Broken (16 page)

Berg pressed the doorbell to the left of the large oak double doors.

Lilting chimes tinkled throughout the house. Given the surroundings, they half expected a butler to answer the door and offer them tea. Instead, the lady of the house herself answered.

“Detectives?” she questioned, her face showing as much surprise as it would allow. “What can I do for you?”

“We’d like to discuss the shooting again, if we could,” Berg said politely to the immaculately coiffed woman. “We’ve reached a dead end in our investigation, and we were hoping you might remember something new?”

The woman was eyeing Arena with naked appreciation, sucking on her inflated lower lip lightly. “You played a round with some friends and me at the club weeks ago,” she asked him, ignoring Berg.

Arena, who was eyeing her with almost as much appreciation, nodded.

“Good drive, I hear,” she commented. “Long and hard.”

Berg rolled her eyes and tried not to gag.

“That’s what I’ve been told,” Arena said, winking.

Barbara eyed Arena speculatively without further comment, and then turned to Berg. “I’m not sure what else I can offer, but you’re welcome to come in.” She turned and walked through the marble foyer, Arena’s eyes glued firmly to her Armani-clad ass.

“Eyes on the prize,” Berg reminded him.

“They are.”

“Could you be any less professional?”

“You’re the one that fucked up Feeny, not me.” Arena shot Berg a look that said he wasn’t about to miss out on an opportunity because of her screwup.

Barbara led them past a sweeping staircase of wrought iron and through to the biggest kitchen either of them had ever seen, with walnut cabinets covering three walls of the kitchen, floor to ceiling, and expensive stainless steel European appliances gleaming in the soft light that was entering the room from an enormous bay window.

Berg could not fathom why a person would need so much space—the kitchen was larger than her entire apartment.

Barbara gestured to the designer stools around the double-bed-sized kitchen island.

Berg bypassed taking a seat but noticed there were no knife marks or stains on the perfect island surface and wondered if anyone actually cooked in the impressive space.

“Coffee?” Barbara asked.

The detectives both nodded.

Instead of calling in the help she obviously had, Barbara herself reached for three tiny cups and pressed a couple of buttons on the commercial espresso machine, and the thick, dark coffee started dripping into the cups. “I’m sorry. Like I said, I don’t know what I can add.”

“Just tell us what happened,” Berg replied. “You were in shock both times we spoke, so walk us through it again.”

Barbara took a deep breath. “Okay, well, I had just parked the Merc at the club, and I saw Lauren parking only a few cars away. I called out to her and waited while she caught up. We walked through the lot together. There were a few other golfers arriving for a morning round, but they weren’t close.” She placed two cups of coffee in front of the detectives, along with spotless silver teaspoons, a bowl of white and brown lumps of sugar, and a jug of cream that she fetched from the huge fridge.

Arena and Berg nodded their thanks.

“Next, we heard tires skidding in the lot, and we both turned around. I assumed it was some member showing off their vulgar Ferrari, but an ordinary black SUV drove up quite close, the tinted passenger window rolled down, and a hand holding some kind of gun poked out. Next thing I know, Lauren’s on the ground next to me and the SUV is gone. There was blood everywhere. I could tell she was already dead. She was staring at me . . .” Her voice broke. She closed her eyes and lowered her head.

“I know it’s hard to make yourself remember, but if there’s anything else, any little detail?” If she could simply get any new lead to go on, Berg knew she could run with it.

Barbara shook her head.

“Okay, let’s leave that for a moment,” Arena said and waved his hand dismissively. It was a common interview technique—switch subjects, let the witness calm down, and then pick up where they left off. “Let’s talk about Lauren. Did she always arrive at the club at the same time?”

“Yes,” Barbara said. “I often arrive—
arrived
at the same time as Lauren.”

“And how had Lauren seemed to you in the days leading up to her murder? Was she distant? Happy? Sad?”

“She was a little distant, maybe a little sad, yes. I asked her about it, but she denied it. I didn’t push.”

“Was she having trouble with any members? Her boss?”

“Not that I knew about.”

“Do you think she was having problems in her relationship with Michael Feeny?” Berg asked.

Barbara hesitated, her eyes wide, and she flicked her gaze between the two detectives. “I’m not supposed to talk about that.”

“Why not? I thought their relationship was common knowledge in the club?” Berg said.

“It was only a rumor,” Barbara said quickly, but the detectives had seen toddlers fidget less when they lied. “Lauren never spoke of it.”

“Oh, come on,” Arena said. “You and Lauren were girlfriends. I’m sure she shared a few of her sexual escapades with you—just one hot, young chick to another?” Arena winked.

Barbara actually blushed like a schoolgirl under Arena’s magnetic gaze.

Berg looked away and tried to keep down her coffee.

The older woman’s color gradually faded and she cleared her throat. “I guess you’ve heard that Feeny Automotives is now the major sponsor of the club. We’re talking multiple millions of dollars here. Club management is already planning extensive remodeling of its back nine and the clubhouse. So they’ve made it quite clear that any members who discuss the private life of our new sponsor will have their memberships terminated.”

“Did they send out a memo or an e-mail to that effect?” Berg asked.

“Nothing on paper, detective. But believe me, it’s been made very clear.”

“So you’d rather keep your golf membership so you can chase a little white ball around a lawn, than help solve your friend’s murder?” Berg folded her arms and widened her stance.

Another flush hit Barbara’s cheeks. “You just don’t . . . it’s the . . . w-w-we’re talking the most prestigious golf club within a thousand miles of here, if not across the United States. There’s a perfectly good country club not five minutes from here, but no one who’s a member of the club would dream of going anywhere else. I drive at least forty minutes each way because it’s on the pro circuit. For God’s sake, Tiger just played there last week! Membership is expensive and exclusive. Million dollar business deals are made over a few holes. My husband’s clientele has tripled! We had to wait years to get in—I’m not jeopardizing it now.” She was shaking her head before she’d even finished her justification.

