by Vanessa Skye
The Edge of Darkness Series
Book Three
Blood Lines
By
Vanessa Skye
Copyright © Vanessa Skye, 2015
All rights reserved
The right of Vanessa Skye to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All characters and events in this book—even those sharing the same name as (or based upon) real people—are entirely fictional. No person, brand or corporation mentioned in this book should be taken to have endorsed this book nor should the events surrounding them be considered in any way factual.
This book is a work of fiction and should be read as such.
Paperback ISBN- 978-1-61213-365-2
E-book ISBN- 978-1-61213-366-9
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the US Congress Library.
Cover image and design by:
Thaigher Lillian
www.vanessa-skye.com
Dedication
For Mum. I love you, and I’ll miss you every day of my life.
Prologue
Fifteen years earlier . . .
Young police cadet Alicia Raymond watched as her mother, Mary Raymond, raged hysterically at the funeral home attendant.
“What do you mean, he was cremated?” she shrieked, almost losing her balance. “Those are not the instructions I gave!”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but your husband was cremated yesterday, under your instructions. I spoke to you on the phone myself,” he said, his hands outstretched toward Mrs. Raymond as if trying not to inflame the obviously drunken woman in front of him. “Don’t you remember?”
Alicia felt sorry for the poor guy. Trying to calm her mother down now was pointless. She had been trying in vain to do the same thing since she could talk. He had no way of knowing, but by speaking, the attendant only made the situation worse.
Mary squinted and leaned forward as she tried to focus on his face. “No, I do not! I have come here to pick up my husband’s body today. I have a plot all picked out at Greenhills Cemetery, right next to mine!”
The attendant blanched as Mary’s breath hit his face. He sighed and crossed his arms. “I can release his cremains to you today, ma’am, and you can still bury him,” he said and glanced in Alicia’s direction.
She watched as he eyed her appreciatively, and she returned the favor. He was a tall man, maybe in his early forties, with thick brown hair and deep brown eyes, much like Alicia’s own, punctuated with heavy brows. His last name was Rollings, but he definitely had the dark coloring of a man of Italian or Greek descent. She caught the smirk and raised eyebrow as he stared at her long legs encased in tight blue jeans.
Alicia waited until he finally made his way back to her face, and she nodded.
Later, as a reward for doing such a good job.
Mary raged on, oblivious to her daughter and the attendant’s mutual attraction. “He was Jewish! He didn’t want to be cremated—it was against his beliefs!”
Alicia smiled slightly at the revelation that the bastard would rest uncomfortably for eternity.
Added bonus.
“Ma’am,” the man said and ice crept into his inflection. “I cannot un-cremate a man. What’s done is done.”
“Well, you can guarantee I’ll be suing this funeral home, not to mention you personally,” Mary replied, trying to shove her index finger into the man’s chest but missing and poking his shoulder instead. “This is a gross injustice! How dare you cremate my husband against his wishes!”
The attendant produced a folded piece of paper from his inner suit pocket and held it under Mary’s nose. “Is this your fax number?” He pointed to the digits at the top of the page.
Mary lost her balance for a moment as she squinted at the numerals.
Alicia caught her and held her arm until she steadied herself again.
Mary’s eyes widened. Even in her drunken state, she clearly recognized the number of her new fax machine, the machine she was so proud of as she was the first of her rich friends to get the latest, smaller model. “Yes. But—”
“And is this your signature at the bottom of the cremation order?” he asked as though he were addressing a small child.
“It looks like it. But I did not sign that! I would never—”
“Ma’am, I hate to point out the obvious, but yes, you did. I distinctly remember speaking to you yesterday and you ordering his cremation immediately. You paid with your credit card over the phone—here’s the receipt!” He showed her the yellow credit card docket.
“I do not remember doing any such thing!” Mary cried. She covered her mouth to stifle a sob.
The man arched one dark brow. “Well, madam, you wouldn’t, would you, if you smelled anything like you do today!” He turned on his heel and left them alone.
This time, Berg’s smile was impossible to stifle.
Oh yeah. Definitely later.
Mary sagged against her daughter as she cried.
Alicia gently steered her toward the door, smirking to herself.
You don’t get through three years of foster care without learning how to forge a signature or two.
PART I
Chapter One
The young woman looked beaten half to death.
Detective Alicia Raymond, better known throughout the 12th precinct and the Chicago Police Department at large as Berg, looked at the victim lying still on the pristine hospital bed, her livid black and blue bruises contrasting against the lightly freckled, pale-peach skin like tattoos. She had the type of coloring that typically flushed prettily when she exercised or got embarrassed. Unfortunately, it now only showed every single mark of violence on her body, of which there were many. One of her eyes was swollen shut, and the other closed as she slept, so Berg couldn’t see their color. If she had to guess, judging by the girl’s pretty strawberry-blond hair and pale complexion, she would say blue or green.
