Broken Page 3

  The girl just stared, clearly not comprehending. Her eyes looked dull, no light at all shining in them.

  “Elizabeth?” Berg repeated gently.

  Elizabeth opened her purse with a trembling hand and took out a small silver older model cell. “I . . . I . . . can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t tell them . . . not this . . . not Em . . .” The dull shock disappeared from her face and tears streamed down her cheeks, smearing her mascara into black rivulets. “Please,” she said, holding out her phone.

  Berg took the phone as Elizabeth collapsed into sobs. She moved out of earshot to make the call, leaving the distraught girl in a ball on the icy lawn.

  Chapter Three

  Paint a perfect picture. Bring to life a vision in one’s mind.

  The beautiful ones always smash the picture.

  Always. Every time.

  –Prince, “The Beautiful Ones”

  Berg shook her head at Arena as she gently closed the door of Emma Young’s ICU room. “It’s not looking good,” she said quietly as Arena stood up expectantly.

  Out of respect for their anguish, Berg had elected to interview the family alone while Arena sat in the waiting area.

  “She’s not going to make it?”

  “Doesn’t look like it,” she answered glumly. “The doctors and neurologists are running tests, but at this stage they can’t detect much brain activity. She’s in a coma, on full life support. She’s got massive head injuries—the whole left side of her skull was crushed due to repeated blunt-force blows. They’re not even sure there’s any point taking her to surgery even if they can stabilize her first.”

  “Fuck. The family give you anything to go on?”

  “Not yet. They also didn’t know about any boyfriend, or any trouble with old boyfriends. They are so shocked they could barely speak. The sister, Elizabeth, did most of the talking for them. Let’s go for now. The hospital is about to do a rape kit. Pray for some usable DNA.”

  “Jesus. I hope we catch this fucker.”

  “You and me both, Arena,” Berg said grimly. “Let’s catch a few hours’ sleep and have another run at it in the morning.” She headed off down the noisy corridor.

  “Or . . .” Arena called after her, his voice rising over the beeps, hisses, and wails of the ICU equipment and the frantic voices of the bustling medical staff.

  Berg turned impatiently. “Or what?”

  “Want to go to the deli and get a hot cup of coffee? It’s freezing and I’m too hyper to sleep now anyway. I can’t get the vision of her lying there on the concrete floor of the garage out of my head.”

  Berg looked at him and crossed her arms. “I don’t think that’s a great idea, Arena.”

  “Why? What do you think I’m gonna do? Pounce on you in the middle of a crowded deli in front of other CPD officers? You’ve made your feelings for me quite clear. Even Helen Keller couldn’t ignore your fuck off vibe. I’m asking as one colleague to another to have a cup of coffee and go over a case, okay? It’s on your way home and don’t try to tell me you could sleep now anyway!” Crossing his arms as well, Arena stood blocking her exit and practically huffing with indignation.

  Berg sighed as she mulled his offer over. He was right—there was no way she was going home to sleep now. Besides, partners discussing their cases over coffee was so typical it would be weird if they didn’t do it occasionally.

  “Okay, fine. Let’s go,” she said begrudgingly.

  Fifteen minutes later they arrived at the popular cafeteria-style deli near the 12th, which was still busy serving cops and civilians despite the late hour. They bypassed the famous sky-high corned beef sandwiches and nursed a hot cup of black coffee each in a retro booth at the rear of the original 1940s space.

  “So I put in a call to Metra Police while you were with the parents. They will send over the security footage from the 95th and 47th Street Metra trains first thing,” Arena said as he ripped the tops off two packets of sugar and dumped them into his steaming cup.

  “Good. I’ll talk to the family again, then interview the neighbor who found her,” Berg said, taking a sip. “We’ve got an appointment with her boss in the morning. He runs a graphic design business in Kenwood. Emma was his PA. Then we can—”

  “Looks like we’re not the only ones in need of hot caffeine tonight.” Arena nodded toward the entrance.

