Broken (31 page)

One glare from Jay and Carla fell silent.

Berg opened her mouth, intending to invite Carla to go be a detective if she thought she could do any better, but found herself concentrating on keeping her lunch down instead.

“Do you have anything not resulting from an illegal search linking Elizabeth to Buchanan? Any sightings, communications, anything? Any specific threats from Elizabeth to her sister? Witnesses?
Anything
we can use apart from speculation and hearsay?” Jay was clearly looking for a reason to approve the request. “Berg?”

Knowing she’d lose it if she opened her mouth, Berg flashed a glance in Arena’s direction.

Taking the hint, he nodded and stepped forward. “Nothing firm. We put in a call to Emma’s doctor and there are, in fact, healed fractures all over Emma’s body—the kind he would usually put down to growing up in an abusive home—which corroborates Hudson’s accusations. But when he asked about it, Emma’s parents put them down to gymnastic training when she was young. Without Emma to say otherwise . . .” Arena left it hanging, he didn’t need to tell Jay and Carla that they couldn’t use it.

Berg turned a pale shade of green, dove for Jay’s small trashcan, and promptly, and quite noisily, lost everything her stomach held.

Carla stepped back in disgust.

“Berg! Are you okay?” Jay and Arena both asked, moving in from opposite directions to comfort her.

Under the pressure of Carla’s intense stare, Jay stepped back and let Arena peel Berg off the floor.

“Thanks,” Berg croaked as Arena put his huge arms around her, wincing when he made contact with her chest. “I’m okay. I’m never getting pizza from that place again, though.” She tapped Arena’s arm, awkwardly thanking him again before she grabbed the trashcan and stumbled off to the bathroom.

“I can’t approve you seeking a warrant based on what you have now,” Jay said to Arena. “Sorry. After Feeny . . .” He shrugged.

Arena nodded as he watched Berg weave her way toward the bathrooms, more concerned about her than anything Jay was saying, but the captain’s meaning was clear. He and Berg had lost credibility after the Feeny debacle, within the station and in the state’s attorney office. No judge was going to sign a warrant based solely on anything they had to say right now.

But he knew Berg was right.

Dammit! Berg’s always right. She’s the best cop I’ve ever worked with. Not to mention hot . . . and amazing . . . and strong. Shit.

He was in an impossible situation and had no idea what he was going to do about it.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Everything you know,

and never knew.

Will run through your fingers,

just like sand.

Enjoy it while you can.

–Faith No More, “Last Cup of Sorrow”

B
erg refused to go home when Jay had tried to insist through the bathroom stall door ten minutes after she’d thrown up in his office. Instead, she’d stayed at the station trying to think of something, anything, to get probable cause. They needed evidence to get a warrant, and since Elizabeth obviously wasn’t foolish enough to incriminate herself, Berg only had one option, and it wasn’t an option that she cared to consider.

Rather than dwell on that, she’d headed out to Finn’s in The Loop where, thanks to the blabbing in the elevator, she knew Big John law firm associates preferred to get their drunk on.

She located the indiscreet young man almost immediately and found he was all too happy to continue being chatty as long as a pretty lady was footing the Jägermeister tab.

With liquid courage filling his confidence to the brim, and the barstool keeping him upright, he had no problem letting Berg know all the water-cooler gossip. “Rumor has it she fucked Edwin, the senior partner, soon after he hired her. God knows why he’d touch her, but he’s ancient, so maybe he just takes any pussy he can get. I heard she has a video of him in some pretty unconventional positions, if you get my drift. That’s not going to go down well with the wife or the other senior partners.” He took another swig of his drink. “She also threatened to sue him for sexual harassment. Ever since she’s had old Edwin by the nuts; she’s been allowed to do anything she wants. She’s got this huge office. And she’s not even lead paralegal—there’s no such thing—she had that put on her office door herself!”

Berg, having heard more than enough, tried to excuse herself—albeit with some objections from her overly friendly new drinking buddy who obviously thought he was getting lucky. He had heard many rumors, but knew very little first hand, making his use as a witness nil and less than zero to Berg. None of what she had gotten from him was helpful in terms of a warrant, of course, but it did serve to further cement her belief that Elizabeth had either paid or coerced Buchanan into killing her sister. The idea of such premeditated evil, and with no justification, made her shiver.

The information might have been interesting, but she was happy to get out of there. Her stomach still didn’t feel right. As soon as she got home, she made herself some dry toast. Factoring in the strange cramps, she recognized the icing on the crap cake that was her week and opened her diary to make a note of her impending period, as she always did.

She flicked back a couple of pages.

And a couple more.

Frowning, she flicked through an entire month’s worth of pages then, frantically, another month. And another.

Oh fuck . . .

Grabbing her keys and purse, she rushed out of the apartment and down to the drug store a block away.

Ten minutes later, she was pacing back and forth in her bedroom, biting her nails to nubs as the pregnancy test developed. She hadn’t prayed since she was a teenager—seeing as how thoroughly it had failed her then—but she seriously considered it now.

Oh, please no. This
.
Cannot. Be. Happening.

She checked her watch and rushed inside to check the stick.

A big plus sign mocked her with its garish pink color.

