The internet in her Duluth hotel room was limited, making video chat unreliable. Julia also hated having her photograph taken, so selfies were out of the question.
“I called you as soon as court recessed for the day, so I’m still in a shirt and skirt.”
The admittance that I’d been the first thing on her post-court agenda warmed me more than any explicit language.
“I need more details than that,” I implored. “I need more than ‘shirt and skirt.’”
“Do you have some clothing fetish I wasn’t aware of?” she posed.
“Please?”
“My shirt—my blouse—is blue.”
“What color blue?”
“I don’t have a box of crayons at my disposal.”
“Julia,” I whined.
“Fine,” she sighed. “It’s dark blue. Almost black.”
“Unbuttoned to the third button?” I guessed.
“Yes?”
“I thought so,” I congratulated myself. “What else? Go on.”
“The skirt is grey. It’s a vintage wool Burberry pencil skirt. High waisted, hits just below the knee. Very court appropriate.”
“Nylons?”
“Black. Sheer.”
“High heels?”
“They’re on the floor now, but yes. Black patent leather. Red bottoms.”
A contented sigh escaped my lips. “Red bottoms.”
“Are you certain you’re going to be okay, dear?” Amusement, not concern, colored her question.
“I just miss you is all,” I wasn’t too proud to admit.
“Your turn.”
“For what?”
“What are you wearing, Miss Miller?” Her voice seemed to drop a full octave.
I looked down at the clothes I’d changed into after work. “Uh, a t-shirt and shorts.”
She clucked her tongue. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that, dear. How else are we going to do this if I can’t mentally paint a picture?”
My insides clenched.
“It’s a free t-shirt I got for running a 5K on Nicollet Island. It’s grey with some neon screen printing on the front.”
“And the shorts?” she pressed.
“They’re actually boxers. Navy blue with little pizza slices all over.”
The stark contrast between our clothing choices had me feeling ridiculous.
“Underwear?”
I coughed a little. “No.”
“Bra?” she questioned.
“Nope.”
“What would you say if I told you I was unbuttoning my shirt?” she posed. “Down to the fourth button. Down to the fifth button. Until it was completely undone?”
I sat up a little straighter against the headboard. “Yes, please.”
“And I suppose the skirt will have to go, too. So it doesn’t get unnecessarily wrinkled,” she added with mock innocence.
“Right,” I husked. “We wouldn’t want that to happen.”
My tongue felt thick in my mouth.
“Darling?”
“Yes?” I could barely breathe.
“You never asked about my bra or underwear.”
“How rude of me.” I laid my free hand, the one not clutching a phone, between my thighs, but over my shorts.
“Do you want to know?” she asked.
“Please,” came my strangled response.
“Black. Lace. They leave very little to the imagination.”
“Oh, I’m imagining alright,” I blurted.
Her laughter was musical.
“Will you—.” I stopped and cleared my throat. “Will you touch yourself for me?”
“You’re going to have to be a little more specific than that, Miss Miller,” she purred.
“Skim your fingers across your collarbone.”
“Well that’s unexpected,” she admitted.
“Baby, I’d put BBQ sauce on that thing and gnaw on you,” I said in earnest.
Her chuckle was low and throaty.
“Touch a little lower now,” I instructed. “Just at the swell of your breast, above the cups of your bra. Feel how warm and soft you are.”
I heard a quiet intake of air on her end. “Have you done this before?” There was an edge to her question.
“No,” I answered truthfully. “I only know what I’d do to you if I was there.”
“What else would you want to do, Miss Miller?” My honesty seemed to satisfy her.
“I’d dip my fingers into the cups of your bra,” I said. “I’d pull those cups down so I could see every inch of your tits.”
“And what else?” she breathed.
“I’d scratch my fingernails across your nipples and make them hard.”
“Already hard.”
Fuck. I shut my eyes. “Are you pinching your nipples, baby?”
“Mmhm,” she replied. “I wish they were your fingers though. Pinching and pulling, just on the other side of pain.”
I bit down on my lower lip. “Is that pretty little pussy feeling neglected?”
“Yes,” she hissed.
“You’ll have to be quiet. I can’t imagine the walls of your hotel are very thick.”
I heard her whimper.
“Touch yourself, Julia,” I said thickly. “Slide beneath those delicate lacy panties and touch yourself.”
Another sigh.
“Are you wet?” I asked, although I already knew the answer. “Rub your clit. I know you want to.”
“Cassidy,” she breathed.
“How many fingers do you want?” I asked.
“How many do you want to give me?” she returned.
“Jesus,” I moaned.
“Are you fucking yourself yet, darling?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Are you waiting for my permission?” she mused.
My free hand immediately went into my boxers.
“Fuck yourself, Cassidy,” her voice encouraged. “I want you to cum with me.”
My fingers slipped through my liquid arousal. I was wet and ready for her. It had been several days of neglect because of my stubborn denial of sex when she’d refused my marriage proposal.
I plunged one finger and then two into my waiting sex. I imagined Julia doing the same. I pictured her on a hotel bed, full breasts hanging over the cups of her bra, black lace underwear down around her knees, her hand between her legs. Her glossy black hair falling in front of her eyes. The thin muscles in her biceps and triceps flexing as she pushed and pulled her fingers in and out of her tightening sex.
