25

Talia Devine's POV

David Hardin's Home on Lake Superior

Saturday, September 25, 2001

The muffled sound of my phone ringing woke me up. The first rays of morning light above the lake were streaming through the gaps in the window shades.

I felt warm and rested as I opened my eyes and looked around. The room wasn't mine. Neither was the hand inside my shirt cupping my right breast, the warm body against my back, or the morning wood nestled between my butt cheeks.

My phone stopped ringing. I'd let it go to voice mail. Waking in the arms of a kind, genuine, and handsome man hadn't happened lately. I didn't want it to stop.

It's not like I jumped into bed with him, after all. He needed comfort, and I helped him through a difficult time.

THEN I crawled into his bed and snuggled up to his hard body without waking him up. That was a totally different scenario.

The things I'd learned about David's life after the shooting made more sense now. Larry had been worried about him, and Rocky wasn't just a companion. I'd seen dogs behave like this before. Rocky is trained to recognize post-traumatic stress disorder-induced panic attacks and nightmares and intervene to ground him. The press of his body, licking at his neck, how fast he ran off? How many times has David awoken to nightmares since his shooting? Did Tracy's murder set things off again? Oh, GOD! Did talking about her death with him set things off again?

I must have moved too much because David's fingers moved across my nipple. A moment later, David gasped, then pulled his arm out from under my shirt. He practically fell on the floor as he rolled away from my body like I was radioactive. "I'm sorry," he mumbled as he ran for the bathroom. Rocky jumped off the bed and went with him.

"It's all right," I said as he closed the door behind him.

Shit.

I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling while cursing myself for my stupidity. What must David think about me now? I didn't ask if I could stay; I invited myself into his bed! Talk about throwing yourself at a man like a shameless hussy!

I heard a door open and close, then a sliding door. I got up and moved to the window; David had his swimsuit on and was heading for the water. Whatever awkwardness he'd felt would shrink away in the cold water.

Just like that big dick I felt between my butt cheeks. Dammit.

I went back upstairs and checked my phone; it was Captain Cullen. "Vacation is OVER, Devine. It's all hands on deck. Get back to the office Code 2." That meant no lights and sirens, but as fast as possible.

Double shit. I sent a text that I was on my way.

I got dressed and packed quickly, leaving my bag by the door leading to the garage. Looking out, I didn't see David, but I could see Rocky way off to the left. To make this morning Olympic-level awkward, I was going to leave without talking to him. I left my card with my cell number on the back, along with a quick note.

"Thank you for everything, David. Work called me in. Sorry about this morning, call me? -Talia"

I was driving south on Highway 61 before David finished his swim, and my head was swimming with what-ifs. What would I say if he called me when he got back inside? What would I do if he DIDN'T call me? How long should I wait before I call him, or was that too sad and desperate? What the hell was I going to do about this morning? "Sorry about crawling into bed with you and scooting up against your dick, unless you liked feeling my titties in your sleep?"

God, I was pathetic. I wouldn't date other cops because I didn't want a reputation, but I'd end up in bed with a murder suspect in the biggest media case in a decade? What the fuck was I doing with my life? I debated this and other topics of luck and fate as I drove through Duluth. I had no answers by the time the freeway traffic thinned out. I set the cruise control at eighty, close to the prevailing speed on this rural freeway.

I passed by the exit for the Lazy Bear Café, pissed that I didn't have time for a decent breakfast. I'd hoped to sleep late on Saturday and spend the day by the lake. If I hadn't been such an idiot, I'd be making David breakfast. Or he'd be eating me for breakfast, I mean, um, eating breakfast WITH me.

Thinking about the case on the drive was less painful than the awkwardness of today's wakeup, so I did. David's insights gave me a half-dozen new directions we could go. The legal pad with his notes was on the dashboard, but I couldn't drive and read. When I had to get gas, I took photos of the three pages and sent them to my partner with a note. "

David notes may help us back 2 hr."

The egg and cheese biscuit and large coffee from a McDonald's drive-through were a poor substitute for wild-picked blueberry pancakes. My life was a series of bad luck and bad decisions that showed no signs of stopping.