“You know Feeny had her and his wife killed, right? Your major sponsor is a double murderer and a coward,” Berg retorted.

“That’s just your opinion. And even if that were true, you think I’m walking around with proof? You’re delusional!” It was clear from her voice that Barbara Taylor was becoming increasingly agitated, even while her features remained smooth and emotion-free.

“We can use whatever you have—all we need is you to get on the stand and tell a jury that Lauren was doing Feeny. That gives us cause to introduce her statement about the hit on his wife. We’ll take it from there.” Arena smiled at Barbara as if they shared a naughty secret.

She shook her head emphatically. “No way I’m testifying to that.”

“Then we’ll subpoena you,” Berg said.

Barbara sighed. “You can if you like. But I warn you, my husband—while being a horrible little man and terrible in the sack—is an excellent lawyer. I’ve got no proof of any relationship and nothing to say to the contrary. You put me on the stand and you’ll find I put the hostile into hostile witness.” She glared at the detectives.

“Okay, okay.” Arena held up both hands in mock surrender. He backpedaled to take the flirt and soothe approach instead. “Don’t get your pretty panties in a bunch. What are they? Armani? Calvin?”

Arena’s flirting worked, and Barbara almost calmed down enough to fully smile. “La Perla, of course.”

Arena nodded like he knew what that was. “Look, anything you can do to help us out without jeopardizing your position, anything at all, I would personally be very appreciative,” Arena said, accenting the
personally
.

Barbara sighed again. “I can’t be sure, but I think there was a tattoo on the hand that held the gun. It might have been a shadow, and I only saw it for a split second.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t know . . . maybe a pitchfork shape? You know, like the devil?”

“Which hand?”

She thought for a moment. “The right. The pitchfork was all black, if that’s even what it was.”

“Thank you,” Arena said sincerely. “And if you think of anything else, or you’re concerned for your safety, or you need a break from your horrible-lay husband . . .” He handed over his card.

Barbara took it and stood, quickly tucking it into her low-cut blouse, ensuring Arena got an eyeful of silicone in the process. She led them back to the front door without a word.

“Do you think you could refrain from boning the witnesses?” Berg snapped as the door shut behind them.

Arena scoffed. “You heard her, she’s not a witness. And she’s richer than God.”

“It’s unprofessional, Arena. Your dick could lose us our suspect.”

“Listen, you wouldn’t believe what I’ve found out from women I’m in the sack with, and that chick is panting,” he said. “But I know where to draw the line. Don’t knock it, it works.”

“You need to get a tattoo on your forehead that reads:
no diving
.”

“Huh?”

“Think about it.”

Arena dug out his cell phone as they climbed back into the car. “Look, I’ve got a contact who may be able to help us with that tattoo . . .”

“Lemme guess. Someone you’ve slept with?” Berg said tensely.

“No way. He a guy, and a cop.” Area flicked though his contacts before dialing one. “Manny? Hey, it’s Arena . . .”

Berg tuned him out rather than trying to follow the one-sided conversation, racking her brain instead for ways to get to Feeny.

He and his children were hidden behind a wall of lawyers several miles high. The interviews, so far, had been a bust. And Feeny’s bank statements hadn’t helped at all. He hadn’t had so much as an outstanding tax return.

Arena’s voice suddenly interrupted her planning. “Were you involved in Operation Sabatini last year?”

“The federal gang op? No, but I knew a few CPD officers who were involved with the operation. They went after the head of one of the Chicago gangs, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, Sabatini’s been indicted, along with seventeen other scumbags as a result. Anyway, my buddy from the 9th, Manny, was one of the CPD officers on the ground. A lot of his research went into the operation. There’s nothing this guy doesn’t know about the city’s gangs.”

Berg was impressed. “So you’re thinking Feeny hired one of these guys to murder his wife and mistress?” she asked, following his train of thought. “Makes sense . . .”

“Yep, would totally explain the MO.”

Berg nodded in agreement.

“Anyway, I asked him about the pitchfork tattoo and get this, there’s a new gang coming up on the south side, Devil’s Hand, and the pitchfork is one of their emblems.”

“Wait a second, I thought Devil’s Hand wasn’t so much a gang as an uneasy alliance of black and Latino gangs who can call on each other when big numbers are needed?”

“You got it. But Manny says there’s a new faction within the group that have taken their motto ‘all for one’ a little too far. They believe there should only be one gang in Chicago—them. For the last year, they have used extreme violence to absorb existing gangs into the fold, or to wipe them out financially by taking over their drug territory, or just murdering gang members who refuse to join. They make the Chicago gangs of Al Capone’s time look warm and fuzzy.”

“Well, let’s hope they all kill each other.”

“Trust me, they are, but they’re taking innocent people with them, too. They have a ‘shoot on sight’ for any young man wearing the wrong colors, as well as a ‘shoot on sight’ for anyone
and their family
who talks to the authorities about anything they do. The existing gangs are apparently taking the fight to them, but this splinter group is very well-funded and well-armed. Not to mention completely loco.”

“Well-funded thanks to douche bags like Feeny, who pay them handsomely to wipe out inconvenient lovers,” Berg said, adding two and two together.

“Exactly. They’ve managed to insert an out-of-town undercover into the lower hierarchy of this Devil’s Hand offshoot. He’s due to check in soon, and Manny’s going to dig around for us, see if he can get him to weed out the hitters. Maybe if we lean on them, they’ll give us Feeny.”

Berg unconsciously scowled as she stared blindly out the windshield, tapping on the steering wheel. “Shoot on sight, huh? How well placed is the undercover? Can you ask a favor?”