Broken

by Vanessa Skye

  The lawyer once again touched Feeny’s hand lightly, and he fell silent.

  Arena snorted. “That’s a neat trick your lawyer’s got there. Does it also work on zoo animals and rabid dogs?”

  Berg was losing her cool. “You don’t like women very much, do you, Feeny.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “You occasionally have your . . . charms.” Feeny looked Berg up and down. “I’d imagine even a man-hating ballbuster like you could have some kind of interesting use—if only on your back.”

  “Pull your head in, Feeny, or I’ll rip it off,” Arena said.

  “This interview is over.” Rather than looking disturbed at the tension arcing across the table, Feeny’s lawyer looked vaguely amused, as if he was indulgently watching kids in a schoolyard scuffle.

  “What is it, Feeny?” Berg couldn’t seem to stop the momentum now that she’d gotten a reaction. “You’d rather kill the women who love you than have them stand up to you? Divorce you? Is it that your tiny little ego can’t take it? Or is it something else that’s tiny?”

  Arena sucked in a shocked breath. Berg had not only stepped over the line, but hurdled it, and kept right on running.

  “What is it, detective?” Feeny mimicked. “Your daddy didn’t love you enough? Do strong men intimidate you? Is that why you prefer other girls? I’ve heard all kinds of stories about yo—”

  At the end of her tether, Berg jumped up. Her chair shot across the room and crashed into the wall. “Sons of bitches like you don’t deserve to draw oxygen,” she said. “You go through life thinking you can do whatever you want to whoever you want, hiding behind your expensive lawyers, money and sponsorship deals, motivated only by greed, hatred, and your tiny little appendage. Don’t think for one second you are going to get away with it. I know what you are! Take my word for it: one way or another, you’ll pay for discarding those innocent women like they were nothing more than last week’s leftovers! You are now number one on my shit list, and I won’t rest until you’re behind bars!”

  Feeny’s lawyer re-buttoned his suit jacket. “We’re done here. This has been nothing but an ambush and a witch hunt, and you can be sure we will be filing harassment charges against this department.”

  He and a smug Feeny strode out, closing the interview room door behind them.

  Seething, Berg picked up her fallen chair and hurled it with all her strength. It crashed into the unyielding door, leaving a dent in the solid metal just below the handle, before clattering to the ground, unbroken.

  The door released and silently swung open a few inches.

  “Jesus, Berg! What the fuck is your problem today?” Arena shouted. “We didn’t discuss an ambush strategy. That was our one shot. No way Feeny’s coming back in here voluntarily again. And the judge has already denied us an arrest warrant. Fuck!”

  The door flew open thanks to a hard shove from outside. “What’s going on in here?” Jay yelled. “I’ve got enough to do without the front desk informing me that my detectives can be heard berating an interviewee from street level!” He glared at Arena, then Berg, awaiting an explanation. He stepped inside and tried to close the door behind him.

  It swung open, tapping softly against the hall wall.

  Jay fingered the significant dent in the door and cursed. “And now I’m meant to find money in an already stretched budget to fix this! Who did this?”

  “I did,” Berg said, folding her arms.

  “Why?”

  “Feeny was pressing my buttons. That smug bastard killed his wife and lover and is going to get away with it!” Berg shouted.

  “So find some fucking evidence, detectives!” Jay yelled back. “What, you thought you’d get him in here and he’d just confess? Talk to his friends, colleagues, college buddies, even his milkman, for fuck’s sake! You got him in here prematurely, and instead of using the interview to glean something useful, you—what? Lose it? In front of the guy’s lawyer? Are you fucking dumb? Arena, go back over the crimes with a fine-tooth comb. The evidence is there. Find it.”

  “Fine.” Berg sighed. “We’ll go and—”

  “No! Not you, Berg. You can go home for the day.” Jay was seething.

  “What? No way, I’m fine!”

  “Go. Home.” Jay said. Berg moved to argue but Jay cut her off. “Go, Berg, and get your shit together. No one wants you here if you can’t keep your head in the game!”