I pulled into the parking lot at the station just before eleven and made my way to our office. I was the last to arrive, and the other detectives didn't miss that. "Hey, nice you could make it," Justin Clark said as I walked in.

Anna Golden looked up and smirked. "How was your vacation, rookie?"

"Short," I replied. "What's going on?"

"Fucking politics," Jack Parker said as he tossed a file on his desk.

The Captain's door opened, and he walked out with my partner. "Status update meeting in five," he told everyone. James sat down at his desk across from mine and groaned as he sat down.

"That bad?"

He nodded to me as he put his feet up on his desk. "The Mayor is all over the Police Chief's ass, and the shit most definitely runs downhill."

"Good thing you're wearing those thick-ass Doc Martens," I said with a grin. "They wash off easier than my flats."

"It's a full-court press, Talia. The Mayor wants to see Michael Klinesmith either cleared or arrested by Monday."

That figures. "Let me guess. The father-in-law is a big campaign donor, and the party is up her ass to clear him so he can run for Attorney General. The longer this sits out there, the worse it is for everyone."

"Yeah. That's why we are all here, to pull every string we can until it unravels."

And that was my weekend, spent trying to find a social connection between Michael Klinesmith and Tracy Hardin. As the junior Detective, was I speaking to their friends and coworkers? No, that might be fun. I spent my time combing office calendars, phone records, credit card statements, and social media for potential hookup spots between the two. I had data going back six months to include the time before she began dating Lars.

By Sunday night, I had zip point shit to contribute. Michael Klinesmith was no saint; we found one woman who admitted to a brief affair, and there were rumors of more. None of them involved Tracy, though. Even Tracy's best friends didn't get details of a dating life kept personal. Her best friend didn't know about Lars until they had been dating exclusively for a month, and she wasn't happy about being kept in the dark.

The crime scene didn't yield other clues implicating Michael. It did show that David was right about a few things. A four-by-four-foot square near the bedroom door had zero blood evidence, consistent with the killer putting a changing pad down. We finally recognized how much planning went into a death designed to look like a crime of passion.

Michael's alibi was straightforward; he and his wife were at their cabin near Turtle Lake in Wisconsin. They'd had friends over for dinner. His wife said she drank too much wine and went to bed by ten. She didn't recall when he came to bed, saying she was a heavy sleeper and rarely noticed him getting in or out of bed. Michael said he went to bed after the news, slept until seven, then they packed and returned home in the morning. He was at work in time to hear about the discovery of Tracy's body.

It didn't help us because we couldn't rule him out as we did with Lars. His cabin was ninety minutes from St. Paul, close enough to do the murder and return while his wife still slept. Four detectives spent half a day looking at traffic camera video from the border crossings without seeing Michael's Lexus sedan. His cellphone showed him at his cabin the entire night; his last activity was reading a text message at 10:38 PM and next at 7:04 AM.

As we finished our Sunday night briefing with the brass, we didn't have the answer they wanted. "We don't have probable cause to arrest Michael based on the DNA evidence on the glass," Detective Maloney summarized. "We also don't have any exculpatory evidence that would show he is NOT the killer. My recommendation is that we continue to say our investigation is progressing."

"That doesn't help with Klinesmith," the Mayor's representative said. I didn't get her name, and she hadn't been pleasant.

"We simply don't know enough yet," Captain Cullen replied. "This is a murder investigation. We won't compromise the investigation for an artificial timeline, no matter how important it is politically."

"Then you'll have to find the killer," the representative said. "I'm sure the Mayor will be talking to your bosses in the morning."

I'm sure the Chief got a call that night. Me? Only my Mom. I didn't tell her about my 'date' because I didn't know if David would want to speak to me again. To make things worse, I didn't have David's new cellphone number, and I wasn't about to call his lawyer to ask.

A promising start to the weekend ended with takeout food, my cat, and evenings alone with BOB. I was another week closer to being the crazy cat lady.

Chapter 22

Talia Devine's POV

Homicide Office, Saint Paul

Thursday, September 30, 2021

It was five days since I ran away from David, and he still hadn't called. I didn't have the guts to call either, not that I had time right now.

