by Vanessa Skye
Berg stopped breathing for a moment then met his eyes. “It’s not.” Her voice sounded strained even to her own ears.
“Because I put my career on the line for you, defending you against the baseless gossip. I know you could never have given up Feeny’s location to the gangbanger just so he could get revenge by having Feeny murdered. I believe his murder was a coincidence and nothing more.”
Berg nodded, swallowing the lump her throat.
Jay was referring to Michael Feeny, a coward of a man who had hired gangbangers to kill both his wife and mistress the previous year. They had needed the confession, or Feeny was going to walk after getting his original confession thrown out of court. Still, no one understood how Berg had convinced a hard-core gangbanger with a hatred of cops to give Feeny up, and speculation was rife that Berg had stepped over the thin blue line when Feeny had turned up dead in his prison cell.
“You were the last person to see Elizabeth Young before she committed suicide, and I know you had nothing to do with that either.” Jay tilted his head so she had no choice but to look at him.
Berg nodded again, unable to speak.
Elizabeth Young, a sociopath, had coerced a mentally unstable man to rape and murder her younger sister. While Berg hadn’t killed Elizabeth herself, it could be said that she had ‘assisted’ the evil bitch to come to the decision to end her existence.
Ironically enough, Jay had never asked her outright if she had been involved in either death. It was almost as though he didn’t want to know the answer.
“So what’s going on?”
“It’s a dream. It means nothing. I guess the rumors and gossip are getting to me, that’s all.” She shrugged.
Jay nodded stiffly. “I can handle the truth, Berg, but I won’t tolerate lies. Our relationship cannot sustain lies. And hopefully there’ll be a baby soon.”
“I know. Go back to sleep.” Berg turned her back to Jay once more and closed her eyes, pretending to sleep.
Eventually, Jay flicked off the light and settled back down beside her.
Soon enough, Jay’s breathing turned deep and regular.
Berg rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling.
She had told him the truth . . . sort of. The dream hadn’t been about Elizabeth Young or Michael Feeny. It had been about her adoptive father—the man who had insisted a teenage Alicia call him Dad even though he had snuck into her room and raped her every night after her mother passed out from a binge. The man who had never paid in any way for what he had done to her, despite her best efforts. The man who had been dead for over a decade, supposedly from cancer.
***
She heard the sound of the bastard’s shocked intake of breath and saw his eyes widening in surprise at the sight of her by his hospital bedside.
The ward was silent, his luxurious private room dark, but not so dark that it hid her black-leather-gloved hands.
He reached for the emergency button, but she had already knocked it off the bed. It dangled by its cord near the floor, just out of his reach. His only lifeline was so tantalizingly close—the only chance he had since the cancer had robbed him of his larynx many months prior.
She reached out with her left hand and touched his morphine drip slowly, so there could be no mistaking what she was about to do.
Finally, there was fear in his eyes.
She placed her thumb on the regulator—the same regulator the nurse had set to relieve his pain without delivering a fatal dose. She slowly inched it up and watched as the seemingly innocuous clear fluid started dripping more rapidly into his IV tubing, blending with the saline before disappearing into his arm.
“You’re not dying on your terms, old man,” she whispered, staring into his cold, watery blue eyes. “You’re dying on mine.”
Satisfied at the inescapable outcome, she watched as the reality of his imminent death crossed his face. She saw the terror, the regret, and the hatred before his eyes closed. Nodding, she left the room, content to let the old man die alone and afraid—just as she had been every single night as a child when he had opened her door.
***
Berg pulled herself out of the memory and closed her eyes.
Jay can never know.
Chapter Six
Berg watched from the courtroom gallery in Chicago’s Federal Building as Assistant State’s Attorney Darren James from the Criminal Prosecutions Bureau vainly asked Judge John Oliver for the maximum sentence recommended for the offender he was prosecuting.
