. In fact, there is no proof these murders are even linked! There is no proof he was having an affair. Careful, detectives. We are here out of goodwill, and you are skirting dangerously close to having that goodwill run out. You are berating an innocent, grieving man.”
“We’ve got several golfers at the club willing to testify about the nature of the relationship between Feeny and Miss Wesley,” Arena lied.
“My client just announced a major sponsorship deal with the club, so I doubt that’s true. They’d hardly partner with someone with a history of inappropriate behavior. I think if you check again, you’ll find your so-called witnesses have found they simply misunderstood the completely plutonic relationship,” the lawyer said, clearly going for earnest but coming off as self-satisfied.
“You know what women are like when they get together.” Feeny curled his lips into a rancorous sneer. “The silly bitches think water cooler gossip is fact.”