Broken

by Vanessa Skye

  “Eyes on the prize,” Berg reminded him.

  “They are.”

  “Could you be any less professional?”

  “You’re the one that fucked up Feeny, not me.” Arena shot Berg a look that said he wasn’t about to miss out on an opportunity because of her screwup.

  Barbara led them past a sweeping staircase of wrought iron and through to the biggest kitchen either of them had ever seen, with walnut cabinets covering three walls of the kitchen, floor to ceiling, and expensive stainless steel European appliances gleaming in the soft light that was entering the room from an enormous bay window.

  Berg could not fathom why a person would need so much space—the kitchen was larger than her entire apartment.

  Barbara gestured to the designer stools around the double-bed-sized kitchen island.

  Berg bypassed taking a seat but noticed there were no knife marks or stains on the perfect island surface and wondered if anyone actually cooked in the impressive space.

  “Coffee?” Barbara asked.

  The detectives both nodded.

  Instead of calling in the help she obviously had, Barbara herself reached for three tiny cups and pressed a couple of buttons on the commercial espresso machine, and the thick, dark coffee started dripping into the cups. “I’m sorry. Like I said, I don’t know what I can add.”

  “Just tell us what happened,” Berg replied. “You were in shock both times we spoke, so walk us through it again.”

  Barbara took a deep breath. “Okay, well, I had just parked the Merc at the club, and I saw Lauren parking only a few cars away. I called out to her and waited while she caught up. We walked through the lot together. There were a few other golfers arriving for a morning round, but they weren’t close.” She placed two cups of coffee in front of the detectives, along with spotless silver teaspoons, a bowl of white and brown lumps of sugar, and a jug of cream that she fetched from the huge fridge.

  Arena and Berg nodded their thanks.

  “Next, we heard tires skidding in the lot, and we both turned around. I assumed it was some member showing off their vulgar Ferrari, but an ordinary black SUV drove up quite close, the tinted passenger window rolled down, and a hand holding some kind of gun poked out. Next thing I know, Lauren’s on the ground next to me and the SUV is gone. There was blood everywhere. I could tell she was already dead. She was staring at me . . .” Her voice broke. She closed her eyes and lowered her head.

  “I know it’s hard to make yourself remember, but if there’s anything else, any little detail?” If she could simply get any new lead to go on, Berg knew she could run with it.

  Barbara shook her head.

  “Okay, let’s leave that for a moment,” Arena said and waved his hand dismissively. It was a common interview technique—switch subjects, let the witness calm down, and then pick up where they left off. “Let’s talk about Lauren. Did she always arrive at the club at the same time?”

  “Yes,” Barbara said. “I often arrive—arrived at the same time as Lauren.”

  “And how had Lauren seemed to you in the days leading up to her murder? Was she distant? Happy? Sad?”

  “She was a little distant, maybe a little sad, yes. I asked her about it, but she denied it. I didn’t push.”

  “Was she having trouble with any members? Her boss?”

  “Not that I knew about.”

  “Do you think she was having problems in her relationship with Michael Feeny?” Berg asked.

  Barbara hesitated, her eyes wide, and she flicked her gaze between the two detectives. “I’m not supposed to talk about that.”

  “Why not? I thought their relationship was common knowledge in the club?” Berg said.

  “It was only a rumor,” Barbara said quickly, but the detectives had seen toddlers fidget less when they lied. “Lauren never spoke of it.”

  “Oh, come on,” Arena said. “You and Lauren were girlfriends. I’m sure she shared a few of her sexual escapades with you—just one hot, young chick to another?” Arena winked.

  Barbara actually blushed like a schoolgirl under Arena’s magnetic gaze.

  Berg looked away and tried to keep down her coffee.

  The older woman’s color gradually faded and she cleared her throat. “I guess you’ve heard that Feeny Automotives is now the major sponsor of the club. We’re talking multiple millions of dollars here. Club management is already planning extensive remodeling of its back nine and the clubhouse. So they’ve made it quite clear that any members who discuss the private life of our new sponsor will have their memberships terminated.”

  “Did they send out a memo or an e-mail to that effect?” Berg asked.

