by Vanessa Skye
Berg took another deep breath and indicated he should keep talking.
“This all started when we allowed Magdalene to go to college. I should’ve known better. Once you allow women to be educated, the whole fabric of society crumbles.”
Berg bit her tongue and walked to the other side of the room, clenching her hands at her sides. Once she got some distance between her and the throat she wanted most to put her fist down, she pretended to check her phone while she calmed down.
Arena cleared his throat. “Uh, any previous boyfriends?”
“As far as we know, there have been no other boys before that evildoer. Not even two years ago, she pledged her virginity to God in a purity ball our church hosted for all the local teens. And now . . .” He took a deep breath. “Of course, we could be wrong. She may have been following Satan’s path a lot longer than we realized.” He squeezed his wife’s hand as she cried quietly.
Berg pursed her lips and walked back over. Never a fan of religion at the best of times, she was getting pretty tired of the God talk and the lack of compassion for their own daughter.
“Your daughter’s been through a horrific ordeal. I’m sure she’d appreciate the support of her loving, Christian parents,” Berg said with a pointed glare at the man.
“God’s justice is swift and true,” Robertson replied, tilting his chin and looking down his nose at Berg. “As a fornicator, she is going against His teachings. Nothing good will ever come of her relationship with that man. Iron does not mix with clay. It says so right there in the Bible.”
“So you’re against educating women, sex before marriage, and mixed marriages. What an excellent example of Christian tolerance you are,” Berg snapped.
The sarcasm clearly did not reach him, and he bowed proudly. “I am simply the messenger, and God’s lessons are available to all, much as I suspect Magdalene has now discovered.”
“She did nothing to deserve being raped, Father,” Berg said.
“Does your husband allow you to speak to him in such a manner?” Robertson asked with a glare.
“I have no husband. I prefer to be an ‘outside of marriage fornicator,’ myself.” Berg cocked an eyebrow in the man’s direction, almost daring him.
Arena quickly coughed and threw his hand up, stifling a laugh from behind her.
Robertson stared at Berg with wide eyes and mouth agape. Eventually he took a deep breath and looked at his wife, who smiled through trembling lips. “Much like the Lord, we can forgive any transgression if the sinner is truly repentant,” he said, and his wife nodded in agreement. “I’m sure Maggie now realizes she has strayed from the flock and the only way back is through God. While she is sexually immoral, He still loves her. Rest assured, detective, we will ensure she understands this. If God can forgive the truly repentant, who are we to hold a grudge?” Robertson stood. “Let me show you out.”
He led Berg and Arena to the door and shut it swiftly behind them without so much as a goodbye.
Berg started muttering. “What a fucking—”
“Easy there, tiger,” Arena said. “They don’t know any better.”
Berg’s phone rang, interrupting her argument. “Raymond,” she said, not bothering with pleasantries. She listened, nodding a few times, as Arena watched. “That was Dr. D,” she said after she hung up. “He’s worked up the rape kit and is just waiting on DNA.”
“Anything we can work with so far?”
“Nothing yet. He confirmed my suspicions that there were no defensive wounds on her body.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, nothing under the fingernails or any proof she tried to stop the beating. Just the rope burns around her wrists indicating she was restrained.”
“The hit to the head must’ve rendered her unconscious immediately,” he said. “Which begs the question—why tie her up?”
“Exactly.”
Chapter Four
Berg and Arena made it back to the precinct just as Deputy Superintendent of CPD, and long-time friend to the O’Loughlins, Patrick McClymont, started briefing the gathered detectives about the joint task force with the FBI.
As Jay stood next to the shorter, less-muscled superintendent with the thick, graying hair, Berg pulled up a chair next to Arena in the small meeting room and sat down.
McClymont quickly outlined the operation, and Berg noticed that her colleague Detective Mick Cheney, his bald head shining under the overhead fluorescent lighting, was making copious notes.