  Berg’s anger immediately dissipated at Jay’s harsh words. Devastated, she pushed past both men and out the door.

  Chapter Twelve

  I just wanna hold you,

  take you by your hand.

  And tell you that you’re good enough.

  And tell you that it’s gonna be tough.

  This could be the end.

  –Kings of Leon, “The End”

  Berg drove home mindlessly, her body making the turns and stopping at traffic signals automatically, with no input from her conscious mind.

  What was the fucking point? Why even try to arrest and convict offenders when they just get away with it? Thanks to increasingly sneaky and theatrical lawyers, the law just gets thrown back in our faces—the same law that we have to follow to the letter, they flout openly, thumbing their noses at us.

  She remembered the horrific battle of manipulation that played out in Leigh’s last few hours, while she held Berg and Jay captive. The woman had railed against the justice system, demanding Berg join her in her bloody mission to ensure true justice was not lost.

  And fuck it, she’d been right!

  I told you. Leigh laughed in her head.

  Most of the really clever offenders never even saw the inside of a cell, between continuances, bail applications, and constant loopholes. And thanks to television crime shows, every jury member thought they were an expert in forensics and the law. You gathered a raft of evidence, presented an excellent case, but because there was no DNA or fingerprints, the jury let the scumbags go! Reasonable doubt was simply too easy to get.

  Where’s the justice?

  “What’s the point?” she asked aloud this time.

  And then there’s last night . . .

  She quickly shut down the memory.

  She was so tired.

  Tired of it all: the entire farce that was her life. She was failing professionally, she was losing it personally, and there was no light at the end of the tunnel. Nothing to look forward to. Emma Young was as good as dead and her offender would get off. Feeny would get away with a double murder. Jay would move on and date someone like that pretty ASA, Maroney.

  Where did she fit in?

  The answer was simple.

  I don’t.

  She was perfectly calm, once the decision was made. No tears. No second thoughts. Her hands were steady on the wheel.

  She spent the last twenty minutes of the trip planning and strategizing—figuring out the smaller details to ensure there would be no last-minute hiccups or regrets.

  As soon as she walked through the door she grabbed Jesse’s leash off its hook and looped it over an arm. Anticipating a walk, Jess jiggled with excitement and followed Berg as she quickly grabbed the bag of dry food and as many tins of wet food as she could carry.

  Looking confused, Jesse continued following her as she left her apartment and knocked on Vi’s door.

  “Hello!” Vi said, smiling wide as she opened the door before spying Jesse and the food in Berg’s arms. “What’s going on?”

  Jesse wandered into Vi’s apartment, completely at home.

  “I’ve got to go away for a few days . . . for work,” Berg said awkwardly. “Would you mind?” She left the question hanging.

  Vi’s ancient brow wrinkled in confusion. “Ah . . . sure,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “Of course I’ll take care of him. I love the big lug,” she replied, smiling.

  Unwilling to wander into the apartment, or even meet the older woman’s eyes, Berg quickly transferred Jesse’s food and leash into Vi’s arms.

>   The older woman visibly sagged as she nursed the weight of the heavy tins.

  “Sorry. I’ve got to get going straight away.” Without so much as a goodbye, Berg turned her back on her beloved pet, stepped across the hall, and hurried behind her own door.

  Shaking off the feeling of profound wrongness, she purposely strode into her bedroom and undressed carefully. She hung up her suit neatly in the closet, and threw her shirt into the hamper near the bathroom door. She arranged her shoulder holster tidily on the bed and locked her Sig away in her bedside table with her revolver, as always. She began to question why she wasn’t using it, but ignored the thought almost immediately. It somehow didn’t seem appropriate to use her CPD weapon, as if it disrespected the job she loved so much.

  After smoothing some invisible wrinkles on her bed covers, she strode back out to the kitchen in her bra and panties and opened the drawer containing the cutlery. She took out a small, but sharp, paring knife and a whetstone from the back of the drawer. She honed the already keen edge of the blade with a few methodical strokes, then stowed the block and shut the drawer again.