Under the black eye, the left side of her face was swollen, and she had a split lip that had been stitched—Berg could see the faint outline of the black thread tinged with blood through the surgical tape. Her neck was bruised, and her wrists, which were lying on the top of the sheet on either side of her body, were pink and raw.
Berg moved closer to look at the girl’s wrists but didn’t touch. She jotted in her notebook—Wrist wounds look like burns caused by rope—and made a note to check the rape kit for any recovered fibers.
“We hope she will wake up from the surgery soon, detective,” a nurse said as she checked the woman’s vitals, which were being monitored by several beeping machines. “After the ambulance brought her in, a CT scan showed a small subdural hematoma, which we drained with a catheter.”
Berg looked at the thick, white bandage around the woman’s head and recalled Emma Young, one of her more violent rape cases last year. Sadly, Emma had died from the injuries sustained by her own sister’s manipulative maneuverings. Berg hoped history wouldn’t repeat itself—she felt instantly connected to this pretty, freckled woman, as fellow victims of violence often did.
“What’s her name?” Berg asked the nurse softly.
“Magdalene Robertson. She’s a local minister’s daughter. She only turned twenty last week.”
“Will she live?”
“Her vitals are strong, she’s serious but stable. We’ll know more when she wakes up
,” the nurse replied.
“Was a rape kit done?”
“Yes. The sexual assault nurse examiner did it after surgery, while the victim was still sedated. It will be sent to your lab,” the nurse said before sighing. “The surgeon had to remove a tampon from her cervix, and she has multiple vaginal and anal lacerations, along with many bruises on her ribs and back.”
Berg’s brain ticked over.
Bruising on the ribs and back is likely from kicking or stomping.
“Were photographs taken of the bruising?” she asked, hoping for boot or shoe imprints.
“Yes. Her liver was also bruised. She was beaten pretty badly. Physically, the doctors think she’ll be fine, but emotionally . . . well, you know the score, detective.”
Berg nodded.
The nurse didn’t need to finish the sentence. Berg knew from personal and professional experience that the emotional scars from an attack like that could last a lifetime.
“I’ll be back later to check on her progress,” the nurse said before showing herself out and shutting the door behind her.
Berg looked around the intensive care unit room, spotted a spare chair and dragged it to the side of the bed. She sat down to wait, wondering why no one else was doing the same thing.
Where the hell is Magdalene’s family?
She was mentally running through her cases when she felt the cell in her pocket buzz. She fished it out and answered. “Raymond,” she whispered.
“Berg?” the captain of the 12th, and her live-in lover, Jay O’Loughlin, asked. “Why are you whispering? Are you still at the hospital?”
“Yeah,” she said, standing and heading to the door. “The victim is not awake yet, but they think she will be soon.”
“Okay. Where’s Arena?” Jay asked, referring to Berg’s partner, Detective Marco Arena.
“He’s still at Lake University, processing the scene where they found her this morning. I wanted to question her alone. Female rape victims usually don’t feel comfortable being questioned by a male officer, let alone by an insensitive moron like Arena.” She knew Jay was well aware, having been a police officer since his late teens, just like his father and grandfather before him.
He laughed softly. “Good call. Call me when you’re done. Love you,” he said before hanging up. He didn’t bother to wait for Berg to say I love you back.
Berg noticed and smiled.
He knows me so well.
Berg barely moved in time as the door to the room burst open and slammed into the wall.
A young Latino man rushed into the room. “Oh my God! Maggie!” His eyes widened as he took in all the wounds and bandages on her body. “What happened?” he asked Berg. “Who are you? Are you a nurse?”
Berg shook her head and held up her badge. “Detective Alicia Raymond, CPD. And you are?”
“Mateo,” he answered quickly. “Mateo Montena—Mat. I’m Maggie’s boyfriend. Do you know what happened to her?”
“Why don’t you tell me what you know, Mat?” Berg asked as she studied his appearance. He was tall, with black hair and dark brown eyes, wearing faded, loose jeans, a green, buttoned Henley, and a light jacket to keep the cooler October weather at bay. He kept tightening his hands into fists at his sides in an almost unconscious gesture as he looked at Maggie.
No wounds on his knuckles.
She guessed he was in his early twenties. While he appeared to be of South American descent, he had no accent.
Likely second or third generation.
He scrubbed his hands through his short hair, causing it to stick up wildly. “I don’t know anything. I was waiting for Maggie at the library last night. We had a study date. But she never showed. She wasn’t answering her phone, so I went to her dorm room looking for her, but she wasn’t there, and the guys get kicked out of the girls’ dorm by eleven each night. I eventually gave up and went back to my room. I figured she’d call me when she was ready.” He quickly brushed away the tears forming on his lower lids. “God! I-I-I should have looked for her. What happened?”
“It appears she was attacked, Mat, sometime between nine last night and six this morning. She was found by another student who called 911. We think she was lying on the grounds behind the library all night. She’s lucky it was a mild night for October, or she could’ve died of exposure. Didn’t you think it was strange that she missed your date and didn’t return your calls?”