“Operation Snake’s Nest aims to stop a crime lord, code named ‘the Supplier,’ from operating in Chicago before he set down roots,” McClymont said. “The Supplier specializes in supplying guns and other weaponry as well as drugs, but if there is money to be made, will take on just about everything. You name it, and his dirty fingers are in it.
“The Detroit Police Department and the FBI recently put a severe dent in the Supplier’s Detroit operations with the arrest and prosecution of several minor players, two bribed judges, and, I’m sad to say, five local police officers on his payroll and assisting his operations from the inside,” McClymont explained while pacing in front of the room’s whiteboard. “It became clear he had informants on the inside after a secure DPD evidence facility was raided and hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of seized guns and drugs were stolen only to be resold and put back on the street.”
A few of the gathered detectives groaned.
“Exceptional investigative work led to a group of criminals being charged, but so far, the Supplier himself has been untouchable. He’s very low-key, only speaking directly to trusted lieutenants and never allowing anyone into his inner sanctum. We have no proof he’s married, but we haven’t confirmed. We’re also unsure whether he has any living family, but we are following up leads. We think he moves regularly, has a personal security detail, and sweeps his premises for bugs daily. The man is paranoia personified.”
The detectives muttered among themselves.
“Detroit PD is confident that, due to the recent arrests of his best contacts, he’s going to find it hard to stay under the radar, which might explain why he’s decided to move his base to Chicago,” he said.
Jay, who had been leaning quietly against the wall near the whiteboard the whole time McClymont spoke, now raised his hand, and the super stifled a smile.
“Yes, Jay?”
“So what does the FBI need from the CPD?”
“Bodies on the ground—at least twenty of them, or one from each precinct. Preferably experienced officers with CIs in drugs and guns. This may involve undercover work and surveillance of colleagues. Essentially, the officer has to be ready for anything. And with that in mind, the personal life of every judicial officer, not to mention every member of the CPD, will become an open book.”
More muttering.
“It can’t be helped,” McClymont said, raising his voice over dull but building roar. “The Supplier’s MO is to infiltrate the local criminal justice system so as to stay one step ahead of law enforcement. Well, not this time, people!”
As the chatter faded, Jay cleared his throat. “I’ll submit my recommendation shortly,” Jay said, eyeing Berg.
Berg caught Cheney glowering at her.
“Any questions before we continue?” McClymont asked.
Arena put up his hand, and McClymont gestured for him to go ahead.
“Do we have a description of the Supplier? An alias? A location of operations? Anything?” Arena asked, his notebook poised.
McClymont aimed a small remote he’d been holding in his hand, and a slide projector stuttered to life, popping a fuzzy image of an average-looking white man onto the whiteboard. “This is the only known image of the Supplier. We do not have a location, either in Detroit or Chicago, but we can assume wherever it is, it is heavily fortified, secure, and well guarded.”
Berg studied the photo.
“This was taken about five years ago, so he’s aged since then. We think he’s about six foot two inches ta
ll, medium build, dark brown hair, which may or may not be graying, dark eyes. He’s in his late fifties to early sixties. We suspect he operates under a number of aliases, including Alexander David, Alex Davis, David Alexei, David Alexander, and a variety of other combinations. The name that pops most often with CIs is David Alexander. It’s the one we believe is his real name, but that’s unconfirmed as of yet—like pretty much everything else we know about him.”
Arena leaned over to Berg. “You okay there? You’re covered in goose pimples,” he whispered.
Berg half smiled, rubbing her arms through her long-sleeved shirt. “I just got a chill. I think the air’s up too high.”
“You always think the air’s up too high. You’re cold-blooded,” he replied.
Berg didn’t hear anything else as McClymont wrapped up the briefing and followed Jay into the office while the rest of the officers mingled around.
“Gee, I wonder who Jay’s going to recommend for the task force?” Detective Cheney said. “Gotta be some perks when you’re fucking the boss, right?” He folded his arms and glared at Berg.
“I’m not fucking anybody!”