  Berg looked over her shoulder and stared as she spotted Jay leading a very young, very pretty woman into the deli. Her heart sank as they each ordered and collected a latte then sat at a table near the counter.

  “We should call them over,” Arena said as he stood up and raised his arm to wave.

  “No! Don’t,” Berg muttered, pulling him back down into the booth roughly.

  Arena looked at her, surprise on his features. “What’s the problem?”

  “Nothing,” Berg replied. “He may not want to be disturbed. It looks like he’s on a . . . date.”

  Arena stared at her for a moment, then back at Jay, before nodding. “Ah, okay. I see what’s going on here.”

  “There’s nothing going on here!” Berg whispered.

  “And that’s the problem, isn’t it?” Arena asked. His eyes were sympathetic as he waited for a response.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you’re done, I’ve got to get home.” Berg stood up to leave.

  “Berg, stop,” Arena said softly, motioning for her to sit back down. “Just give me two more minutes, then you can run out of here, okay?”

  Berg was reaching the end of her limited supply of patience, but sat down anyway.

  “What is or is not going on between you and O’Loughlin is none of my business—”

  “You got that right.”

  “—but, if you’re not together romantically, it’s because one of you doesn’t want to be. And if it’s not you . . .” He shrugged. “Look, you’ve known him long enough to know what he’s like . . . he’s always in it for the chase. If he wanted you, he’d have made his move by now.”

  Berg looked away as Arena continued talking softly.

  “I get it. He was your partner for two years before the promotion. It got very intense during the Leigh thing, and you thought he might die. It’s totally understandable. After two years, you worked well together, but he’s not your partner anymore,” he said, gesturing wildly. “I am! You need to let him go and you need to learn to trust me.” He leaned back in the booth. “All right, you can go.”

  Berg slid to the edge of the booth and looked toward the front of the deli where Jay and the woman sat together. Clutching his cup in both hands, he leaned his tall frame over the table toward her. She was blond and looked young—only twenty-three or twenty-four at most—and chatted animatedly as Jay listened. He smiled as she talked, watching her face closely as the expressions changed, oblivious to Berg’s intense gaze.

  She looked back at Arena’s understanding face. “You know what? I think I need another coffee.” She smiled wanly.

  “Coming right up,” Arena said as he jumped out of the booth and wandered to the counter.

  “Any leads in the Emma Young case?” Jay asked the detectives early the next morning.

  Arena and Berg sat in front of his desk in the hard wooden chairs that used to belong to Leigh.

  The new captain looked tired and rubbed his eyes, and Berg resisted the urge to ask him if he’d had a late night.

  Don’t jump to conclusions.

  She had repeated that same reminder to herself all night as she’d once again stared at her bare white ceiling, her heart inexplicably pounding.

  “Nothing firm, we were about to go through the surveillance from Metra when you called us in,” Arena answered.

  “What are your initial impressions?” Jay asked Berg.

  Arena crossed his arms in irritation. “Hello? She’s not the only detective in the room.”

  “Sorry,” Jay said, not looking away from Berg. “We’re just used to working together . . .”

&nbs
p; Berg smiled then cleared her throat, uncertain how to feel about the thrill that had shot through her at Jay’s comment. “I’m not sure yet. The family was too distraught to give me anything last night. They didn’t know about any boyfriend, current or otherwise. It might be a random attack, but there was no forced entry into the house. If so, she’s likely to have been followed from the Metra.”

  Jay nodded. “Okay, keep me apprised.” Frowning, he went back to his paperwork.

  “Actually, could we have a word?” Berg asked Jay before looking at Arena. “In private.”

  Arena moved closer and touched her arm lightly as he spoke in her ear. “You sure?” he whispered.

  With a quick nod assuring him she was fine, Berg watched as Arena left, closing the door behind him. She noticed that the long crack in one of the glass panels near the door had never been fixed.

