Blood Lines: Edge of Darkness Book 3

by Vanessa Skye

  “Did this guy say anything about them?”

  Cheney shook his head. “He claims he’s never met Alexander or his daughter. Claims to have never seen the daughter’s new husband. Anyway, you better get in there. I have to deliver him in the next hour or questions will be asked.”

  “We appreciate this, man,” Arena said, clapping Cheney on the shoulder.

  “Yeah, well, I owe Berg. I know she recommended me for this task force when she could’ve taken it for herself.” He smiled at Berg. “And I appreciate it. It will make my career.”

  Berg and Arena nodded, opening the door to the interview room, and stepped inside.

  The suspect was in his late twenties, at most, with light brown eyes and thinning blond hair combed over what Berg assumed was a growing bald spot. He didn’t look at them as they settled in the two chairs in front of him. He fidgeted, jiggling his legs, tapping his hands, and making his shackles jangle annoyingly.

  “Dylan, is it?” Arena started. “I’m Detective Arena, this is Detective Raymond—”

  “I don’t give a fuck who you are. I’ve got nothing to add.” He glared at Arena before looking at Berg. “You—” He forced his lips tightly closed and glanced away.

  “Got something to say?” Berg asked.

  “Nope.” He shook his head quickly. “Got nothing to say.” He peered at Berg—once, twice—furrowing his brow, and looked pointedly at the ground.

  Berg frowned.

  “So you’re the guy who tortured and murdered four drug dealers, including a gang member,” Arena said with a smile. “I wouldn’t be signing up for prison if I were you. You’re not gonna be a real popular guy there.”

  Dylan stared fixedly down at his hands. “I didn’t murder anyone.”

  “Ah yes. You just took a wad of cash from a guy you’ve never met to dump a body you’ve never seen from a car you’ve never driven,” Arena said. “Because, apparently, you’re an idiot.”

  Dylan flicked another glance at Berg before looking away again.

  She sat back, realization dawning.

  He recognizes me.

  Arena continued questioning the suspect, but his voice moved into the background as Berg racked her brain. This guy had no record that they could find, so she hadn’t met him that way. She didn’t remember arresting him at any point. She felt ashamed as she mentally ran through the list of men she’d fucked recently. She didn’t think he was on it but couldn’t be sure.

  Whore, her mother whispered.

  “Shut up,” she muttered. “I no longer give a fuck what you think.”

  Arena stopped talking and looked at her, an eyebrow raised. “What?”

  Berg shook her head and indicated he keep speaking.

  Dylan still steadfastly refused to acknowledge her as his fidgeting became worse. He risked a quick look, but when he made eye contact with her, the blood drained out of his face and he looked away.

  Why would a guy in Alexander’s operation even recognize me, let alone be afraid of me?

  Unless he knows who I am?

  Berg was desperate to get Arena out of the room.

  “. . . we’ve got enough evidence to put you away for—”

  “Arena.” Berg slid her chair back and tugged on her partner’s sleeve.

  “What now?” He scowled as he turned toward her.

  “I need a moment with our suspect here . . . alone.”

  “Oh, really?” Arena sat back. “Why?”

  “I think I might get further if we were more . . . one on one. What do you think, Dylan?”

  Dylan’s eyes widened as he emphatically shook his head side to side.

  Arena frowned and leaned closer, muttering, “If you leave a mark on him, questions will be asked. Cheney could—”

  “I won’t touch him, I swear,” she whispered, holding up her hands.

  Arena stood. “Okay, I guess. I’m only saying yes because you seem . . . more like the excellent detective I know. Don’t prove me wrong.”

  Berg smiled. “I won’t. Can you make sure Cheney’s not in the observation room?”

  Arena scowled again, grunting his disapproval, but bobbed his head once, and left.

  Berg turned her attention to Dylan, who was looking at the floor. She had an idea, but she was going to have to make it up as she went along. She moved her chair closer and kept her voice low, calming. “You know who I am?”

  He nodded at the floor.