“Oh, please. It’s the worst kept secret in the 12th.”
“Fuck you, Cheney,” Berg said, giving him the finger.
All six foot, nearly two-hundred pounds of solid muscle that was Arena got in Cheney’s face, forcing the shorter, thinner man back a step. “Is there some reason why Berg shouldn’t be considered?” he asked, flexing his biceps. “Because last time I checked, my partner is a pretty awesome cop.”
Berg and Arena’s partnership had started off rocky, the latter initially working with the now disgraced Chief of Detectives, Antonio Consiglio, to gather enough dirt on Berg and Jay to have them fired in exchange for being appointed captain of the 12th. But Arena hadn’t been able to go through with it. Instead, he had eventually gotten enough evidence to have Consiglio himself fired. Since then, Consiglio had dropped off the radar, and Arena had become Berg’s biggest advocate, despite their breakup.
“Just saying there’s some clear favoritism, that’s all.” Cheney shrugged as he walked away.
“Ignore them,” Arena said to Berg as they walked back to their desks. “If you get it, it’s ’cause you deserve it.”
Berg smiled and patted Arena on the back. “Still grateful that I stopped Jay from firing your ass, huh?”
Arena frowned. “No—I mean yes! I mean . . .” Arena groaned softly and sighed. “You’re the best cop I’ve ever worked with, that’s all. Don’t let guys like Cheney get you down.” He popped a piece of hard candy in his mouth and shuffled through his notepad, the bright red staining his ears giving him away and making Berg bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.
Jay caught Berg’s eye through the glass wall of his office and motioned for her to join him.
“Thanks, Arena,” she said as she walked away. She opened Jay’s office door. “You wanted to see me?”
“Ba—I mean, Detective Raymond, come in,” Jay said, shooting a glance at the smirking McClymont seated in one of the office chairs.
“How are you, Alicia?” McClymont asked with a smile. “This guy here still treating you well?”
Berg returned the smile. “Always.”
“So I was thinking Detective Raymond would be a perfect fit for the task force,” Jay said to McClymont.
“Actually, Captain,” Berg said. “I don’t think it’s up my alley.”
Jay and the deputy super looked surprised. “But I thought you . . . why?”
“Guns and drugs aren’t my thing. Psychos, rapists, and murderers, sure, but I don’t have the right CIs for it.”
“But you’d be perfect to profile Alexander fo—”
“It’s just not the right fit,” Berg said. “And I’m working on that rape case at the moment. I really don’t want to hand it off. Sorry, Captain, Superintendent.” She nodded at both of them and made her way toward the door.
“Wait,” Jay said. “Stay for a second.”
“I’ve got to take off, Jay,” McClymont said, standing. “Say hi to the family for me, will you? Send me your recommendation for the task force when you’ve made a decision?”
He and Jay shook hands, and McClymont nodded at Berg as he left the office, closing the door behind him.
“I thought you’d jump at the opportunity,” Jay said to Berg with a frown. “It gets your foot in the door with the FBI.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence, but it’s not for me, Jay. Give it to Cheney. He really wants it and has good CIs in the exact areas you need.”
Jay shrugged. “Okay.” He grabbed her hands. “Are you okay? You look a little pale.”
Berg nodded. “I’m fine. No problems here.”
Jay almost looked disappointed. “Okay, I thought you might b—”
Berg tried not to roll her eyes. “When and if I get pregnant, Jay, you’ll be the first to know, okay? We haven’t been trying all that long. I’m sure it’ll happen soon, which is another reason why this task force isn’t for me.” Berg fixed a smile on her face as she walked out of his office and didn’t let it crumple until she was safely in the confines of a bathroom cubicle with the door securely locked.
Chapter Five
Later that week, Jay wrinkled his nose as soon as he walked in the front door of the West Van Buren Street apartment he shared with Berg. “Is that smoke?” He bent down to pat their golden retriever, Jesse, who was in the process of giving him a very enthusiastic greeting complete with drool and a tail wagging so hard Jay wondered if Jesse’s backside might actually take flight. “Trying to cook again, babe?” He strode past the living room and into the kitchen.