The room smelled as sour as the so-called justice handed out by various officers of the court. The carpet was scuffed and threadbare, and the old 1970s décor looked more dilapidated as the years went on.
Berg turned her attention to the teenage drug dealer the ASA had just convicted. He smirked, lounging insolently next to his court-appointed attorney.
The little shit had been caught for the third time with a saleable amount of methamphetamine, and despite it being his third strike and his having reached the age of eighteen, Berg was not hopeful that the dealer would finally see the inside of an adult prison like he deserved.
Lately it felt as though all the judges in Chicago had turned into bleeding hearts and rehabilitation advocates, and Oliver was the worst the bunch. He used to be a hard-liner, but as Berg watched the proceedings, she couldn’t remember the last time he had actually sentenced any of the criminals that made up most of his docket to prison time.
Judge Oliver flicked a glance at Berg, his fourth in as many minutes.
Due to their previous unhealthy sexual relationship, Berg usually avoided his courtroom like the plague, but she had arrested the little fuck, so she’d had to testify about the evidence found against him, swear to chain of custody, and attest to having read him his Miranda rights.
God forbid his rights are violated.
Judge Oliver was a great believer in corporal punishment—she knew from personal experience—just not in the courtroom. Get him in his custom-built BDSM basement, however, and it was a whole other story.
The last time Berg had volunteered for the vigorous punishment he enjoyed doling out had been nearly a year ago. The man had been brutal, and it had taken her a week to recover. And despite the fact that he knew she was now living with Jay, he hadn’t stopped constantly annoying her with phone calls begging her to come back to him and his basement.
“I am satisfied that this defendant understands the gravity of his actions and has taken steps to rehabilitate himself,” Judge Oliver said to the gallery.
Bullshit. The little fucker didn’t even bother to show up on time or wear a suit.
Berg could almost hear the ASA’s hopes deflating.
“Which is why I am recommending a maximum of five years in a federal prison, the sentence to be fully suspended provided the defendant is not caught in possession of illegal narcotics for a period of two years,” he declared, banging his gavel.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Berg said a little too loudly.
Oliver jerked his attention back to Berg as he rose. “Detective Raymond, my chambers. Now.”
Berg sighed and stood along with the rest of the gallery.
The ASA gave her a sympathetic look as he walked past, clutching his briefcase.
She waited until they had all filed out before she made her way off to one side of the courtroom. She didn’t bother to knock.
Oliver looked up as she strode in. “I know how passionate you are about your work, so I’m going to let your little outburst slide”—he took a deep breath and jutted his chin forward—“provided it never happens again.”
Berg raised an eyebrow and folded her arms. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll stay the hell out of your courtroom if you start doling out some actual justice. Is that not what your fucking job is?”
Oliver smiled and leaned back in his upholstered, high-backed chair. “Why would I want you to stay out of my courtroom? It’s the highlight of my week since you are no longer taking my calls.”
Berg
sighed. “That reminds me—stop calling me. We are done. I will nev—”
“We may be many things, Alicia, but done is not one of them,” Oliver replied.
Berg backed toward the door, ready to make her escape. “Really? Because I recall one of the last times we spoke, you called me a slut and specifically told me to work out my demons with someone else.”
He held his hands out and, short of knocking him on his ass, effectively prevented her from leaving. “How many times do I have to apologize for that? I regret my actions. Don’t you think I’ve been punished enough?”
Berg crossed her arms and stepped out of his reach completely. “You’ll never be punished enough, as far as I’m concerned—for that and for throwing me to the wolves over the Young warrant.”
“Well, to be fair, you did blackmail me to get it,” he said, cocking his head to the side.
“Elizabeth Young was guilty, wasn’t she? I won’t say it again. Stop fucking calling me. I am with Jay now. I am happy for the first time in my life.”