  “Who am I?”

  He looked up at her. “You’re . . . you’re . . . the boss’ kid. The other one.”

  “If you know my . . . father”—she nearly choked on the word—“then you know what I can do to you. What he can do to you.”

  He was shaking so much his shackles were jangling again. “I didn’t tell them anything!” There was no mistaking the pleading look in his eyes. “Nothing.”

  “Give me a reason not to kill your sorry ass right here,” she said, staring at the man. “I can make it look like an accident.”

  “It wasn’t my fault! It was Ricky. He got there late, and someone saw the dump. I was pulled over before I could finish the job. You gotta tell him! You gotta tell him I did my job. It was Ricky! Ricky!” He was almost shrieking.

  “Calm down, Dylan. I’ll tell him,” she said softly. “But you need to do something for me first.”

  He nodded.

  “You need to tell me exactly what your instructions were and exactly where you were going to next. I have to clean up the mess you made.”

  Dylan nodded, the color coming back into his cheeks. “Okay . . . okay. So after the dump I was going to torch the car on the south side. Then Ricky was going to pick me up and take me to the facility so we could clean up there. I . . . I don’t know if anyone’s done that now.”

  If Alexander’s operation as a big as we think it is . . .

  “Which facility?” she demanded.

  “The one on Fulton and Hoyne. You gotta make sure someone goes out there. It’s gotta get cleaned up!” he muttered furiously.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay.” Berg took her phone out and pretended to send a text. “It’s taken care of. But . . . I’m concerned, Dylan. And I’m not the only one.”

  He squirmed. “Why?”

  Berg leaned closer to him. “My . . . involvement is only supposed to be known by a few people at the very top. Our organization depends on it. So tell me how a lowly fucking weasel like you knows about me. And who else have you told?”

  He bounced up and down in his seat, terrified. “No one, I swear! The only reason I know is because I was the one told to follow you and take pictures last year, before the boss approached you. I haven’t heard or said anything about you since, I swear. I swear it to you!”

  Berg looked down and noticed her hands were shaking. She quickly put them behind her back. “Have you told anyone where my father is, Dylan?” Berg got right in the guy’s face. “Because if we find out you have, what was done to those dealers will be nothing compared to what we do to you. You’ll beg for the death that they had.”

  Dylan shook his head emphatically. “No! I don’t even know where he is. If he needs me for something, one of his guys finds me. No one is supposed to know where he is! He never speaks to me, or anyone, directly.”

  There was a knock on the door, and Arena poked his head in. “Cheney’s got to go.”

  Berg turned and gave him a smile, holding up one finger. “Give me one more second.”

  Arena shut the door, grumbling.

  “Tell anyone about this conversation and not only will we kill you, but your family, too,” she said with an unblinking stare.

  See how easily that came to you? her mother asked.

  “I won’t. I won’t!” Dylan said, the color blanching out of his face once more.

  Berg stood and walked out, her heart pounding, the shaking in her hands stilled only by shoving them in her pockets.

  “What the fuck was that all about?” Arena asked as Berg closed the door behind her.


  “Ditto,” Cheney said, glaring at her, his arms folded across his chest.

  Berg took a few deep breaths and tried to still her hammering heart. “I’ve got information.”

  Cheney stepped back in surprise.

  “But before I give it to you, I want your assurance that we are in on the investigation.”

  “I can’t promise that. This is the FB—”

  “I’ve got an address. I just want to have a look around before the FBI gets there. You’ll need time to get a warrant, which is more than enough time for us to have a look around. Anything we find, you can claim, okay?” Berg said. “Please. There might be a lead into Jay’s whereabouts there. I need to see it for myself. We’ll leave before you call in the cavalry, okay?”

  Cheney sighed. “You going to give me the address if I say no?”

  Berg folded her arms. “No.”

