Broken (2 page)

“I know, I know. Sorry.” He ran his hand through his short hair again. “I haven’t slept in several centuries.”

He hadn’t been able to stop the glance at Berg’s simple pantsuit at the mention of her wearing a dress. She caught him leering just like she did so many of the other officers she worked with, and shot him a look that left no doubt just where he could stick his leer.

“This looks more like an execution, not a carjacking.” She turned from the body to the surrounding area. “And, if no one heard the shot in this busy parking garage in the middle of the day, then the killer may have used a silencer. What carjacker does that? For that matter, what carjacker kills a woman, renders the car unsellable, then takes off without stealing everything else he can get his hands on?”

Arena shrugged.

“There is more to this,” Berg muttered.

“You think there is more to everything.” Arena said and wandered toward the car grumbling.

Berg wasn’t sure what to do, which was an annoying proposition for a woman who liked to have everything planned out to the nth degree.

Every night before she went to bed, she already knew what she would be wearing the next morning. Her spotless apartment was cleaned, the dishes washed, and put away. She was showered, her hair washed and plaited in a braid to keep it out of the way. Jesse was walked and fed, his food set out on the counter so either she or her elderly neighbor and co-dog-owner Vi could feed him. Her clothes were ironed, her guns cleaned and locked away, and her purse organized. That way, there were no nasty surprises when she awoke in the morning or got called to a late-night crime scene.

Of course, she had a lot more time in the evenings to carry out her methodical cleaning, tidying, and organizing now that she wasn’t running off to scratch her destructive itch at the sex clubs every spare second.

Realistically, all the extra time simply meant more time staring at her plain white bedroom ceiling as she attempted to sleep. Or counted sheep. Or systematically contracted and relaxed every muscle within every limb of her body. Or played and replayed the meditation CD her therapist had helpfully but naïvely supplied.

She’d spent so many hours staring at that damn ceiling she had started to wonder if she should stick some cue cards up there.

Maybe I can learn a second language or something.

She was distracted and that wasn’t a good thing for a cop to be at any time, let alone while she was working no less than five active investigations, countless cold cases, and breaking in a new partner to boot. The lack of control she was experiencing was unfamiliar and unwelcome.

The trigger to that lack of control was sitting approximately twenty feet from her, bent over paperwork in his new glass-walled office and tangling the fingers of his left hand in his thick, wavy medium-brown hair and scribbling with his right.

Of course she knew where he was. She always knew precisely where Captain Jay O’Loughlin was. It was as if every nucleus of every cell in her entire body gravitated toward her former partner’s general direction twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. If he took a bathroom break, she knew. If he had a meeting, she knew. If he walked toward her desk . . . forget about it!

Fucking infuriating
.

Their new captain had had a lot of meetings recently. Not surprising, really, considering the ride the previous occupant of the glass office had taken them all on.

Captain Louise Leigh, one of the few females to ever make it in the upper echelons of the Chicago Police Department—and a woman Berg had thought of as a respected colleague and someone to look up to—had turned out to be a deranged psycho, turned cop to carry out macabre revenge on four truckers who had gang-raped her and left her for dead thirty years prior.

Berg had always been good at recognizing the psychos. She was renowned for it in both this precinct and others throughout Chicago, so she still felt ashamed that Leigh had slipped under her radar, but Berg had identified with her drive for revenge.

Leigh had used officers, CPD money, and resources and left a lot of screwed-up convictions thanks to database tampering, not to mention the thirteen dead bodies they knew about. Five of the bodies were innocent young women who probably died doubting their own sanity after Leigh was finished with them.

Berg forced herself to look away from the office and back down at her own desk. It didn’t help.

It had been two months since Berg had shot Leigh dead and rescued a captive Jay, and one month since Jay had recovered enough from the emotional and physical torture to return to work in his new position in the glass office.

It had been six weeks since Jay had said that he loved her and that he would wait until she was far enough into recovery from her sex addiction to be ready for them to be together. Irritatingly, that had been the last thing she had heard from Jay about them being together, whatsoever.

Now Berg didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know if she should just go in there, interrupt him, and lay her cards on the table, or just assume he had moved on and do so herself—the latter was the more likely prospect, with Jay being the skirt-chasing, pussy-seeking bloodhound that he was.

Besides, she didn’t know if she was ready, or even capable, of any kind of sane, normal relationship. Previous efforts in that area had failed dismally and therapy was not helping.

She had never been what most might call normal.

Moving on was easier said than done, however, because she was in love with him—the first time she had ever felt any such feelings for anyone.

She sighed.

Yet another issue to work through with Dr. Thompson.

The issues list seemed to be getting longer rather than shorter during her nightly therapy sessions, and she was losing motivation. She hadn’t realized working through her problems would involve so many uncomfortable feelings; feelings that she felt increasingly ill-equipped to deal with.

“Hey partner.” Arena shrugged off his dark wool pea coat and hung it on the back of his chair. Twisting his heavily muscled shoulders, he unwrapped his scarf and threw it on the desk. Dark eyes flashing with humor, he sat down on the swivel chair at his desk—the desk that had belonged to Jay for two years.

“Did you find anything on the husband yet?” she asked, referring to the execution in the parking garage the day prior.

