Broken (6 page)

He looked up quickly. “Berg? What are you doing out here?” he asked as he pulled the boat out of the water.

“Running. You row?”

“Well,” he replied with a booming laugh, “you don’t get guns like these playing golf.” He flexed his prodigious biceps. “You’re running out here, in the near-dark, alone?”

“Of course,” Berg replied. She had never had any trouble or felt unsafe on her runs, particularly first thing on a winter’s morning. She was pretty sure even rapists had better sense than to lie in wait for lone runners on a glacial street.

“You got a death wish?” Arena shivered. “Wait up a sec. I’ll give you a ride. Just let me lock this away and put some dry clothes on.” He ran up the shore with his boat and oars, disappearing into the clubhouse, only to reemerge a few minutes later wearing sweatpants, a thick, dry sweater, a beanie, and with a gym bag slung over one shoulder. “This way,” he said, indicating they needed to walk back the way she had come.

“It’s okay, I’m happy to run,” Berg said.

“Forget it. You’re begging to become a statistic.”

She could tell by the set of his mouth he wasn’t going to relent, and as she was starting to feel chilled from inactivity, she reluctantly agreed.

They walked in silence down to the parking lot on lower Randolph.

“So where on Van Buren do you live again?” Arena asked as they climbed into his old black Range Rover.

Berg wrinkled her nose—the car smelt of sweat and takeout—and opened her mouth to tell him her address. Suddenly, the thought of heading back to the scene of her nightmare filled her with dread. “Actually, do you want to have an early breakfast?”

“Hell yeah,” Arena replied, smiling, as he steered the car west. “Heard anything about how Emma Young’s surgery went?”

Berg shook her head, remembering the conversation with the Young family the prior afternoon as ICU doctors had wheeled Emma down the hospital corridor.

Arena had printed off the image of Emma’s suspected attacker and they had taken it to the hospital with the hope one of her family might recognize him. They had waited patiently as the doctor had spoken in a soft voice to Emma’s parents. He’d explained that Emma was in a deep coma, her scans showed no brain activity, and he considered brain surgery at this stage to be pointless as there was just too much damage.

The Youngs had stood their ground, however, and insisted the doctors give Emma the surgery anyway.

Berg had shown the picture to her parents, then Elizabeth, as Emma had been prepped.

Elizabeth had stared at his picture for a long time before she answered. “No, I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

Berg had nodded as the nurses had clicked up the metal rails on the side of Emma’s bed, transferred her life-support system, and had hung her various IV bags on a mobile unit.

They had smiled at the family wanly as they wheeled Emma out of the room.

Berg was startled from her reverie as Arena’s SUV clipped the gutter while pulling into the familiar deli’s rear parking lot.

“Again?” Berg said, exasperated.

“Hey, if it ain’t broke and all that,” Arena replied. “I don’t know about you, but I could murder a salami three-egg omelet.”

They walked into the deli and stood in line. Even though it was early, the counter was bustling with customers. Arena ordered his omelet and Berg got a poached egg with a side of corned beef hash. They sat down at a table with their coffees while they waited.

“So Emma Young was definitely raped. But the good news is we’ve got lots of DNA to work with,” Berg said.

Arena nodded as he tucked into his overloaded plate of food.

“Anything on Feeny?”

Arena shook his head as she chewed. “Dead ends all round,” he mumbled.

They ate in silence for a while.

“I didn’t know you were a rower,” Berg said when they had finished.

“That’s ’cause you never asked,” Arena said. “You’re so hung up on your ex-partner, you know nothing about your current one.”

Berg sighed. “Fine. Tell me about Detective Arena,” she said, sitting back with her coffee. For once she was happy that she didn’t have to think.

Later that morning, the detectives pulled up at the small home of the neighbor who had found Emma Young’s beaten body.

Yellow and black crime scene tape still surrounded the front porch and garage of the house next door, and Berg knew Emma’s parents hadn’t been back since the night of the attack, not even to collect clothes. Instead, a patrol officer had escorted Elizabeth into the home to gather some belongings for her family while they had remained camped out at the hospital waiting in vain for good news.

Even after her surgery, Emma’s condition had not improved. She was still on life support, and according to her doctor, her score on the Glasgow Coma Scale was only three. Patients with a score of three weren’t expected to survive. The best the Youngs could hope for was a permanent vegetative state—which was not much to hope for.

Arena rapped lightly on the front door.

A few moments later a middle-aged woman with short, peppered gray hair and watery gray eyes answered the door of the home, which was a carbon copy of the Youngs’, apart from the color scheme. Where the Youngs’ home was cream and white, this home was white and gray.

Berg and Arena held up their badges.

“Detectives,” she said with a nod.

“Mrs. Bernie Keating?” Berg asked. “I was wondering if now would be a convenient time for you to answer some questions?”

“Of course, anything I can do. Have you heard anything?” she asked, looking hopeful before waving them inside.

“No, sorry. Emma’s still in a very critical condition,” Berg replied.

Mrs. Keating nodded as if she had suspected as much.

“Can you tell us about the night she was attacked?” Berg asked.

