Broken (23 page)

Berg wished she could experience a little of that feeling.

Just once.

Arena’s phone rang on the way back to his desk. He swore softly as he read the display and ducked into the stairwell for some privacy.

“What?” he snapped without preamble. He started shaking his head before the caller was done talking. “I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”

The voice rose on the other end.

“I know I promised, but I can’t do this. No, I told you I’m not fucking her, and I don’t think he is either. But there’s something—” Arena pursed his lips when the voice on the other end took a threatening tone. “Fine, but when this is over, we are done, you hear me? You leave me, and my station, alone!” He hung up in disgust—with the caller and himself.

“Hey,” Berg said from behind him.

He nearly dropped his phone as he whipped around in surprise.

“I saw you head in here. I’m going to visit the Youngs and see if I can get permission to search Emma’s bedroom again for clues into the baby’s father. You coming?”

“No! Can’t. I, uh, I mean . . . I need to get on top of some reports,” Arena replied lamely as he checked her out in her simple pantsuit.

That’s all he seemed to be doing lately, checking her out. What had started as a challenge to get her into the sack had turned into something more, something he didn’t want to admit even to himself, let alone her.

I do not love her! Stop it!

Berg didn’t appear to notice his discomfort. “Of course you do. You always leave them to the last minute.”

His laugh sounded more like a strangled choke, even to him. “Yep, that’s me . . .”

Chapter Nineteen

Running from the streetlights,

shining on her grave.

Once you’ve had the good stuff,

never gonna fill you up.

–Kings of Leon, “The End”

U
sing the key kindly supplied by the Youngs, Berg let herself into the small home.

The big red foreclosure sign in the front was not a surprise, even though the Youngs had said nothing about losing their home. Neither of them appeared to be working, choosing instead to stay at the hospital and monitor the progress of the baby. She figured they must not have been able to keep up the mortgage payments, particularly after the second mortgage they had taken out to offer the reward. It had been duly paid to the anonymous tipster after Buchanan’s arrest.

The couple was more unwilling than ever to leave Emma’s bedside. Ever since the doctors had told them that a successful pregnancy was far more likely if they interacted with the fetus as much as possible, every spare second the desperate couple had was spent talking to the growing baby in their brain-dead daughter’s womb.

Since the DNA test had revealed the baby’s father was not Buchanan, the Youngs were happy to help Berg as much as possible in finding out who the father of their greatly anticipated grandchild was.

They had given her a key to their deserted house without hesitation so she could go through Emma’s things for potential clues. Berg didn’t hold out much hope. She had been through Emma’s room thoroughly twice already.

Berg was uneasy over the revelation that the father of the baby hadn’t been identified. With the involvement of an unknown man in Emma’s life, Berg was back to the uncomfortable feeling that the crime was more than it seemed.

To Berg, solving a crime was nothing without the why of it all—the motive. Often, the motive became apparent before any evidence or DNA was even collected. The motive usually led the police to their suspect and then the evidence. Not the other way around. She would get a satisfying
click
in her head, and everything became clear.

She hadn’t had the
click
. And until she got it, she couldn’t let it go.

She looked around Emma’s room, which was in almost exactly the same state it had been in the night of the crime. Clothes were still strewn around on the bed and floor and even more dust covered her computer and personal effects, some of it fingerprint dust applied by the crime scene techs and left untouched four months later.

Berg quickly checked in the closet and drawers for any kind of diary or journal. She flicked on the computer and checked Emma’s e-mail, but nothing stood out as she sifted through the hundreds of greetings and invitations—clearly, she had been a very popular and much-loved young woman.

Berg checked the trash folders to ensure no e-mails from a boyfriend had been deleted. Nothing. She made a note to get the tech department to check the hard drive, make sure it hadn’t been scrubbed, but she doubted Emma would have gone to such lengths or had the know-how.

She checked under Emma’s mattress—nothing. She picked up the photo of Emma with her family from the bedside table, staring at the pretty woman for a moment. While Emma’s swelling and bruising had healed and her hair was growing back following the brain surgery, she was still nothing like the vibrant woman who stared out from the photo.

In the hospital, she was nothing more than a shell, a shell being kept alive by machines and medications so her baby could hopefully be born safely in a couple of months. Given that a full-term pregnancy was unlikely, the doctor was prepared to deliver the baby any time after thirty weeks. That was the collective goal now—get Emma over that line.

Emma wore an array of hospital gowns instead of the flattering, long-sleeved, navy blue, wraparound dress she wore in the picture as she stood next to her beaming father. Happiness glowed out of her every pore, and Berg regretted never knowing Emma while she was alive.

Berg carefully placed the photo back on the table before a sudden spark of inspiration struck. She picked the photo back up, turned it over, and opened the back of the frame. Instead of finding a note or a photo conveniently leading to the baby’s father, she simply found the stamp of the photographic studio that had printed the portrait. Closing everything back up, she sighed and placed it back on the table.

Berg wandered next door into Elizabeth’s room. This immaculate room had also gained a fine film of dust since the last visit.

Elizabeth, like her parents, had not been back to the house to stay. She preferred to live at a small hotel down the road from the hospital instead, even though the family could ill afford it. Elizabeth had continued to work hard as a victims’ advocate, but Berg knew most of that was unpaid volunteer work.

