Blood Lines: Edge of Darkness Book 3

by Vanessa Skye

  Arena wrinkled his brow. “Look, I may not see eye to eye with the guy all the time, but there’s no way he did this. It’s ridiculous! The guy is straight down the line. Too straight sometimes.”

  “I know!” Berg nodded, happy to have someone agree with her. “There’s just no way . . .”

  “Is it possible he was setting Alexander up and it backfired? Maybe it was part of his plan?”

  “The FBI doesn’t seem to think so. They think he’s complicit.”

  “Then they must know more than we do. Is there anyone we can talk to? Who sent him under? Who knew about it?”

  “I’m assuming someone high up in the FBI, and the state’s attorney apparently recommended him for the job,” she said, remembering what Carla said. “Me, Smith, and Maroney are the only ones who knew.”

  “I haven’t spoken to Carla since we broke up, but do you want me to call her?” Arena offered. “I’ll try to get as much information out of her as I can—”

  Berg held up her hand. “No. I’m going to go to the state’s attorney and get him to tell me where Jay is.”

  “If they knew where he was, don’t you think they’d be arresting him?”

  “Then he can tell me where Jay was last. They must have some kind of information I can use!”

  “Uh, Berg? You can’t just wander into the state’s attorney’s office and demand information on an ongoing undercover operation you aren’t even supposed to know about!” Arena looked at her like she was crazy.

  “I can, and I will. I’ve got to find Jay. He’s in trouble, I can feel it.” Berg pushed past Arena.

  “Just wait.” Arena grabbed her arm with one hand and fished his buzzing cell out of his jeans pocket with the other. “Short? This isn’t a good time, man—” Arena listened intently for a few moments. “All right, we’re on our way. Thanks for this.”

  “Let me go, Arena. I need to go see the SA—”

  “Trust me, Berg, it can wait. Short’s got multiple bodies down in a warehouse on South Wabash. Could be some of Alexander’s m—”

  “Oh God. Jay,” Berg whispered. “Let’s go.”

  ***

  Short met the pair on South Wabash in front of the freestanding brick warehouse next to a disused row of old cargo containers.

  “I hope you brought your steel stomachs today,” Short said to them as they walked swiftly toward the double garage door entrance. “Because it’s a fucking bloodbath in there.”

  Berg barely heard him as she pushed through the crowd of detectives, patrol, and forensic techs, her heart pounding so hard her ears were ringing. She swiftly made her way along the street level, checking out the bodies—at least twelve of them, all black, all wearing a red bandana of some kind and lying in a veritable lake of blood.

  “Gang members?” she asked Short, who had followed her.

  He nodded.

  “Any bodies upstairs?” She looked toward the stairs leading to the second level.

  “No, this is where it all happened.”

  Sure Jay wasn’t among the dead, she focused on the scene, noting the clear rectangular dust outlines on the concrete and small smears of white powder nearby.

  She knelt over the powder and stuck her finger in it. “Heroin?”

  “Looks like it,” Short said grimly.

  “Was this a gang facility?”

  Short shrugged. “If it was, we didn’t know about it until this morning when some gunshots were reported in the area.”

  Berg wandered toward one of the multiple piles of shell casings and bent down to examine them without touching. “Some gunshots?” Berg said, raising an eyebrow. “These are M43 armor-piercing rounds, possibly for an AKM. This has no business on a battlefield of war, let alone in Chicago’s South Loop!”

  “Jesus!” Arena said. “How the fuck did gangbangers get their hands on automatic assault rifles?”

  Short shook his head. “It seems like the gangbangers were using semiautomatic pistols, and someone else decided to bring out the heavy artillery. But look at the bodies and tell me what you think happened here.” He waved at the carnage around him.

  Berg and Arena walked around the space, careful not to disrupt any evidence. They caught a few curious looks from the other detectives and techs working the scene, but no one questioned their presence.

  “Without exception, every body is riddled with bullets. In some cases, they’ve almost been dismembered by gunfire.” Berg stopped and looked at Short, no doubt in her tone. “They were mowed down.”