  It seemed ironic that Jay was the owner of the same office he had almost destroyed on a daily basis slamming the door behind him. The object of his ire had typically been the now transferred and demoted Chief of Detectives Antonio Consiglio, yet another man who had been neatly deposed by Leigh’s manipulations. Not that they were sad about it—Leigh’s hatred of men had only been matched by Consiglio’s hatred of Berg and Jay.

  “What the fuck was that all about?” Jay asked, raising an eyebrow and nodding at Arena’s retreating figure.

  “Nothing. He’s overly protective. Kind of like a guard dog,” Berg replied, smiling slightly.

  “He clearly doesn’t know you very well, then, if he thinks you need any kind of guard dog.” He leaned in and placed his fingers on the desk so close they were almost touching. “What can I do for you?”

  Shit.

  Now that she was actually in his office, she wasn’t sure how to handle it. “Nothing much. Just worried about you, that’s all. Hoping you went home and got some sleep and didn’t work all night?”

  Lame.

  Jay smiled, reaching out one finger and lightly brushing the side of her palm.

  Berg’s heart rate increased exponentially at the touch.

  “That’s sweet, but no such luck. I was working till the early hours.” He sighed.

  “Working,” she repeated, pulling her hand away. “That’s it?”

  “Yes, working.” Jay’s brows gathered together as he looked at her. “Why?”

  Berg shook her head—she wasn’t interested in any more lies. “No reason.” She opened the door and walked out of the office, slamming it behind her.

  So much for not jumping to conclusions.

  “You okay?” Arena asked as Berg sat down at her desk. He was staring intensely at his computer screen.

  “Yep.” Her tone left little doubt—the subject was closed. “What you got?” she asked, moving her chair closer so she could lean in.

  He turned his screen toward Berg and they viewed the footage together. “Surveillance from the 47th, around six last night.”

  Peak commuting time, the station was bustling with hundreds of people milling around the short wooden above-ground platform. Like clockwork, a train arrived every few minutes, emptying passengers before even more people crowded on.

  Arena clicked and fast-forwarded the footage. The scene looked like an old black and white comedy as everyone got on and off the electric trains in double time.

  “Stop!” Berg blurted.

  Arena stopped the footage and backed up slightly.

  Berg pointed. “There she is.”

  Arena once again clicked play and the scene unfolded.

  Wearing black leggings and a long woolen coat, belted high on her waist, Emma Young waited at the edge of the old wooden platform, occasionally pulling her beret further down over her long, blond hair. Scores of waiting passengers milled around her, but Berg noticed plenty of men giving the pretty woman second and even third glances as they waited. Eventually, the train pulled in, and Emma, along with many others, got on. The train pulled out.

  “Back it up again,” Berg said.

  They watched the scene unfold a few times, but could detect no strange activity.

  “Let’s try the next set down.” She reached for the cup on her desk and took a quick swig, but her eyes never left the monitor. “It’s about a twenty minute trip.”

  Arena minimized the footage, opened another window, and double clicked on the computer file. He fast-forwarded through the first several minutes then quickly stopped it as they caught sight of Emma.

  She stepped off the train, pulled her long coat closer against the cold, and tucked her purse under her arm, clearly preparing for the short walk home.

  The detectives watched closely as she stepped off the dinky old platform and out of frame.

  Berg studied the small crowd walking with her. “Stop it there.” When the playback stopped, she tapped the screen where the first file sat minimized. “Now, open the footage for the 47th and stop it before Emma gets to the platform.”

  Arena clicked the mouse a few times.

  “There,” Berg said, pointing at an ordinary-looking man in the first footage file wearing jeans and a jacket over a hooded sweater. They watched as the man leaned against a light pole at the station, waiting as several trains arrived and left, his hands in his pockets.

  “He seems to be waiting for something, and it’s clearly not a train,” Arena said.