Berg absentmindedly opened the closet and nightstand drawers, not really searching for anything but going through the motions while she thought.

She picked up the framed photograph on the bedside table—an enlargement of just Elizabeth and her father. Elizabeth, who was much thinner in the photo, smiled her crooked-toothed grin and clutched at her father’s arm, which was wrapped snugly around the waist of her long-sleeved, navy blue, wraparound dress.

Berg realized what she was looking at and frowned. Carrying Elizabeth’s photo with her, she rushed back into Emma’s room and compared the two prints. Elizabeth and Emma wore the same dress, struck the same pose, and had the same jewelry. Elizabeth was also much thinner in her picture than in the family portrait obviously taken the same day and still in place, albeit fire damaged, in the living room.

Why is Elizabeth’s head on Emma’s body?

“What are you doing in here?”

Heart pounding, Berg whirled around. “Elizabeth! You scared me.” It unnerved her that she hadn’t heard anyone else moving around the house.

Elizabeth smiled, displaying a new set of white, perfectly straight teeth.

Are those veneers?

“Sorry. I just got a shock. I didn’t realize you’d be here,” she said.

“Yes, your parents gave me the key. They were hoping I could find something that might indicate who the baby’s father is, but I haven’t been able to find anything at all.”

Elizabeth’s eyes rested on the photos still held in Berg’s hands. “Yes.” She slowly walked forward and took the photo that belonged in her room from Berg and tucked it close to her chest, hugging it tightly. “I think they don’t want any custody surprises. They are determined to raise Emma’s baby as their own.”

“That’s understandable. I’m sorry, is that . . .
your
head on Emma’s body?” Berg asked, nodding at the picture Elizabeth had just taken from her.

Elizabeth looked down at the photo for a few seconds. “Yes!” She laughed awkwardly. “The studio made a huge mistake and accidently included this in our final selection. We all had a good laugh over it, and it became a running family joke, so I kept it.”

“Oh, okay. I thought it was weird.” Berg tried to smile.

“Yes, very weird. Anyway, I’m going to make some coffee. I need some fake energy to get packed. You want some?” Elizabeth said as she walked out of Emma’s room and back into her own to replace the photograph.

“Sure. You’re going somewhere?” Berg asked. This was the first she’d heard of it.

“Yes, I bought myself a little cottage over in Evergreen Park with some money I had saved from my job. Between my work and all the media interviews I’m doing for Enough is Enough, I couldn’t live in a hotel room with my parents anymore. And I’m sure you understand why I can’t . . . live here.”

“Of course,” Berg said, following Elizabeth to the kitchen. “Wow, Evergreen Park—nice area.”

Elizabeth nodded as she raised a coffee cup questioningly.

“Just black, thanks. I’ll be right back—just have to visit the little girl’s room.”

“Sure.” Elizabeth smiled as she took down some sugar and creamer from a cupboard. “You know where it is?”

“Oh, yeah,” Berg said as she wandered out of the kitchen.

Instead of heading to the bathroom, she snuck back into Elizabeth’s room and picked up the strange photo once more. There was something about the image—despite Elizabeth’s explanation—that made her uneasy. She opened the frame and examined the back of the photo, expecting to see the same studio stamp.

It wasn’t there.

Instead, printed on the back was the brand name of a photographic paper that she knew could be used in home printers. She quickly replaced the photo and backed out of the room, noting that Elizabeth didn’t have a printer.

“So you didn’t find anything?” Elizabeth asked her as she entered the kitchen.

Berg took the mug of steaming black coffee from her and shook her head. “No, nothing. Do you know if your sister kept a diary?”

“If she did, I didn’t know about it.”

“I just . . . I can’t get over it. Her whole attack just makes no sense.” Berg kept her head down, looking into her coffee cup, but positioned so she could watch Elizabeth.

“Oh? How so?” Elizabeth asked, frowning. “Surely you don’t think that animal, Buchanan, didn’t do it? I thought at least that part of this horrible crime was finally over.”

“No, he did it all right. But why?”

Elizabeth shrugged, shifting her gaze up and away as if lost in thought. “Didn’t he think he was in some kind of computer game? And does it matter? I can’t figure out why anyone would want to do that to such a wonderful person like Em. But be honest, even if we knew for sure what his crazy reasons were, would it make any of this any better? Would it make my parents all right again?” she said, tilting her head back down and wiping away tears from her eyes.

“Probably not. I’m so sorry.” Berg felt like she’d offered a thousand apologies at this point, and none of them helpful.

Emma’s own family is trying to move on. Why can’t I?

“You look great, by the way,” she said, changing the subject. “Have you lost weight?”

“Oh, thanks. I’ve been working out with a trainer. Did you know she used to train Madonna?” Elizabeth smiled and ran her hands along her waist, practically preening, until her cell phone interrupted her. “Sorry, it’s my agent,” she apologized, walked out of the kitchen to take the call.

Agent?

Berg quietly set her cup on the counter before she rushed to the living room and picked up the family portrait. Right where she expected it, the studio stamp was clearly visible on the back of the image.