“You are an industrious woman.” Oliver shook his head. “I understand you are currently trying a more conventional relationship, but I know you well enough to know it will never work between you and O’Loughlin. He can never satisfy all your needs. Not like I can. I doubt he even understands them. Eventually, he’ll want you to marry him and have his babies, and we both know how you feel about that, as well you should. A white picket fence with all the trimmings is not for you and never will be. You should be with a man who understands that about you.”
Berg scowled but remained silent.
“He’s already pressuring you, isn’t he? I thought so,” he said with a smile. “When you finally come to your senses, call me. My offer to make our arrangement a more permanent one still stands.”
Unable to take any more of his special brand of crazy, Berg stalked out without answering.
***
“Any luck?” Arena asked as Berg slumped into her desk chair.
“Huh? With what?”
“What do you think?” Arena rolled his eyes. “With the dealer. Was he put away for a good long time?”
“Are you kidding me?” Berg shook her head. “The fucker’s probably dealing again as we speak,” she replied through gritted teeth.
Arena sighed as he flicked through a file. “So Oliver’s being true to recent form. What’s up with Chicago’s judges? It’s like they’ve all taken a forgiveness seminar or something.”
Berg bowed her head into her hands. “I don’t know why the fuck we bother. I’m pretty sure the ASA wanted to punch him, and I’m certain I did.” She sighed and looked up. “What are you looking at?”
Arena passed her the file. “Rape kit and forensics on Maggie Robertson.”
Berg opened it and flipped through the pages, immediately engrossed. “DNA?”
“Multiple samples.”
Berg’s head snapped up. “Multiple?”
Arena nodded sadly. “It was a gang rape. At least three samples, according to Dr. Dwight. None in CODIS, though.”
“Did any DNA match the boyfriend?”
“Negative. Looks like he’s not our guy.”
Berg was secretly pleased.
It had to be hard losing her parents, but if it had turned out Mat had been the one who had raped Maggie? Berg was sure the young woman wouldn’t have recovered from that kind of blow.
No one is an island. We all need someone to lean on.
Berg felt a surge of love for Jay. “I didn’t get the sense it was him anyway. Maggie’s roommate backed up his story, as did the surveillance video.” She flicked through more pages, her eyes jumping from fact to fact as she went. “No rope fibers in her wrist wounds, which is disappointing. This is interesting,” she said, taking out a photo. “There’s a clear boot print on her back. It left very distinct bruising on her skin.”
“She was stomped on?” Arena studied the shot. “Clear hexagonal sole patterns, like a honeycomb.”
“Yes, looks like men’s size ten Tableland brand boots,” Berg read. “The blow cracked her ribs, but it also left a nice impression. Pity it’s a pretty popular brand of boot.”
Arena sighed. “I’m kinda glad the poor woman was knocked out early and doesn’t remember the attack.”
“Me, too.” Berg held up a photo of the black leather, lace-up, ankle boots with yellow stitching Dr. Dwight had provided in the file. “Let’s go ask her if she knows anyone who wears these kind of boots.”
After a quick drive to Michigan Avenue, the detectives parked the car and made their way across the green lawn toward one of the old Gothic-style buildings covered with creeping ivy.
“Did you go here?” Arena asked Berg. “You went to college before joining the CPD, right?”
“I did, but not here. I got a degree in criminal justice and criminology from Northwestern.”
Arena raised his eyebrows. “Whoa. Good school. Expensive.”
“It was, but I worked and got a bit of financial aid and some student loans, which I finally just finished paying off. Did you go to college?”
“Nah. Graduated high school then joined the Minneapolis PD as soon as I could.”
“Detective Raymond?” someone called from behind them.
Berg turned to find Mat trotting across the grass toward them and smiled. “Hi, Mat.”
“What are you doing here? Do you need to ask me more questions?” the young man asked.
“Mat, this is Detective Arena, my partner.”
The two men shook hands.
“We’ve come to ask Maggie a few more questions. Do you know if she’s in her dorm room? We know she was released from hospital a couple of days ago, but is she back at classes?”