The woman motioned for them to sit down, then went over and stoked her wood fire, adding another log. “I smelled the smoke. At first I thought it was my fire here, but the smell became bad, like plastic and chemicals. I thought it might be vandals at the elementary school across the road again, so I looked out the window. The smoke was coming from the Youngs’ house. I tried to call them, but I got no answer. So I went over and looked in the windows of the front room. It looked like there were flames everywhere. I came back here, called the fire department, and then grabbed my key.”

Berg gently reprimanded the woman. “It was dangerous for you to enter the home, ma’am.”

“Yes, I know, but I was worried someone was trapped in there. The fire was burning in the living room, but nowhere else, so I managed to get to the bedrooms. Then I found what I thought was Emma in the garage . . .” She dabbed at her face with a tissue she pulled from the sleeve of her thick cream sweater. “The fire department had arrived by then and they called the paramedics.”

“And you didn’t see anyone else at the scene or fleeing the home—either before or after?” Arena asked.

“No, nobody.”

“You see anything suspicious recently?” Arena asked. “Anything. Someone loitering around the house or street, maybe a car that seemed out of place?”

“No, nothing like that, sorry.”

“I understand you and the Youngs are close?” Berg said.

“Yes. We’ve lived together on this street for nearly twenty-five years. Two of the few original neighbors left. I’ve known those girls since they were born.”

“Emma ever confide in you at all? Tell you of any boyfriends, troubles at work, anything like that?”

“No, sorry. I am really closer to Elizabeth than to Emma. Lizzy comes over here to keep me company for a few hours in the evening most weeks. She’s been a real lifesaver since my poor Oliver died. She’s got a kind heart.” Mrs. Keating smiled slightly then frowned. “It’s unfair this happened to them.”

“Oliver? Your husband?” Arena asked while making sure his recording was working.

“My cat,” the woman replied, pointing to a framed picture of a very average looking tabby on the mantle.

Berg caught the sarcastic look that briefly crossed Arena’s face and frowned at him in warning.

Arena rolled his eyes back at her and winked.

Berg held out her card. “Well, if you think of anything at all, even if it seems insignificant, please call me.”

The woman took the card and nodded. “I’m praying for them.”

They walked back outside and Mrs. Keating shut the door quickly behind them.

“Oh no, poor Oliver the cat!” Arena wailed. “How will I go on without you?”

“Shut up, Arena. Give me the keys. I feel like driving.”

Arena shook his head. “I’ve got it. Besides, it’s icy . . .”

“So?”

Arena opened his mouth to speak just as he looked up and saw Berg’s expression. His jaw closed, opened, and then closed once more.

“If you want to live to see the afternoon, don’t speak. What fucking century are you from?” Berg asked incredulously.

Arena reluctantly handed over the keys. “Excuse me for being concerned about your welfare,” he mumbled as he climbed into the passenger side.

Berg didn’t wait for Arena to fasten his seatbelt before she screeched away from the curb and performed a skidding U-turn that sent the rear of the car fishtailing wildly.

They traveled back toward the station in silence, Berg trying to ignore Arena’s general idiocy.

Eventually, Arena’s head nodded forward and he closed his eyes.

“Tired?” Berg practically shouted, starting him awake. “The rowing too much for you?”

Arena snorted. “I’m not tired from that. I’m tired from last night’s . . . activity . . . if you get my meaning.” He wiggled his eyebrows and grinned.

Berg resisted the temptation to call him a douche. “Arena, it’s great that we bonded this morning and I know all about your two older brothers and your pasta chef mother who now lives in Wisconsin—obviously a very patient woman if your brothers are anything like you—but my interest in your sex life is less than none. Keep the bragging to yourself.”

“You sure about that? I mean, you turned up at the dock this morning, and I saw you checking me out . . .”

“It was a coincidence, Arena. Don’t fool yourself.”

“ ’Cause I could squeeze you into my schedule, you know, if you need a good—”

“Arena, I’m sure this won’t come as a surprise, and undoubtedly you’ve been called one before by women less discerning than me, but you’re a massive douche.”

“That’s not a no.”

“Yes it is. It is most vehemently a no,” she said slowly accentuating each syllable. It was conversations like this that reminded her just how charming Jay’s come-ons had always seemed, yet Arena’s were plain vulgar.

I miss him . . .

“You pull that shit again and I’m requesting a new partner,” she said, facing as much out the driver’s window as she could while still watching the road.

“Fine. Whatever.” Arena folded his arms and went back to sleep.

Chapter Five

I’ll break you down.

I’ll take you down, down.

Fill you with sadness,

Make your life madness.

I’m having a hard time,

I’m making you do the hard time, too.

–Fauxliage, “All The World”

“F
uck!” Arena slammed down the phone, causing his desk to shudder.

Berg looked up from her screen. “Problems?”

It was the first they had spoken to each other since the drive back. As far as partnerships went, this one appeared to be doomed.

“Feeny’s dodging us.” Arena raked his fingers through his hair and shook his head. “I’ve been trying to get him to come in for further questioning over his wife’s murder, but he’s refusing. Says he’s answered our questions, and he’s on his way out of Illinois on business, and gave me the
direct any further inquiries
line.”

“Lawyered up already, hey?” Berg smirked. “That’s a sure sign we’re on the right track.” She sat back in her swivel chair and thought for a moment. “This morning . . . you mentioned golf?”