  They continued watching the footage as Emma arrived, waited briefly, and got on the next train. The man joined the crowd boarding the train behind her.

  Berg indicated Arena should reopen the next footage file.

  The same man was frozen in the frame, leaving the station behind Emma.

  “See if you can get a good shot of his face in any of the frames,” Berg said.

  Arena fiddled about with the footage for a few minutes, fast-forwarding and rewinding in an effort to get a clear shot of the man’s face.

  “The fucking hood’s in the way.” He sighed as he froze the footage. “I hate winter. It’s so much harder to ID suspects. This is the best I can get. I’ll try to enlarge.” He zoomed in on the man’s face but the image was poor quality and grainy, and the top half of his face was hidden in the shadow from the hood. He looked to be average height and build with no discernible tattoos or prominent features.

  “Print it out. Someone in her family may still recognize him,” Berg said.

  Arena nodded.

  “What’s that, on the edge of the frame?” she said, pointing to a large, squat building. “Looks like a storage place on 95th? They’re bound to have surveillance and Emma walked right by there.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Jay watched from his office as Berg and Arena studied Arena’s computer screen. Berg had moved her chair closer to his and was leaning in and talking to the annoyingly handsome detective.

  It was rare that Jay felt threatened by any other man, but he knew full well how feelings between partners could develop seemingly out of nowhere. His feelings for Berg had taken him completely by surprise during the Leigh ordeal, and he hadn’t been able to shake them since.

  They hadn’t slept together—yet. They’d come close a couple of times several months before, but he knew she needed to recover from her sex addiction first, and he could wait. He was committed to her recovery.

  Jay watched her from his glass office, unable to look away.

  Jesus, she is stunning.

  Her dark eyes, long, wavy hair, slightly crooked nose, and full lips were all he dreamed about. He had to keep his distance in the office because he was pretty sure his detectives didn’t want to see him at half-mast all day.

  He noticed that she had been wearing increasingly plain suits, and he figured it was in an effort to deter Arena, but they did nothing to hide her banging body. She was tall and slim, but her thin frame belied her power. He had seen that body up close and personal, and wanted the chance to do so again.

  Berg brushed her hair over one shoulder and laid her hand on Arena’s arm as she pointed at the screen with the
other.

  He felt an irrational stab of jealousy as they worked.

  Easy, partner. Berg knows how you feel.

  Chapter Four

  I wonder if you,

  wanted me like I wanted you.

  It’s a lonely truth,

  that I can’t change you.

  And you sure can’t change me.

  –Fauxliage, “Let It Go”

  The girl lay frozen in her bed, her heart pounding against her ribs. She forced herself to lie still as her bedroom door was pushed open slightly—just a crack.

  It opened a little farther and a shadowy silhouette, highlighted by the bright lights of the outside hallway, moved inside quickly before being lost in the darkness as the door closed with a barely audible click.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and pretended to be asleep, hoping it might convince the unwanted visitor to leave. There was silence for a moment and her ears strained to hear even the faintest whisper of sound.

  All was still.

  She could hear nothing beyond her closed bedroom door, so she assumed her mother had once again passed out.

  She dared to open her eyes just a fraction, then squeezed them shut again hurriedly.

  He was still there.

  She could hear his heavy breathing now as he stood over her bed. She could hear the rubbing of fabric. She knew he was touching himself through his jeans. The breathing became rougher, more ragged, as the touching intensified.

  She heard the scratch of metal as he lowered his zipper, then a soft thud as the heavy denim hit the floor.

  No, no, no.

  Eventually, the figure moved closer, pulling back the covers and easing into the warm single bed next to her. He reached down and pulled at her long white nightgown until it was gathered around her waist. He circled her hips with his large hands and moved her closer.

  “I love you, Alicia. I love you so much . . .”

  She started to cry.

  Berg sat bolt upright in her white bed and wiped the tears from her face.

  Just a dream. It’s not real anymore . . . the man is dead.