Mat shook his head sadly. “She’s not at school at all anymore. She quit and moved back in with her parents.”
“What?” Berg was shocked. “Why on earth would she want to move back in with them?” Just thinking about the zealots set her teeth on edge.
“I have no idea. She dropped out not even halfway through her degree. Got herself into a world of trouble, too. She only partially completed her subjects this semester, and they won’t count toward her degree now. She’ll lose her scholarship.” He grimaced. “And she broke up with me. She won’t take my calls and her parents won’t let me into the house. I don’t know what else to do. This isn’t like her at all.” Mat shrugged and rubbed his face.
Berg felt pity for the man. “I’m sorry, Mat. Sometimes, after a violent crime, victims need to return to what’s familiar and comfortable to them. I know you love her.”
Mat tried to smile, but it wobbled and shook. “I really do. She’s the one.”
“If she’s not here, I guess we’ll head up to Lincoln Park, then. All the best in the future, Mat. I’m sure you’ll see Maggie again,” Berg said, shaking his hand.
“If you see her, can you tell her . . . I don’t know what I can say . . .” He sighed. “Just tell her I love her?” He looked at Berg hopefully.
Berg smiled and nodded.
Twenty-five minutes later, Arena stood by as Berg rapped on the red door of the Robertsons’ home.
Martha quickly answered, no smile on her round face this time. “Detectives?” she said coolly. “What can I do for you?”
Berg wondered how she could keep asking the same question when the answer was always pretty fucking obvious. She sighed in irritation. “We need to speak to Maggie. Mat said she was here?”
“Wait here, please.”
Martha closed the door in their faces, and the detectives shot a look at each other while they remained on the doorstep.
A few moments later, it slowly opened again.
“Detectives?” Maggie asked as she poked her head out.
Berg looked at the young woman with a critical eye. The bruises and swelling on her face and neck had faded, and she had styled her strawberry-blond hair to cover the bald patch around the small hole the doctors had drilled in her skull, but it was her dem
eanor that grabbed Berg’s attention most. Gone was the fiery, confident woman from the hospital. In her place stood a hunched shadow desperately clutching the high neck of her modest, floral dress and refusing to make eye contact.
“What can I do for you?” she asked in the exact unfriendly tone her mother had just used.
“We needed to ask you a few additional questions. May we come in, please?” Berg tried to catch her eye and smiled.
But Maggie was having none of it. She blocked the entryway using her body and the door. She looked quickly behind her. “Now’s not a good time. I’ve got Bible studies with Father—I’ve got a lot to catch up on. Besides, I’ve got nothing new to add. I don’t remember the attack at all, and it’s God’s mercy that I don’t.”
Maggie sounded like a carbon copy of her father, and Berg suppressed a shiver.
Arena held up the photo of the boots they suspected had been worn in the attack. “Do you know anybody who wears these?”
Maggie barely glanced at the picture before she shook her head.
“Did you notice anyone following you in the days before the attack? Did any strange men try to speak to you?” Berg asked.
Maggie shook her head again.
Berg sighed. “We ran into Mat at the college. For what it’s worth, he looked pretty devastated and said to tell you he loves you. We don’t believe he did this to you. DNA has cleared him.”
Maggie brushed away her forming tears with a shaky hand. “I know he didn’t do it. The attack was my fault,” she whispered. “My parents are right. I strayed from God’s path, and I was punished. I hope in time, He, and my family, can forgive me. Please don’t come here again. I just want to put all this behind me.”
For the second time that day, the door was shut in their faces.
Chapter Seven
“Can you drop me at the State’s Attorney’s Office?” Berg asked, hanging up her cell, as Arena drove back to the station. “I’ve been summoned by your girlfriend.”
“Sure. Does she want to see us both?” He turned onto North LaSalle Street and headed due south.
Berg shrugged. “Apparently not. Maroney just wants me.”