“Fuck,” I cursed.
“Are you close?” she panted into my ear.
“Uh huh. You?” I gulped in great breaths of air.
“Same.”
With only the sound of her voice, she’d awoken the familiar coiling in my abdomen and the tightness in my throat. With anyone else, my eagerness would have embarrassed me. I was too wet, too flushed, too ready. But with Julia, that’s how it had always been, and she had never made me feel self-consciousness about it.
This wasn’t going to take very long.
“Julia? Still there?”
I worried with the poor cell reception that we might have gotten disconnected.
“Mmhm,” came her lazy reply.
“Did you get off without me?” I accused.
“I’m sorry, dear. It just … happened.”
“You okay?” I couldn’t help but laugh.
“I don’t smoke,” she breathed, “but I think I need a cigarette.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I didn’t know what to do with myself with Julia gone. It wasn’t that we did post-workday activities all the time; I just didn’t know how to be single anymore. Even though I’d spent the vast majority of my life on my own, I didn’t know how to function without her.
Cooking for one brought me no joy despite getting to eat whatever I wanted. I took hotter and longer showers than usual. Watching television was depressing despite not having to argue with her about
how loud the TV was or if we should watch an educational documentary versus the latest superhero film. There was no one to scold me for empty beer cans in the trash instead of the recycling bin, no one to curl her lip at toothpaste residue in the sink or my dirty socks in literally every room.
I had absolute freedom, and I hated every second of it.
I looked forward to evenings when Julia would call me to tell me about her day. We fell into a routine of me updating her on the Petersik case and she relaying what had transpired in the courtroom that day. I wasn’t even tempted to bug her for more phone sex knowing the seriousness of her trip.
Well, maybe a little bit.
The worst was the not knowing. There was no real timetable for when she might return even though she assured me that child custody cases had a relatively quick turnaround. I missed her every moment without even the solace of a return date.
When I arrived at work that day, it was a bit of a zoo. People whom I didn’t recognize had gathered in our basement office. That kind of activity was more usual upstairs, but not in our office. I shoved down a protective impulse as I observed strangers sorting through our evidence boxes and file folders.
I spotted Stanley at one of the work tables, talking about something with one of the newcomers. He spoke animatedly, motioning with both of his hands. I waved from the doorway until he saw me. He said something to the woman standing beside him and left her to come speak to me.
My Cold Case partner looked pleased, but overwhelmed. “I had to ask for some extra help; we’ve been fielding phone calls all morning. I didn’t even know our phones were actually connected to the wall.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Sarah left her computer and joined our conference by the door. “We found our needle in the haystack.”
“You heard back from the National Tracing Center?” I guessed.
“They found who the gun’s registered to!” Sarah practically cheered.
I couldn’t believe our luck, yet I remained cautious. The handgun might have been originally registered to someone completely unconnected to our two deaths. It could have been transferred without proper paperwork to someone else or even stolen by whomever had pulled the trigger.
“Do we know the name?” I asked.
“Kind of,” Stanley confirmed. “It’s registered to Steven Tauer.”
“Tauer,” I echoed. “As in related to Landon Tauer?”
Stanley nodded. “It’s his dad.”
“Does Jason Ryan know?” I demanded.
Stanley looked down at his shoes, almost guiltily. “I … well … yeah.”
I quickly ascended the basement steps and strode with purpose to the Homicide division. I entered the open office space just in time to see Detective Ryan standing from his assigned desk and pulling on his suit jacket.
His eyes locked with mine. “Miller. Good. I was just about to call you. Did you hear the news?”
I nodded. “Steven Tauer, eh?”
“I’m going to get the warrant right now if you want to tag along.”
“Search warrant?” I questioned.
“Hell, no,” Ryan scoffed. “I’m going for the arrest.”
“Wait-wait-wait.” I held him up. “Stop and think. What reason would Steven Tauer have to kill Kennedy Petersik and the Bloom kid?”
“I don’t need motive,” he refused. “I’ve got matching bullets and a gun registration.” He looked too eager to get his arrest.
“Are you coming or not?” he pressed.
We took Ryan’s car to make the arrest. I was thankful for his silence in the vehicle. I wouldn’t have been able to handle his gloating or cockiness. He didn’t turn on the siren or lights, but he drove quickly and efficiently to the neighborhood where Kennedy Petersik had grown up.
The car was barely parked before Ryan had removed his seatbelt. His long strides up the driveway to the Tauer residence were evidence of his eagerness to make an arrest. I followed closely, but cautiously, behind.
Ryan opened the screen door and knocked loudly on the inner door. “Police!” he yelled.
I mentally shook myself awake; we were there to arrest a suspected murderer. We weren’t there to talk or ask questions. I realized I’d never made an arrest in plainclothes before. I wasn’t even wearing my bulletproof vest. I self-consciously unfastened the top clasp of my gun holster.