With the entire office working the case along with any other detectives we could rope in, we'd investigated and closed out a lot of threads in the case. It's not like the television shows; there isn't the crucial break that leads directly to the killer, somewhere between the second and third set of commercials. No, it's like building a tower, with hundreds of individual facts that you assemble into the finished piece. Our problem was we didn't have enough for the foundation.

We're working fourteen-hour days now as the political pressure continues to mount. It would have been bad enough on Monday if we came out with nothing, but the killer had plans, too. The Monday morning edition of the Minneapolis Star-Tribune, the largest paper in the state, had a front-page exclusive with crime scene photos. Did someone leak them? Hell no, that would have been unfortunate, and someone might lose their job.

These photographs were taken DURING the murder, BY the killer. The paper provided St. Paul Police with digital copies at a press conference shortly after the story broke online. The printed photos were significantly blurred or blacked out since she was naked, but there was no mistaking the sheer terror in Tracy's eyes. The descriptions were enough, and the paper included a list of almost twenty items from the crime they'd been able to match with David Hardin's first book.

With nothing coming from us, Ramsey County Attorney Michael Klinesmith continued to twist in the wind. He was on vacation 'until further notice' after the funeral, and his office had transferred responsibilities for the case to the Hennepin County Attorney. Kendra Jennings is young, ambitious, and one of the far-left people elected after the George Floyd riots. Dealing with her office is a treat. I'm sure Michael regrets bringing her in now. Her first public statement on the case was about 'starting over without the taint of bias or favoritism' and the need for a 'complete and independent investigation.' In other words, 'Fuck you, Klinesmith, and your political aspirations!" She could drag this case out to ruin his political future while blaming it on the cops in another county.

She had two lawyers watching over our group and sitting in our meetings. Warrant applications had to go through them, and they were pushing hard to indict someone. It was the evidence that was in the way; too much was contradictory or would give plenty of reasonable doubt at trial. Why did David have to be such a criminal mastermind when he wrote that book? It's a mess.

Public opinion was consolidating around Michael being responsible for Tracy's death. As David predicted, the tabloids were all over this case, and his public reputation was spiraling into the toilet. Every day was a new revelation of sexual harassment, office affairs, or infidelities. Laura left him and went home to Daddy, just as David predicted. By the new year, he could be out of a marriage, a job, and a political future. What was on the other side? A book written years ago that the killer copied? What better reasonable doubt could a veteran prosecutor provide?

As for the book, it had surged to #1 on the New York Times Bestseller list based on the publicity surrounding the case. Some people were cynical enough to believe David Hardin was the killer, the book being both a 'fuck you' to the cops and a perfect alibi. The third group felt that a crazed fan was the killer, following the book as a way to 'honor' his hero.

In any case, my partner had me working on the Dominatrix angle. Remember how Lars explained the photo of Tracy in lingerie and bondage gear? Lars told Hank it was from the Mistress's dungeon and refused to provide her name or other details. Now we had a new suspect, and Lars wasn't available. He'd asked for his contract with the Minnesota Wild to be terminated. Lars wasn't good enough to ride out the public relations headache he created and wasn't playing up to his contract anyway. The Wild announced his release shortly after Tracy's funeral.

Lars was already on a plane to Sweden, the little bitch.

All this brought me to Edina, a wealthy suburb of Minneapolis. The home we stopped in front of was well-maintained, with a privacy fence surrounding the side yard and back. "This doesn't look like a dungeon to me," I said to myself. I'd called up a dozen sex-related shops in the Twin Cities area with a story I made up. This tip came from a store called Bondesque, a BDSM-friendly shop on Lake Street in Minneapolis. "My boyfriend and I are getting into some Fifty Shades kink, but I'm worried about getting hurt while we play," I told the sales lady. "How do we learn to do it safely?"

After a bit of discussion about online resources and classes they offered, I mentioned my boyfriend was loaded and would prefer more discrete instruction. That is how I got the names of three Dominatrixes and two Masters who would provide private lessons. Mistress Tatiana was supposedly the best, so I made an appointment with her as Detective Devine.

She thought it was my stripper name at first.

Per her instructions, we went to the side door and rang the bell. The woman who answered wasn't what I expected; there was no leather bustier, no fishnet, no heels. The woman was dressed like a lawyer in a dark blue pantsuit. "Mistress Tatiana?"