  “Then I guess I’ll just have to like it, won’t I?” Cheney said, a small smile on his lips.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The three detectives pulled past the corner Dylan had given Berg, parking down the street in case it was being watched. They got out of the car slowly, watching carefully as they moved toward the innocuous-looking redbrick building that appeared to contain some industrial-type business.

  All the units were open with what appeared to be staff milling around, except one at ground level. There was no life surrounding the green, steel-reinforced front door and a faded red aluminum roll-away garage door locked with sturdy, shiny padlocks.

  “I bet that’s the place,” Berg said.

  “Looks clear,” Cheney said, closely checking rooftops and windows. “No one watching.”

  Berg surveyed the nearby businesses with a critical eye.

  Men outside what seemed to be a furniture distribution facility paid the trio no attention as they went about loading pieces onto a large truck. On the other side of the facility, one woman bustled about what looked like an art supplies studio as she organized multiple canvases, brushes, and paints that littered the ground, putting some in boxes and others on a trestle table.

  Berg nodded, and they all donned latex gloves.

  “I’ve got bolt cutters in the trunk, but we can’t use ’em. We don’t have a warrant yet,” Cheney said, looking at the large padlocks.

  “She’s got it,” Arena said, tipping his head toward Berg, who was removing a slim wallet from the inside of her jacket.

  “Fuck, I’m not watching. Plausible deniability,” Cheney said, turning around and surveying the street, his arms crossed.

  Arena did likewise.

  It didn’t take Berg long to open the padlock and then the deadbolt on the inner door. “I’m in,” she said, putting away her lock-picking tools and drawing her weapon.

  The men quickly followed suit.

  They burst into the space, guns aimed, falling into a familiar coordinated rhythm while checking to see if anyone was in there. It appeared empty apart from fifty or sixty large wooden crates marked COFFEE on the sides in large black letters sitting on the bare concrete floor. They split up and cleared the area, just to be sure.

  “Smells like coffee, anyway,” Arena commented as he looked around.

  “I’ve got blood in here,” Cheney yelled from another room. “A lot of it!”

  Berg and Arena hurried toward his voice, stepping into what looked like a former kitchen.

  A substance looking suspiciously like blood spatter covered the old linoleum floor, in the middle of which sat a plastic chair. Ropes had been discarded around the chair on the floor, as had a pair of pliers sitting in a partially dry puddle of what appeared to be more blood.

  “The pliers used to break the dealers’ fingers.” Berg looked around. “I don’t see the knife used on the tongue or the eyes, though.”

  None of them touched anything as they examined the scene, careful not to step in the pools or scattered drops. Industrial-strength cleaners, mops, and garbage bags stood in a corner nearby.

  “Somebody didn’t get a chance to clean up,” Cheney said. “I’m calling the FBI and organizing a warrant while there’s still evidence here to collect. Look around while you can. We need to get out and lock up ASAP.” He fished his cell out of his jeans pocket.

  Arena walked back into the main space, picking up a crowbar and prying the lid off one of the crates. “Coffee,” he said, sounding disappointed.

  “Keep looking,” Berg said, checking the rest of the crates. “Torture murders generally aren’t committed over lattes.”

  “Check it out.” Arena set the lid against the box and stepped back from the crate. “No coffee in this one.”

  Berg and Cheney walked closer and leaned over the lip.

  The box was filled with large, sealed plastic packets containing what looked like white bricks. White evidence stickers with writing on them were stuck all over the packages.

  “Some of the stolen drugs,” Berg said and looked around. “Some of what was moved after the gang murders. There are not enough boxes to be all of it, but maybe what’s left? I’m surprised Alexander’s still got any of it left at all.”

  “I’m sure whatever’s in here is just a drop in the ocean of what the guy has,” Cheney said. “He likely had these kinds of facilities everywhere, much like the one in South Wabash.”

  “Well, if the task force can work out who owns this building, then we might be able to track more of them down. Has anyone seen any paperwork lying around, other addresses, anything?” Berg turned, scanning the area for a filing cabinet, folder, or desk of any sort.