Berg, looking hot and frazzled as she stirred numerous pots and pans in the small space, scowled at him. “This fucking stove hates me, I swear to God.”
Jay smiled and pulled her in for a hug. “Face it. You have many skills, but cooking is not one of them, okay? I appreciate that you keep trying, but it’s really unnecessary.”
She pushed him away and brushed a long tendril of hair out of her eyes, leaving a smear of flour on her forehead. “I can learn to cook. I can!”
Jay looked at the various pans filled with burnt, unrecognizable substances and stifled a laugh. “Yeah. Sure you can.”
“Fuck you.”
He dumped the paperwork he had brought home with him on the small kitchen table and kicked off his shoes.
“You just going to leave them there?’ Berg asked, eyeing the shoes on the floor.
Jay sighed. “Sorry, neat freak.” He scooped them up, took them into the closet in the bedroom, and lined them up, just so, with his others.
He and Berg had been living together for a few months, and there were still some growing pains. The main one being that he was as messy as fuck, and Berg was so neat it didn’t even look as though she lived in the apartment.
He hung up his pants, threw his shirt in the hamper, and pulled on some warm sweats. The air was chilly and Berg didn’t have a fire going.
“Did you speak to your father again?” he asked as he sat down at the kitchen table and opened his paperwork.
Berg, still stubbornly trying to turn her culinary efforts into some kind of food, only shrugged. “It’s like you said—once he found out I didn’t have the money my mother left me, he wasn’t interested in a relationship.” Apparently relenting, she twisted the stove knobs so hard they nearly came off, and threw the potholder on the counter.
Jay frowned at the complete lack of emotion in her voice. “His loss.” He dropped the paperwork back on the table and walked toward her.
“It’s fine. I’m used to having no family.”
“Enough of that,” he said, hugging her from behind. “I’m your family now. We’re going to have a baby soon, I live in hope that one day you might actually say yes to one of my marriage proposals and, as luck would have it, I come with a large, extended family who adores you.” He shifted his hands and started working
on the button of her jeans.
“Your sister Liz doesn’t,” she said, pressing her ass into his crotch.
“Four out of five sisters like you,” he muttered as he nuzzled her ear. “That’s a win, trust me.”
Her jeans hit the floor, followed shortly by her underwear.
***
Berg woke to someone shaking her roughly. “What?”
“Babe?” Jay had his hand on her shoulder, and his hair was mussed by sleep and sex. “I think you were having a nightmare. Are you okay?”
Berg sat upright in the bed and rubbed her face. “ ’M okay. Sorry, did I wake you?”
“You were talking again,” he said, frowning in the dim light, propped on one elbow in the bed. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”
She frowned. “Oh. Sorry. I haven’t been sleeping well.”
“I’ve noticed.” Jay took a deep breath and scrubbed his face. “What were you dreaming about?”
Berg looked away, avoiding his gaze. “I don’t remember.”
Jay sat up and switched on his bedside light. “Bullshit. Tell me.”
“It’s nothing,” she said, lying back down and rolling over. “Go back to sleep.” She felt the bed move as Jay shifted in annoyance.
“Nothing? You keep saying something like ‘you’re dying on my terms.’ What the fuck does that mean? Because it doesn’t sound like nothing to me.”
Berg froze for a second then rolled over to face him again. “It’s nothing!”
Jay crossed his arms and glared at her. “Remember when you were in the hospital and I thought I was going to lose you?”
Berg nodded.
“We made a promise to each other then, Berg. We promised we’d never lie to each other again. And here you are, breaking it!”
“I’m not!”
He scowled. “Then tell me who’s dying on your terms, Berg?”
Berg shook her head.
Jay sighed, running his hand through his hair. “Just tell me the dream isn’t about Feeny or Elizabeth Young.”