  Arena nodded. “Casings are all either nines or thirty-nines. And look where all the bodies are, Berg.”

  “Yep.” Berg glanced toward the front of the warehouse, pointing at the bodies. “They’re all either at the entrance or no more than a step or two inside the warehouse.” She looked up at Short. “This is not their warehouse. They came in armed, possibly to steal a big score, but got a big surprise themselves instead. AKMs, six hundred and forty rounds per minute . . . cut them down where they stood.” She gestured at the handguns still near many of the bodies. “Whoever did this didn’t even take their hardware. And if they’re packing AKMs, why would they? This is kindergarten stuff.”

  Short nodded grimly. “Exactly what we were thinking. This is the entire suspected upper-level of the South Bloods, including their king,” he said, gesturing toward one body.

  “You obviously think this has something to do with our dealer murders, or we wouldn’t be here,” Berg said.

  “I think this was an attempt at gang retaliation like we discussed. I think someone squealed on Alexander, or set the gang up, and they located his stash. When they got here, though, they were ambushed or just outgunned,” Short said.

  “So the ownership of this place could give us a lead on Alexander,” Arena said.

  Short snorted. “Unlikely.” He held out a piece of paper. “The lease.”

  “It was leased for two years, paid in cash in advance,” Berg read aloud. “By a Mr. . . . F. Ewe.”

  “Eff you?” Arena said before snorting. “Clever. So I’m guessing there’s no copies of social security or a driver’s license, then.”

  “Nada. The owner will be charged, but if someone wants to pay you double upfront, in cash, you’re gonna take it, and the threat of charges won’t do jack.”

  “We’ll know what really happened if another body turns up,” Berg said.

  “How so?” Arena asked.

  “If it was a setup, then there’ll be no retaliation on Alexander’s part. But if one of his men squealed to the gang about this place? That guy won’t live out the week,” she explained.

  “What about gang retaliation?” Arena asked Short.

  “The gang’s all over the place. They’ll be fighting among themselves to decide who takes over for months, and that’s only if another gang doesn’t take over their territory. As far as warnings to other gangs in the area go, this was a pretty effective one. Come at us, and you’ll be cut down where you stand. If I were a gangbanger, I’d be lying low.” He looked around at the carnage.

  The red blood had begun to coagulate and turn brown, and many of the bodies were entering rigor. They would need to be moved to the morgue soon.

  “They’ve taken samples of the drugs. I’ll pass on the results to you as well as the FBI,” Short said with a sigh.

  Berg frowned. “Why?”

  “Why do you think, Berg? They think the drugs stolen from evidence were stashed here after the take. They need to confirm it, and then they’ll set about taking down the dirty cop who helped them get it.”

  Berg clenched her fists. “He’s not dirty!”

  The entire floor went silent as everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at Berg.

  Short stepped back, hands raised. “Hey, calm down! I know he came from your precinct, but Jesus fuck. How much more evidence do you need? He’s with Alexander now.”

  “He’s not!” Berg took a step toward Short before Arena hugged her with his thick arms, effectiv
ely restraining her.

  He leaned toward Short and muttered something.

  Berg clearly heard the word fiancé.

  Short covered his mouth with a hand, shook his head, and sighed. “Shit, Berg, I’m sorry. I had no i—”

  “Save it,” Berg said, extricating herself from Arena and walking out of the warehouse.

  ***

  Berg stepped out of the elevator on the eighteenth floor of the West Washington Street building and marched straight for the state’s attorney’s office as though she had every right in the world to be there.

  She had left Arena with Short, driving herself to the offices despite objections from both men.

  “Uh, Miss?” the pretty secretary said, standing behind her large desk, as Berg walked past her. “Miss! Stop!”

  “He’s expecting me,” Berg said over her shoulder as she opened the frosted glass door and walked inside.

  “I’m calling security!” she heard the secretary say.

  Berg closed the door behind her.