  “Nothing on paper, detective. But believe me, it’s been made very clear.”

  “So you’d rather keep your golf membership so you can chase a little white ball around a lawn, than help solve your friend’s murder?” Berg folded her arms and widened her stance.

  Another flush hit Barbara’s cheeks. “You just don’t . . . it’s the . . . w-w-we’re talking the most prestigious golf club within a thousand miles of here, if not across the United States. There’s a perfectly good country club not five minutes from here, but no one who’s a member of the club would dream of going anywhere else. I drive at least forty minutes each way because it’s on the pro circuit. For God’s sake, Tiger just played there last week! Membership is expensive and exclusive. Million dollar business deals are made over a few holes. My husband’s clientele has tripled! We had to wait years to get in—I’m not jeopardizing it now.” She was shaking her head before she’d even finished her justification.

  “You know Feeny had her and his wife killed, right? Your major sponsor is a double murderer and a coward,” Berg retorted.

  “That’s just your opinion. And even if that were true, you think I’m walking around with proof? You’re delusional!” It was clear from her voice that Barbara Taylor was becoming increasingly agitated, even while her features remained smooth and emotion-free.

  “We can use whatever you have—all we need is you to get on the stand and tell a jury that Lauren was doing Feeny. That gives us cause to introduce her statement about the hit on his wife. We’ll take it from there.” Arena smiled at Barbara as if they shared a naughty secret.

  She shook her head emphatically. “No way I’m testifying to that.”

  “Then we’ll subpoena you,” Berg said.

  Barbara sighed. “You can if you like. But I warn you, my husband—while being a horrible little man and terrible in the sack—is an excellent lawyer. I’ve got no proof of any relationship and nothing to say to the contrary. You put me on the stand and you’ll find I put the hostile into hostile witness.” She glared at the detectives.

  “Okay, okay.” Arena held up both hands in mock surrender. He backpedaled to take the flirt and soothe approach instead. “Don’t get your pretty panties in a bunch. What are they? Armani? Calvin?”

  Arena’s flirting worked, and Barbara almost calmed down enough to fully smile. “La Perla, of course.”

  Arena nodded like he knew what that was. “Look, anything you can do to help us out without jeopardizing your position, anything at all, I would personally be very appreciative,” Arena said, accenting the personally.

  Barbara sighed again. “I can’t be sure, but I think there was a tattoo on the hand that held the gun. It might have been a shadow, and I only saw it for a split second.”

  “What was it?”

  “I don’t know . . . maybe a pitchfork shape? You know, like the devil?”

  “Which hand?”

  She thought for a moment. “The right. The pitchfork was all black, if that’s even what it was.”

  “Thank you,” Arena said sincerely. “And if you think of anything else, or you’re concerned for your safety, or you need a break from your horrible-lay husband . . .” He handed over his card.

  Barbara took it and stood, quickly tucking it into her low-cut blouse, ensuring Arena got an eyeful of silicone i
n the process. She led them back to the front door without a word.

  “Do you think you could refrain from boning the witnesses?” Berg snapped as the door shut behind them.

  Arena scoffed. “You heard her, she’s not a witness. And she’s richer than God.”

  “It’s unprofessional, Arena. Your dick could lose us our suspect.”

  “Listen, you wouldn’t believe what I’ve found out from women I’m in the sack with, and that chick is panting,” he said. “But I know where to draw the line. Don’t knock it, it works.”

  “You need to get a tattoo on your forehead that reads: no diving.”

  “Huh?”

  “Think about it.”

  Arena dug out his cell phone as they climbed back into the car. “Look, I’ve got a contact who may be able to help us with that tattoo . . .”

  “Lemme guess. Someone you’ve slept with?” Berg said tensely.

  “No way. He a guy, and a cop.” Area flicked though his contacts before dialing one. “Manny? Hey, it’s Arena . . .”

  Berg tuned him out rather than trying to follow the one-sided conversation, racking her brain instead for ways to get to Feeny.