A tall man who took up much of the doorframe answered the door. His hair was beginning to thin, and his jeans were too big for his meager frame. He wore a faded University of Minnesota sweatshirt and no shoes or socks.
“Steven Tauer?” I asked. I couldn’t see much resemblance between the man and his son. This man looked too old, too worn out by life.
“Yes?” he responded.
Ryan flashed his badge, too quickly I thought, before producing the silver handcuffs attached to his hip. “Steven Tauer, you’re under arrest for the murder of Kennedy Petersik.”
He spun the man around and began to read him his rights. He flicked open the handcuffs with a flip of his wrists. The movement was so fluid, I wondered if he practiced at home in front of a mirror.
Steven Tauer didn’t put up a fight.
As the metal handcuffs closed around Steven Tauer’s wrists, I felt a similar clenching in my stomach. Arresting someone was supposed to feel good. It was supposed to represent the culmination of rigorous researching and evidence finding and interviewing. This just felt like dumb luck. Nothing had pointed to this man before. He hadn’t been on our radar.
A voice called out from inside the house. “Steve? Who is it?”
“The police,” he replied. “They think I killed Kennedy.”
I was in awe of the clarity and calmness in his voice. His wife, however, didn’t react in the same way.
I flinched when I felt the pinch of fingernails digging into my forearm. “What are you doing?” she shrieked in my ear.
“Mrs. Tauer, I need you to step back.” I tried to match the same neutral tone of her husband.
If anything, her grip tightened. “This isn’t right! We didn’t do anything!”
I split my attention between the active arrest and the woman clinging to my arm. “Mrs. Tauer,” I spoke more forcefully, “you need to let go.”
Only her husband’s words seemed to register with her. “Mary, don’t get in trouble, too.”
Mrs. Tauer immediately dropped my arm. She watched, helpless, as Ryan and I led her husband down the driveway to where the police car was parked. Ryan opened the back door of the squad car and guided a cooperative Steven Tauer into the backseat.
Mrs. Tauer continued to cry in disbelief from the front stoop of her home. Her former words of grief and denial had become incoherent sounds. The noise had brought several curious neighbors out of their homes, including the Petersiks next door.
I felt everyone’s eyes on me. I felt the phantom pain of Mrs. Tauer’s nails biting my skin. I felt ashamed to be there.
“Everybody back to your homes, please,” I barked out.
I scanned the perimeter and watched folks reluctantly walk back to their houses. I knew they wouldn’t go far, however; they’d probably only remove themselves to the closest street-facing window or to their police scanner to listen in, like some strange form of voyeurism.
In spite of my words, Mr. and Mrs. Petersik remained on their front porch, their arms wrapped around each other. Their eyes looked hopeful, but afraid. I couldn’t bring myself to tell them why we were arresting their neighbor. I didn’t know the nature of their relationship. Were they friends? Did they barbeque together on hot summer evenings? Had they babysat each other’s children?
I made purposeful eye contact with the couple before climbing into the front passenger seat of the police car. “We’ll be in touch,” I promised.
+ + +
Newly arrested suspects aren’t immediately thrown into a jail cell to await a trial. They first have to be processed by the arresting police department. Personal belongings are
confiscated and inventoried. Since I wasn’t technically a member of the Homicide team, I waited on the peripheral while Steven Tauer had his mugshot taken and his fingerprints collected, among other procedural requirements.
His arrest didn’t sit well with me. It felt far too premature. We should have questioned the man, gotten a search warrant for his home, and then gone from there. But Jason Ryan was like a toddler with a new toy that he couldn’t wait to show off.
I stood, chewing on my lips, while Ryan received congratulations from the other Homicide detectives and beat cops; he looked ready to pop the champagne. The giant whiteboard at the center of the room still displayed the number 35, representing Kennedy Petersik’s death, however. There was still much to do before that number could be cleared.
“You guys think you might want to slow your roll?” I spoke up. “All we have is a gun registration.”
“We’ve got a helluva lot more than that. The extra print we pulled from the cartridge is a match,” Ryan grinned, showing his teeth.
“Yeah, because Steven Tauer put bullets in his gun,” I said, stating the obvious. I shook my head. “Nothing puts him in that vehicle though.”
“He didn’t do it!” a loud, desperate voice proclaimed.
All action and conversation stopped in the Fourth Precinct lobby. I turned and frowned when I realized I knew to whom the voice belonged. Landon Tauer stood on the other side of the intake desk at the police station. He wore a Twins baseball cap and a plain blue t-shirt. He looked as though he might have attempted to hurdle over the reception desk had it been any shorter.
“My mom called me at work,” he said. “She told me you arrested my dad.”
Ryan took a few swaggered steps toward Landon. He tugged at his belt. “And who are you?”
I realized suddenly that Ryan had never actually met Landon Tauer before. He’d been too busy interviewing family members at Kennedy’s funeral to notice the boy. I’d been the one who’d done the leg work to follow up with him despite not being assigned to the case yet.
“This is Landon Tauer,” I explained. “Steven Tauer’s son. He and Kennedy grew up together.”
Landon’s desperate eyes fell to me. “Where’s my dad?” he demanded.
One Little Secret Page 13