OhfuckwhatamIgonnadowhatamIgonnadowho’sthefatherthiscan’tbehappening . . .

He mother laughed with glee in her head.

The irony, of course, being that her mother had always expected her to turn up pregnant as a teenager—having the firm opinion that her daughter was a whore.

Mom had missed out on the timing, but boy, how right she’d been. Midthirties, pregnant, single, and no idea what she was going to do.

What a clusterfuck.

That wasn’t even the worst of it. If she was as pregnant as she thought she was, there was only one possibility, and making him a father would be the same as giving birth to the progeny of Satan—Armageddon couldn’t be far behind.

What the fuck am I going to do?

Her panic attack was interrupted by a knock at her door.

Stumbling out of her bathroom on autopilot, she opened her door in a daze.

“Hey, Berg,” Arena said, barging in uninvited. “So I spoke to the legal department of—” Obviously undeterred by the fact that it was covered in pee, Arena plucked the forgotten stick out of Berg’s shaking hand. “Is this what I think it is?” He read the display. “Holy . . . shit?” It looked as if his legs gave out when he practically collapsed on the couch. “Guess it wasn’t food poisoning after all.”

Berg shook her head.

He sighed. “And . . . the father?” he asked.

Berg shook her head again, unable to speak, but recognizing that Arena was still holding the stick. She snatched it back and stalked over to the trashcan. Opening it, she threw it in viciously, and for a second, she longed to throw herself in after it like the garbage she was.

How could I be so fucking stupid?

She turned around and almost ran into Arena, who was directly behind her on one knee.

He grabbed her hands. “Marry me,” he said.

The utter ridiculousness of the situation finally snapped Berg out of her glassy-eyed, speechless state. “What . . . the fuck?” She jerked her hands away. She didn’t know if she wanted to laugh hysterically or cry.

“This is perfect. Marry me. You need a husband, and that baby needs a father. Marry me? Please?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Arena. Get up. This isn’t 1950.” She walked around him to the couch and sat down.

He followed suit, sitting down carefully next to her before asking, “What are you going to do?” The concern in his voice seemed genuine.

Berg shrugged. “It literally
just
happened, Arena. I haven’t had time to process the situation yet.”

He nodded. “Well, my offer’s still good, for when you figure it out. I want to be there for you. I want to help. I-I-I didn’t plan on it, but I’ve come to really care about you, Berg.”

Berg was actually touched through her shock and confusion. “Thanks.”

They were silent for a moment.

Arena picked up her hand and held it.

“So . . . why are you here exactly?”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve been checking out
Realm of Blood
. Turns out, Elizabeth could have been sending messages to Buchanan via the instant chat feature they’ve got on there. It would be perfect for her—no e-mail trail, no face-to-face meetings, no records or server involvement.”

“Any way to check?” Berg asked, relieved to be talking about work and not about her impending motherhood.

I’m going to be a mother . . . fuck!

“That’s what I’m trying to find out. I put in a call to the legal department of the company, but they have strict privacy laws. They’re going to get back to me. Of course, we need to prove she was playing the game in the first place before we can speculate that she was talking to him via the game.”

“Hey, didn’t I hear something about some boys in Sweden who were convicted of murder after discussing it on an online game?”

“I think they were stupid enough to chat about it with other players. What are the chances Elizabeth was that stupid? I’ll check, though. Did you get to Finn’s?”

“Yeah. That associate pretty much confirmed what we suspected about Elizabeth. He thinks she’s blackmailing the senior partner with a sex tape. Apparently, she does whatever she wants and no one says boo.”

“Shit. You know, if we could establish a pattern of behavior, we might be able to get a sympathetic judge to give us a warrant.”

“How?”

“Hudson said Emma felt she was always behind the eight ball at school and college.”

“Yeah.”

“So why don’t we interview the faculty at both? Maybe we’ll get something usable on Elizabeth, or at least enough of a profile to convince someone to give us a warrant.”

“That’s a good idea, Arena,” Berg said.

“No need to sound surprised. I do occasionally have them. Like us getting married. That’s the best idea I’ve had all year.” Arena’s phone rang. Checking the caller ID, he rejected the call, almost punching his finger straight through the display. It rang again almost immediately, and he did the same before turning the phone on silent.

“Girlfriend?” Berg wiggled her eyebrows and grinned in her best attempt at teasing.

“Ha! No. Just not someone I want to talk to again.
Ever
. Hey, where’s your bathroom?”

Berg pointed down the hall.

His cell lit up again as soon as the bathroom door clicked shut.

Unable to resist, Berg made a mental note of the number on the display.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

I want them to know it’s me.

It’s on my head.

I’ll point the finger at me.

It’s on my head.

–Faith No More, “Ashes to Ashes”

T
he ultrasound technician squeezed cold goo onto Berg’s stomach. “Okay, let’s have a look at what’s going on in there.” She grabbed the ultrasound wand and turned on the monitor. “I’ll try the external first, and if we can’t see anything this way, I’ll have to use the internal wand. It’s up to you if you want your husband in the room or not if we get to that,” she said, referring to Arena seated next to Berg and stubbornly refusing to leave.