  He and his children were hidden behind a wall of lawyers several miles high. The interviews, so far, had been a bust. And Feeny’s bank statements hadn’t helped at all. He hadn’t had so much as an outstanding tax return.

  Arena’s voice suddenly interrupted her planning. “Were you involved in Operation Sabatini last year?”

  “The federal gang op? No, but I knew a few CPD officers who were involved with the operation. They went after the head of one of the Chicago gangs, didn’t they?”

  “Yeah, Sabatini’s been indicted, along with seventeen other scumbags as a result. Anyway, my buddy from the 9th, Manny, was one of the CPD officers on the ground. A lot of his research went into the operation. There’s nothing this guy doesn’t know about the city’s gangs.”

  Berg was impressed. “So you’re thinking Feeny hired one of these guys to murder his wife and mistress?” she asked, following his train of thought. “Makes sense . . .”

  “Yep, would totally explain the MO.”

  Berg nodded in agreement.

  “Anyway, I asked him about the pitchfork tattoo and get this, there’s a new gang coming up on the south side, Devil’s Hand, and the pitchfork is one of their emblems.”

  “Wait a second, I thought Devil’s Hand wasn’t so much a gang as an uneasy alliance of black and Latino gangs who can call on each other when big numbers are needed?”

  “You got it. But Manny says there’s a new faction within the group that have taken their motto ‘all for one’ a little too far. They believe there should only be one gang in Chicago—them. For the last year, they have used extreme violence to absorb existing gangs into the fold, or to wipe them out financially by taking over their drug territory, or just murdering gang members who refuse to join. They make the Chicago gangs of Al Capone’s time look warm and fuzzy.”

  “Well, let’s hope they all kill each other.”

  “Trust me, they are, but they’re taking innocent people with them, too. They have a ‘shoot on sight’ for any young man wearing the wrong colors, as well as a ‘shoot on sight’ for anyone and their family who talks to the authorities about anything they do. The existing gangs are apparently taking the fight to them, but this splinter group is very well-funded and well-armed. Not to mention completely loco.”

  “Well-funded thanks to douche bags like Feeny, who pay them handsomely to wipe out inconvenient lovers,” Berg said, adding two and two together.

  “Exactly. They’ve managed to insert an out-of-town undercover into the lower hierarchy of this Devil’s Hand offshoot. He’s due to check in soon, and Manny’s going to dig around for us, see if he can get him to weed out the hitters. Maybe if we lean on them, they’ll give us Feeny.”

  Berg unconsciously scowled as she stared blindly out the windshield, tapping on the steering wheel. “Shoot on sight, huh? How well placed is the undercover? Can you ask a favor?”

  “Maybe. You want me to call back?”

  Berg smiled and nodded, telling Arena exactly what she wanted.

  Maybe I’ll move up that timetable after all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  God only knows how much I’d love you if you let me,

  but I can’t break through at all.

  –John Mayer, “Heartbreak Warfare”

  Jay caught up with Berg just as she was leaving the office the following week. “You going to the hospital?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she said, never missing a step.

  “You mind if I tag along?” he asked.

  Berg sighed. “I guess not.”

  While tempers had cooled in the two weeks since Jay had sent Berg home for losing it with Feeny, things were still strained between them.

  “Haven’t you got a station to run?”

  “Yeah, but I need a break from my desk.”

  They reached a sedan and Jay got into the passenger side.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he said. “It’s not your job to be there when they turn off Emma Young’s life support.”

  “Yes, it is. She’s about to be dead because of a violent crime. I need to see this so I can remember why I stop this kind of shit from happening,” she said bleakly.

  “Hey, you caught the guy. Give yourself a break.”

  “I guess . . .”

  “What?”

  “There’s something not right about the crime. This guy is obviously not all there, and there’s no motive. The state’s attorney-appointed psychiatrist just told me he thinks the guy’s just a gamer freak who had a break with reality. So what would prompt him to do this? He had no connection to her whatsoever.”

  “Carla’s saying his public defender’s pushing her to agree that Buchanan’s not competent to stand trial,” Jay said.

  Berg ground her teeth together at Jay calling ASA Maroney ‘Carla.’