  Taking the now razor-sharp knife with her, she entered her small bathroom and shut the door. Looking at the tub and the shower stall, she was grateful for her background in crime scenes and forensics. She knew the best and most efficient way to get the job done.

  She climbed into the tub and sat down on the cold, white porcelain.

  Too many people went for the wrists when there were larger, and more easily accessible, arteries and veins in the body. The wrists were for people who were having doubts, or attention-seekers. Fewer people actually died from slashed wrists. You needed to cut too deep and it took too long to bleed out.

  No, there were much better, faster options. Presuming you could stomach digging deeply enough with a blade to sever certain arteries, there were some that, once severed, actually retracted into the body so it was almost impossible to stop the bleeding, even in full sight of a surgeon.

  She settled on the groin. One quick incision and she would lose consciousness within approximately ten seconds.

  A pang of regret seized her at her decision. She wondered how long it would be before she was discovered, and who would get the job to come and search for her and call her suicide in.

  Arena probably.

  Hopefully not Jay.

  Jay . . .

  Pushing his beloved face out of her mind, she steeled herself, gripped the knife’s handle in her left hand, and opened her legs. She ignored the developing bruises on her inner thighs from her night with Jay and pressed the tip of the knife into the soft spot on her inside thigh.

  Clenching the knife tighter to stop the shaking, she closed her eyes.

  One swift stab and slice . . . no hesitation marks. No weakness. No regrets.

  Suddenly, Feeny’s sneering face flashed in her mind.

  Berg frowned—he was hardly worthy of her last thoughts, and Arena could handle it.

  She tried to push the image out of her head, but it only got stronger.

  She saw Feeny hearing the news of her death. He would gloat, knowing that he’d never be brought to justice for the murder of two innocent women. He could live on, safe in the knowledge that he had won.

  I trained you better than this, Leigh whispered. I am disappointed in your weakness.

  Berg lowered the knife.

  She had to end her life—that was certain. But the timing? Perhaps that could change. There wouldn’t be much harm in waiting a few more weeks, until she worked out a way to ensure Feeny’s conviction.

  She climbed out of the tub, walked into the kitchen, and replaced the knife in the drawer. Then she pulled on her sweats and went next door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It’s hard as hell tonight to sleep.

  To close my eyes would be admitting my defeat.

  –Fauxliage, “Let It Go”

  Berg and Arena spent the next week interviewing and re-interviewing witnesses to both Elena Feeny and Lauren Wesley’s deaths. By the end of Friday, they were irritated, exhausted, and no further along in the investigation.

  “What an utterly pointless week,” Arena griped as they drove to their last stop of the day. “We’ve got nothing we didn’t have before.”

  Berg nodded, but continued running scenarios in her head. “You got nothing from any of his deckhands?”

  “Nada. I suspect some of them were illegals, but now, thanks to their generous boss, they all have brand spanking new work visas and pay raises. They all love him. None of them admit to ever seeing Lauren on that boat and all backed up Feeny’s insistence that he loved his wife. The guy’s always one step ahead of us. How’d it go with his employees?”

  “The same. No one is willing to say anything against the man. They either love him or were scared shitless. In this economic climate, no one can afford to lose a job by speaking out. Also, he has so many car lots, most of them have never even met him.”

  “Well, at least we can tell our captain that his insistence we re-interview witnesses was fruitless and a waste of our time,” Arena said. He sounded genuinely pleased at the prospect. “So where exactly are we headed now?”

  “Highland Park to re-interview Barbara Taylor, a Cook County Golf Club member and the woman who was not two feet away from Lauren Wesley when she died,” Berg reminded him.

  “Hmm, I met Barbara while I was doing my recon. Not bad for a cougar. I mean, she’s more plastic than human now, but she wears it well. What are you hoping to get?”