“Shockingly, not since the last time you asked . . . a whole hour ago. It still looks like an attempted jacking to me,” Arena replied, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. He flexed, consciously or not, and his biceps bulged through his turtleneck sweater.

Looking away, she frowned at his response. “It’s not. The husband did it, or paid someone to do it. Trust me.”

“And you’re basing that assumption on what? All men are bastards?”

Berg tried not to roll her eyes. “No. I’m basing it on the fact that very few murders are completely random. Also on the particularly obvious fact that the supposed thief didn’t steal the brand new SUV or her purse or her jewelry . . . nothing except for the necklace.”

“The custom SUV was too conspicuous. Plus, he never would have been able to get the blood or the smell out,” Arena replied and Berg had to wonder if he felt as ridiculous as that lame reasoning sounded.

“Then why go after it in the first place? The SUV wasn’t important because it was a planned hit made to look like a carjacking.” She slid a folder toward Arena’s desk. “Preliminary autopsy report. It’s just like I said. She was killed execution style with a single shot to the back of the head. She likely never knew her attacker was approaching until she felt the gun press into her scalp. Then it was over.”

“Maybe, but I’ve interviewed the kids, the neighbors, and his employees for some kind of motive. I even interviewed their broker, for fuck’s sake! Their stories are all the same. Michael Feeny is the biggest car dealer in Chicago. He and his wife, Elena, were married for nearly thirty years. He adored her. He even said he imported the custom-made SUV specifically for her because he wanted her to be safe in the wake of Chi-town’s growing murder problem.”

“Take a look at this,” Berg said, turning her computer monitor around so Arena could see it. “This is his personal credit card statement. What do you see?”

Arena scrolled down, studying the screen intently. “I’ll tell you what I don’t see. I don’t see any hotel charges, which would be something a man having an affair would have on his credit card.”

“Yes, but what do you actually see?”

“A lot of boring stuff—small charges at news stands, restaurants, a couple of charges at a florist . . . nothing regular. Like I said, he loved his wife.”

“The last charge by the top-end florist in The Loop was the day before Elena Feeny was killed. When we went to his home to inform him of his wife’s death yesterday, did you see any expensive flowers there?”

Arena thought back. “No . . .”

Berg swiveled her screen back and looked hard at Arena. “There’s a mistress. Find her. Mistress, plus wealthy business owner with long-term wife, equals a pricey divorce.”

Arena remained silent for a moment then frowned. “You know, we’re partners. We’re meant to be doing this stuff together, as equals. One of us isn’t supposed to bark orders at the other, like she’s a latex-clad dominatrix. Luckily for you, I like that kind of thing.” He smiled as he got up, grabbed his coat and scarf, and wandered toward the elevator.

This time, Berg did roll her eyes.

One thing had become abundantly clear over the last couple of months: Arena was delighted to have her as a partner. Berg? Not so much. His lame come-ons and double entendres were getting as old as the greeting. And he was no Jay.

She sighed again and shut her laptop before scooping up her cell.

“Heading out?” Jay asked, literally running into her as he strode out of his office.

They both lingered in the accidental contact far longer than necessary before pulling apart.

“Yeah. The Elena Feeny case. I’m pretty sure the husband did it, but we have yet to prove it,” Berg replied, smiling as she stepped back.

“Feeny, as in Feeny Automotives?” Jay asked, looking impressed.

“Yep.”

“Wow. Well, I’m sure you’ll get him. Your instincts are second to none, Detective Raymond,” Jay replied, smiling in return.

“Thanks. How’s your new job going?” Berg asked quickly before he could walk away.

“Oh, you know, it sucks.” Jay rolled his blue eyes and shrugged. “The paperwork is endless, budget reports, crime rate reports, reports for the super, the mayor. I’m pretty sure the janitor will need some kind of report; I just haven’t got to it yet. And if it’s not the reports, it’s the meetings.”

“Gee, that sounds like . . . fun?”

“It’s not. I don’t think it was the rape that sent Leigh off the deep end, it was the fucking paperwork. I’m one report away from a bell tower and a rifle.”

Berg chuckled.

As a third-generation cop, she knew Jay had always coveted a higher office in the CPD. It had been his life-long career plan. But she was guessing he hadn’t banked on not enjoying it.

She grimaced in sympathy. “I’m sure it will get better. It’s still new, that’s all.”

“Yeah, I guess. So what are you doing tonight? Working? Or . . .” Jay asked cautiously.

“Got a few things to do, then headed home. You?”

“Working, sadly.” He scowled.

“Well, I’ve only got therapy. I could cancel if you want to get a bite to eat after?” Berg asked.

Jay’s smile faded. “Oh no, don’t cancel. You should go; we are paying for it, after all,” he replied, referring to the loophole he had found allowing the CPD to pay for Berg’s expensive therapy, supposedly to help her recover from shooting her superior officer.

Berg often thought it was absurd that anyone thought the decision to kill Leigh to save Jay had been so difficult that it required endless therapy. It was one of the easiest decisions she had ever made. It had allowed her to keep going to see Dr. Thompson, however, for the . . . other issues. At two hundred dollars an hour, without the assistance Berg would have had to stop going weeks ago.

“She really won’t min—”

“No, you go.” Jay’s cell rang and he checked the caller ID. “I’ve got to work.” The look on his face told her he was already gone before he even wandered away to answer his phone.