  “What about that fantasy game crap?” Sounding a lot more like her old partner than her new captain, he was oblivious to Berg’s jealousy as he started running the case. “The general consensus is he was acting out the game in real life, killing what he considered to be an evil queen who had escaped the game. Emma apparently bears an uncanny resemblance to the queen’s avatar, whatever the hell that is,” he said.

  Berg sighed. “I know this kind of random thing can happen, but it just seems . . . wrong, to me.” She still hadn’t been able to put her finger on what it was that was off about the crime. “I’m going to visit him in prison tomorrow and interview him again.”

  “You don’t think he did it?”

  “No, he definitely did it. DNA proves it beyond a shadow of a doubt, plus patrol found his clothes with Emma’s blood all over them in a dumpster, and the gas can with his fingerprints all over it. What I want to know is why?”

  “What does Arena think?”

  “Since when do you care what he thinks?”

  “I don’t. I’m curious.”

  “He thinks the case is nicely wrapped up, and I’m looking to make things complicated. And he thinks I don’t believe in random crimes.”

  “You don’t.” Jay smiled. “You’ve got great instincts, but unless you can get more on the guy or the crime, I don’t see what else you can do. Maybe it is what it is—random. It does happen.”

  Berg sighed. “I guess.” She needed to let it go. She was becoming obsessed.

  Jay frowned. “That was your third ‘I guess’ in as many minutes. Are you okay?” he asked with concern.

  “Sure, apart from the fact this poor girl’s about to die.”

  “I mean really okay. We haven’t talked about . . .” Jay cleared his throat. “. . . the night I found you at The Pub?”

  “I’m fine,” Berg snapped. “I was having a beer.”

  “No, you weren’t. I know why you were in that bar by yourself. You’ve told me before that it was one of your . . . places. Do y
ou think it’s a good idea to go back there?”

  “I was just having a beer!”

  Jay stared at Berg as she drove. “You can lie to yourself, but not to me. You were about to slip—admit it! And then there’s what happened between us after . . .”

  Berg ignored him and pulled into the hospital’s parking lot. “We’re here.”

  Walking toward the room, they expected to find it devoid of people, except for Emma’s family and a doctor.

  What they found was a veritable press conference.

  “What the fuck?” Berg muttered under her breath.

  Jay and Berg pushed into the room, coming to a stop near the empty back wall, where Arena was already standing.

  “What’s he doing here?” Arena said, pointing at Jay.

  “Hi, we may not have met, I’m your captain.” Jay offered his hand and rolled his eyes. “By way of my being your boss, I can pretty much go where I fucking wa—”

  “What is about to happen here today,” Elizabeth Young spoke loudly, as tears streamed down her face, “is the terrible result of a violent crime perpetrated against an innocent victim who can no longer speak for herself. We are allowing the media to film this today in the hopes that Chicago and the entire country, maybe even the world, will watch and say, ‘no more!’ This kind of violence will no longer be ignored or glorified in popular culture. We as a people will stand up and fight for our right to be safe on the streets and in our own homes. Our rights to see violent criminals locked up never to see the light of day again, so they can’t get out and keep reoffending, and as a deterrent for anyone considering this kind of act.”

  What is she . . . that doesn’t apply in her sister’s case. Buchanan’s got no criminal record at all.

  Cameras flashed continuously as Elizabeth talked. Film camera crews jostled for position, switching between shooting Elizabeth as she spoke, to Emma’s still form on the bed, to their clearly devastated parents sitting quietly in the corner.

  “Earlier this week the victims’ advocate group, Enough is Enough, contacted me and asked if I would lend my voice to the cause. Because I do not want Emma’s death to be even more meaningless than it already is, I have invited you here today so you can watch me do what my parents cannot bring themselves to do—to finally end my sister’s all too short life.” Elizabeth took a deep, shaky breath. “Maybe, if the world can witness the final breath of a victim of crime, a beautiful victim who should still be living and breathing and enjoying her life, we can bring the focus back to where it should be—back to the rights of victims and their families, not to the rights of violent criminals to live full and rewarding lives when, by their own actions, they lost the privilege to any such thing!”