  “She was still in shock when I interviewed her at the station. I was hoping she might remember the events a little more clearly now some weeks have passed. We need something to go on. Anything. At this point I’ll happily interview the guy’s dog.” She leaned forward and turned up the radio to hear the latest headlines.

  A news anchor’s bass voice filled the car with instant authority. “Your sister is showing no signs of improvement or recovery, is that the case?” he asked with faux concern.

  “That’s unfortunately the case, yes,” a female voice replied.

  “Hey, is that Elizabeth Young?” Arena asked Berg.

  “Sounds like it,” she said, shushing him and turned up the radio again.

  “—but I have the privilege of being the voice for my sister, and for all those faceless victims we all see on the news but think nothing about again. We all think it can’t happen to us, that anyone who encounters a violent crime somehow deserved it. Well, I’m here to say for my sister that she is a real, breathing, loving, working, beautiful woman who did nothing but catch Metra home from work one day, like any other day. Except while you all got home to your families safely, my sister was attacked and essentially killed by an animal that had no connection to her whatsoever. Her life ended that night. And now, thanks to the legal system, her killer may not spend a single night in prison,” Elizabeth said, her voice breaking.

  “Powerful words, Elizabeth.”

  “Thank you. I feel it is my responsibility to be the voice for those victims of crime who can’t speak for themselves.”

  “And in other news—”

  Berg tuned the radio to another station hoping for some music. In the face of Elizabeth’s emotional words, she suddenly felt inadequate.

  “I know,” Arena said softly, looking at her face. “I feel it, too.”

  Berg nodded. “If Buchanan doesn’t go to prison, then there is no justice,” she said.

  “That’s debatable even when things do go well,” he replied. “You’d think with all the physical evidence we have, it’d be a slum dunk.”

  “Yeah. And yet, even if he does get put away, there’s no closure for Elizabeth or her parents. No explanation. I mean, why? Why did he do this?”

  “You’re asking for logic from a guy who’s clearly not all there. There are people out there, predators, who just like to kill other people. You should know that better than anyone.”

  “I do. It’s just . . . it’s not sitting r
ight.”

  “Well, let it go, because he did it. That’s it, Berg. A random attack. I know you don’t like them, but they do happen.”

  “I fucking know that.” Berg guided the car to Chicago’s north shore then turned onto Spruce Avenue in Highland Park. Checking the address in her notebook again, she drove a little farther and stopped outside an impressive Tudor-style mansion.

  Arena whistled. “Now this is a lifestyle I could become accustomed to,” he said.

  “Don’t get any ideas, Arena. She’s married.”

  “Never stopped me before.”

  They climbed out of the sedan and walked toward the huge home across the manicured front lawn. The steep peaks of the roof were covered with glossy gray slate and the home itself was built from some kind of lighter gray stone. The windows were numerous and spotless, and the house so well maintained it looked brand new.

  Berg pressed the doorbell to the left of the large oak double doors.

  Lilting chimes tinkled throughout the house. Given the surroundings, they half expected a butler to answer the door and offer them tea. Instead, the lady of the house herself answered.

  “Detectives?” she questioned, her face showing as much surprise as it would allow. “What can I do for you?”

  “We’d like to discuss the shooting again, if we could,” Berg said politely to the immaculately coiffed woman. “We’ve reached a dead end in our investigation, and we were hoping you might remember something new?”

  The woman was eyeing Arena with naked appreciation, sucking on her inflated lower lip lightly. “You played a round with some friends and me at the club weeks ago,” she asked him, ignoring Berg.

  Arena, who was eyeing her with almost as much appreciation, nodded.

  “Good drive, I hear,” she commented. “Long and hard.”

  Berg rolled her eyes and tried not to gag.

  “That’s what I’ve been told,” Arena said, winking.

  Barbara eyed Arena speculatively without further comment, and then turned to Berg. “I’m not sure what else I can offer, but you’re welcome to come in.” She turned and walked through the marble foyer, Arena’s eyes glued firmly to her Armani-clad ass.