  Robert Hillis, Cook County’s state’s attorney and the man overseeing the office’s nearly nine hundred attorneys, was on the phone. He frowned and stood, muttering something about calling back.

  He was a good-looking man, around fifty, with short, dark hair and an impeccably fitted, dark gray Italian suit. He trained his brown eyes on her, a deep scowl on his tanned face, and frowned. “Who are you, and what do you think you are doing?”

  “CPD, Detective Alicia Raymond, from the 12th.” Berg stuck out her hand, waiting for him to shake, while also showing she had no weapons on her.

  Hillis didn’t move. “Get out immediately!” He pointed at the door.

  “Not until you tell me where Captain Jay O’Loughlin is,” she said, sitting in one of the plush chairs in front of his expansive desk.

  “I’m calling security.”

  “No need. Your secretary already has, and I’m sure they’ll be here soon.” Berg crossed her arms.

  “Well, unless you want to be arrested, I suggest you leave!”

  “Not going to happen. In fact, if you value your reputation, you’ll tell security to leave when they get here.”

  Right on cue, two burly men burst into the office, hands on their guns.

  Berg raised her hands to show she was unarmed, looked at Hillis, and said, “Club Fury.”

  The state’s attorney paled and swallowed. “We’re fine in here, gentlemen.” He bobbed his head once and waved the security guards off. “Please leave us.”

  The men walked out the door and closed it behind them.

  Hillis looked at Berg in disgust as he sat back down. “Even if I knew where he was, I couldn’t tell you.”

  “I think you can,” Berg said with a small smile. “Club Fury, remember?”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” Hillis said stiffly.

  Berg laughed. “Jesus. I hope you don’t play poker. Try again.”

  He banged his fist on the desk. “A major undercover operation has gone to shit! I’ve been working all morning to keep the storage facility raid out of the press. I don’t know where the fuck O’Loughlin is, and if I did, he’d be under arrest like the criminal he is!”

  Berg let the criminal shot slide and concentrated on the bigger picture. “But you do know something about where he was last seen, don’t you?”

  “No!”

  “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Hillis frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s okay. I understand. It’s hard to see through that blue peacock mask.”

  The SA stilled. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said after a noticeable pause.

  Berg walked around to his side of the desk. “If I recall correctly, you like to be pegged after snorting the better part of the GDP of Peru in cocaine.”

  He looked horrified as his jaw flapped opened and closed several times before he was able to choke out one word. “What?”

  “Pegged.” She sat on the edge of his desk, a smile on her face. “Fucked by a woman wearing a strap-on? I’m pretty offended. I gave you some of the best times of your life wearing that thing.”

  “Fuck you. You’ve got just as much to lose as me. Maybe more. There’s so much more stigma for the woman than the man, à la Lewinsky. You won’t say a fucking thing to anyone if you want to keep your job.”

  Berg barked out a single note of laughter. “That’s where you’re wrong, Rob. My days in the CPD are numbered—single digits—particularly if Jay’s dead. I have every intention of burning each bridge I come across to find him, dead or alive. I don’t give a shit what happens to me afterward.”

  Hillis was calm and shrugged. “I don’t believe you.”

  Berg swiped on her cell, scrolled through the contacts, and tapped the screen. She put the call on speaker and laid the phone on the desk between them. “As I recall, you like it rough . . . with no lube, am I right?” She arched a brow at the suddenly pale man. “Your wife enjoy pegging, too? Do you swap? Or are you always the bitch?”

  “ABC 3. Stan here.” The voice sounded tinny through the small speaker.

  “Stan, hey. It’s Alicia from the 12th.”

  “Alicia! Long time no speak. I was beginning to think you didn’t care. You got something for me? Some juicy crime you need me to release?”

  “Actually, I’ve got the most interesting piece of news for you on one of Chicago’s highest ranking judicial officials. Interested?”

  “Maybe. Can you prove it?”

  “Eyewitness, Stan. You’re getting it straight from the horse’s mouth. I know how much you like a high-profile official who’s stepping out on his wife in the most kinky way.” Berg could almost hear him salivating, and she wasn’t the only one.