  “Not a single scrap of paper to be seen, from what I can tell,” Arena grumbled. “He likely paid cash for this place, too.”

  Cheney opened another crate, fishing out a handgun with his gloved fingers and letting out a low whistle. “This is the mother lode. Seizing this might piss off Alexander enough to get him to make a mistake.”

  “Good,” Berg muttered.

  They spent the next few minutes finding more of the stolen guns and drugs plus a few more crates of actual coffee.

  While the haul was good, Berg was disappointed that there was nothing in the space pointing her to the whereabouts of Jay or Alexander. She sighed as she locked up.

  “Can you keep me informed?” she asked Cheney as they walked back to the car. “And let me know if any relevant DNA shows up.”

  The detective nodded grimly. “I’m sure none of that blood is Jay’s. We would have found a body by now if it had been.”

  Berg shrugged, trying to contain the tears forming in the back of her eyes. “I just want to be sure, you know . . .”

  Cheney clapped her on the shoulder. “I know. It’s been a hard time for a lot of us, but especially for you. I’m gonna interview Bryant again. How did you get him to talk to you and not us?”

  Berg shrugged. “I know what buttons to push. You can try him again, if you like, but he’s not in Alexander’s inner circle. He knows very little, or I would have gotten it out of him.”

  Cheney scowled. “Call me stubborn . . .”

  “How are you going to play this?” Arena asked as they all piled into the car.

  “I’ll say I was about to take Bryant to prison when he spontaneously mentioned the address, wait for the warrant, and act all surprised when we get in there,” Cheney said. “I’ll keep you both out of it.”

  Arena nodded. “You never did say how you got that address out of him, Berg.”

  “No, I didn’t,” she replied, looking out the window and frowning as she recalled what Bryant had said.

  ***

  Berg shut the door of her apartment behind her, sagged against it, and took in a huge gulp of air. She noticed Jesse didn’t run out to greet her as usual, and she figured he must still be at her elderly neighbor’s place after a walk. While she missed her fur baby, she was glad for a few minutes of silence—she needed some space to think.

  She took another shaky breath and moved to the kitchen, placing her gun and bag on the
table, before heading to the couch, flipping the blanket and pillow to the side so she could sit down. As strong as she’d felt lately, she wasn’t ready to go back to the bed she and Jay had shared.

  Dropping her head in her hands, she reflected on what had been a pretty shitty day overall. From Oliver throwing her in prison to Alexander’s minion, Bryant.

  Wherever Jay is, he’s there because of me.

  She ran through the interview with Dylan Bryant in her head again. She didn’t need a recording—she remembered every word he had said.

  “I was the one who was told to follow you and take pictures at the beginning of last year, before the boss approached you.”

  Alexander hadn’t just contacted her blind, he’d had someone follow her first.

  For how long?

  Berg muttered a few choice expletives as she cursed her own stupidity.

  She should have realized when her biological father had first contacted her and asked her to join the family business, but at the time, she hadn’t realized what the family business was. She’d had no idea he was evil incarnate and was having her followed. She had just figured everything her mother had told her throughout her life had been bullshit. When she’d found out exactly how large Alexander’s operation was, she should have realized that he would never approach her without finding out as much as he could first. A man doesn’t get to his position without doing due diligence.

  She cursed her own stupidity again.

  She didn’t know how long she had been tailed, but she had never even suspected it. The realization made her feel not only obtuse but vulnerable as well.

  What had he seen? What does he know?

  Regardless of how long he’d had her followed, he would have seen her with Jay. And that only led to one conclusion—the second Jay turned up in Niah Alexander’s life, it hadn’t mattered how good or deep his backstory went, Alexander would have known exactly who he was.

  Like a lamb to the slaughter.

  She choked back a sob and wiped away the tears with a shaky hand. She couldn’t realistically believe that he was still alive. The most likely scenario was Alexander had tortured him for information, used it to raid the evidence facility, and then killed him. He maybe hid the body in an effort to avoid a war with the local police department when he was already taking it to the city’s gangs.