Mat pressed his clamped fist to his mouth and closed his eyes briefly before speaking. “We had a fight. She was making plans to spend Christmas with her family, and I wanted to come with her, but her family . . . they hate me, particularly her father. I wanted her to stand up to them. We’ve been together for nearly a year, and it’s time they accepted us, but she wouldn’t. After she didn’t return my calls, I figured she was still mad at me.” He walked closer to Maggie’s bedside and raised his hand, hovering over her face as though he wanted to comfort her.
Berg watched as he took in all her bruises and then lowered his hand.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” he whispered to her. “I should have looked for you.” He took a deep breath that was almost a sob as he looked up at Berg. “Is she . . . is she going to be okay?”
Berg gave him a small smile. “The doctors are optimistic. She’s stable. The bleed on her brain was small, fortunately, and they have drained it.”
“Bleed on the—how—who . . . who would do this?” he pleaded, his eyes wide.
“That’s what I’m here to find out.” Berg didn’t bother to tell him that she saw this kind of thing, and worse, every day. There appeared to be no limits to the shitty things humans would do to other humans.
Mat nodded, staring down at Maggie forlornly. “This is all my fault. I’m so sorry, baby,” he whispered to her, bringing her hand to his mouth and kissing it.
“Why would you say that?” Berg asked, cocking her head to the side.
Mat looked at her with tears shining in his eyes. “It was our standing study date. Every Sunday night, we meet at the library, without fail. She never missed it. I should’ve known something was wrong,” he replied, his voice shaking. “I should’ve looked for her.”
“Can you roll up your sleeves for me, Mat?” Berg asked.
Mat frowned. “Why?”
“Just indulge me,” Berg said, crossing her arms.
Mat’s frown deepened, but he did as she asked.
No defensive marks.
“Thank you. You can roll them back down.”
The woman on the bed stirred, opening her eyes then closing them again. She groaned.
Mat shoved his sleeves back down and grabbed her hand. “Baby?” he whispered. “Can you hear me?”
Maggie groaned again and smacked her lips. She opened her eyes and frowned in confusion. “What’s going on?” Her voice cracked and croaked. She rolled her head to one side but stopped, wincing. “Where am I?”
“You don’t remember?” he asked.
She tried to sit up before grimacing in pain and touching the bandages wrapping her skull. “My head hurts.”
“You’re okay. You’re in the hospital. Don’t move,” Mat said. “I’ll go and find a doctor.”
Mat hurried out as Berg stepped forward.
“Magdalene Robertson?” she asked.
Maggie frowned, still fingering the bandages on her head, and nodded slightly. “Maggie. Call me Maggie.”
Berg nodded and asked softly, “Do you remember anything, Maggie? Can you tell me why you’re here?”
Maggie tried to shake her head but whimpered. She raised her other hand, holding her head as if that might still the movement more effectively. “I . . . I don’t know why I’m here. Did I have a car accident? Did I hit my head?”
Berg inwardly sighed.
This is pointless right now. May as well get what I can.
“I need to ask you a few questions. Is that okay?” Berg turned on her phone’s recording app.
Maggie frowned. “Who are you again?”
“I’m Detective Alicia Raymond, CPD,” Berg said, showing the woman her badge. “Try to think back. What’s the last thing you remember?”
Maggie didn’t say a word but looked around the room as though the answers were hanging on the walls somewhere. “What day is it?”
“It’s Monday afternoon.”
“I remember getting up and going to my parents’ place for breakfast Sunday.”
“Where was that?”
“In Lincoln Park,” she replied softly. “I was going to stay the day, but I left early.”
“Why?”
Her lips trembled. “We had a fight.”
“You and Mat?”
Maggie frowned again. “No. Me and my parents.”
“Why?”
“Okay, I don’t understand what’s going on. What’s that got to do with anything? Can’t you just tell me what happened?” Maggie asked, raising her voice.
“You were attacked, Maggie. Last night sometime. You were found this morning on campus. You’d been hit on the head and were brought in to the hospital by ambulance, unconscious,” Berg said gently, wishing she were a touchy-feely person. It would have been normal to hold Maggie’s hand while she broke this kind of news.
“Attacked? You mean, by a mugger?” Maggie asked.
Berg pursed her lips, letting the poor woman hang on to the last few moments of normalcy before changing her life forever, and she shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry, Maggie, but it appears you were raped.”
“No.” Maggie’s face crumpled.
Berg was interrupted by a somber-looking, middle-aged woman entering the room in a white coat, an ID badge dangling from her pocket, with Mat trailing behind.
“Good, you’re awake,” she said to Maggie, checking the printouts from the various machines before fitting a blood pressure cuff and pumping it up. She checked the numbers before popping a thermometer under Maggie’s tongue and shining a penlight in both her eyes. “How are you feeling, Magdalene?”