  “Then, by all means, shoot!”

  The SA shot upright in his chair, snatched the phone, and hit the end button. “Fuck you.” He threw the phone back on his desk. “He was in North Jefferson, living with Niah Alexander at her apartment, but we lost both of them weeks ago. He’s either dead or a turncoat.”

  “A turncoat? Bullshit! He wouldn’t give up those codes willingly. He wouldn’t do that because he loves his job. And me!”

  The SA laughed sarcastically and walked to his walnut-veneer filing cabinet. Yanking it open, he fished out a file and brought it over to her. “The last of our intelligence included these photos,” he said, flinging them on the desk.

  Berg leaned forward to get a better look and froze.

  A man in a tux and a pretty dark-haired woman in a white dress holding flowers. The couple held hands, facing each other, in front of a robed minister in a beautiful garden.

  The photos had been taken from a distance, but Berg would recognize Jay anywhere.

  “He destroyed the bugs he knew about, burned his tails, and married Niah Alexander, you stupid fucking bitch. How much do you think he loves you now?”

  PART II

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Berg? Berg? Did you hear a fucking word I said?”

  Berg looked up from the desktop she’d been staring at and into the scowling face of her partner. “Huh?” She rubbed her face and tucked some hairs that had escaped her messy ponytail behind her ears. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

  “The Salt case? We might have a lead?”

  Berg blinked.

  “Jesus Christ. The Salt case? Man in his fifties? Murdered? Professional hit? Ring any bells?” Arena bit into a banana he pulled from his top desk drawer.

  “Oh . . . oh yeah, sure,” Berg said, nodding. “What lead?”

  “He and his business partner hadn’t been seeing eye to eye for a while, according to his wife. And in the will, his part of the business goes to the partner, not the wife. Looks like motive to me.”

  “Okay, well, let’s get him in for an interview,” Berg said.

  He stopped chewing and stared. “I already did that, remember? He’s on his way.” Arena sighed. “I understand that you’ve been going throug
h a hard time.” He tossed the peel and scrubbed his hands through his hair. “I can’t cover for you anymore, Berg. This has been going on for months. I can’t do both our jobs.”

  “I never asked you to,” Berg retorted, folding her arms. “I’m fine. Let’s do the interview. I’m ready to go.”

  Arena rolled his eyes and snorted. “Fuck me. You are not fine. You are not ready. You’ve come in late every day this month. You have no idea what’s going on with our cases—”

  “I do!”

  “Really? Because our rape victim, Maggie Robertson, came in to see us last week. Told us about her engagement to Mat and thanked us for ensuring her parents both got a good long stretch behind bars.”

  Berg frowned. “She did?”

  “Yes, and you barely blinked. I felt sorry for the poor woman. She’s clearly attached to you—”

  “I’ve been busy! I’ll cal—”

  “Shut up and listen!” Arena snapped. He pulled his chair closer to hers. “You’ve got to take off that ring. You’ve got to move on,” he said, putting his hand over hers.

  She pulled away and looked down at the ring Jay had given her, which still hadn’t been moved short of spinning around her finger since he had put it there himself. “I am!”

  He sighed. “It’s been six months, Berg. Six months since Jay married . . . her. Six months since he up and disappeared. No one has heard from him. Face it, he’s not coming back.”

  Berg scowled and looked away. “I told you, I don’t want to talk about that!”

  “I don’t give a shit. We’re gonna talk about it because you’ve been like the living dead since you found out. Everyone’s noticed, and if you don’t snap out of it, you’re gonna lose your job. It’s only because Smith thinks of you like a daughter that you’re not fired already!”

  “I’m . . .” Berg pursed her lips. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

  “I can see that. You’re wearing the same clothes you wore yesterday and your hair looks like a bird’s nest. Face it, Berg. If you haven’t heard from him, it’s because he doesn’t want to be found. He’s moved on. You need to, too.”

  Berg closed her eyes and shook her head. “I-I can’t believe that he would . . .”