"I'm her lawyer, Colleen Newberry. Come in, please." She let us inside, and asked us to leave our shoes next to the door. "She is waiting downstairs."

The stairway led to another door, and inside was the dungeon I expected to see. Stocks, benches, a Saint Andrews cross, a four-poster bed, and a leather couch filled the basement. The interior decoration was Old European Castle; rough wooden floors and ceiling and stone walls. Mistress Tatiana sat in the middle of the couch wearing a pencil skirt, white blouse, and reading glasses on a chain. She looked like the headmistress of a school. "Please, join me," she said.

I sat next to her, and Colleen sat on her other side. "Thank you for seeing me."

"You said you had questions about Tracy Hardin," she said. "Tell me what you know, and I'll see what I can do to help, as least as far as Colleen allows of me. You must understand that I am party to confidentiality agreements that limit what I can say, especially when it comes to naming names."

I nodded; it was a risk, but this wasn't the dungeon the photo was taken in. I went through what we knew about the kinky side of Lars and Tracy's sex life; his statement, the toys in the bedroom, and the explanation of the photo. "We believe her killer was known to her and was familiar with her kink. He knew she had the toys in the drawer of her bedside table, likely because they had been together before. Everything indicates Miss Hardin let him inside, then entered bondage willingly."

"I saw the photographs online. What she went through is not what I teach."

"I never implied it was, nor did I ask if you were the one that Lars hired. Even though Tracy is dead, an agreement you or another Mistress might have with Lars would still be in effect. I'm looking for a lead on a suspect. Tracy might have been involved in a dominant/submissive relationship with her killer at some point. Whatever relationship this was, she kept well hidden."

"That is common within the Lifestyle," the Mistress confirmed. "I am well known among local practitioners, but no one at church or in my neighborhood knows about this room. It is simpler and safer that way."

"How so?"

"The things I teach and the acts I perform are not considered socially acceptable. My scenes follow the rules for Safe, Sane, and Consensual activity. Every submissive who enters my dungeon has been interviewed and signed a consent form."

"A consent to get whipped and beaten?"

"Yes, if that is what they desire. I am not a torturer. I inflict pain, embarrassment, humiliation, and a feeling of helplessness and servitude. I have hard limits, among them no blood or permanent injury. Asses and tits heal from a good whipping in time."

"Case law allows consent for such acts, although consent is not a defense for permanent injury, mutilation or death," Colleen added.

"I provide a service," Tatiana continued. "Judges, police, politicians, priests, business leaders, and housewives come through that door daily. I give them the fantasies and sexual experiences they crave without threatening their livelihoods or reputation."

I held up my hands. "I'm not after you or your business," I replied. "Do you know if Tracy Hardin had any partners in the lifestyle other than Lars Anderson?"

She nodded. "I am sure she did because I first saw her at a gathering over two years ago. Lars, I've known since 2015, if memory serves."

"He was a client?"

Tatiana smiled. "If he was, I couldn't say anything about it." She looked around. "BDSM is far more popular than anyone thinks. In every activity, you have a range of commitment to it. What is your hobby, Detective?"

"Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu," I replied.

"Combat sports, then. There are probably dozens of dojos in the Twin Cities, and hundreds or thousands in the country, right?" I nodded. "How many of those people are really into it?"

"Maybe ten percent."

"Surveys show 64.6% of women and 42.6% of men have fantasized about being dominated sexually, Talia. The most common fantasy is being overpowered, bound, and used sexually. Many never act on this, but 1.8% of all adults have engaged in BDSM activities over the past year. If only one in a hundred people are into it to the point of making it a lifestyle, how many in the Twin Cities area?"

There were over three million people in the region, so quick math? "Five thousand, five hundred."

She nodded. "That's not a bad estimate for the number of full and part-time members of the lifestyle. Within this population of gay and straight lovers, you have sub-groups. The kinks they enjoy run the gamut from simple to incredibly complex. I know rope masters who spend hours binding their models with intricate knots and 24/7 master/slave relationships. Most of them are people who enjoy inflicting or receiving pain."