by Taylor Lee
Nate remembered how the grip on his chest loosened when Laura confirmed that he hadn’t played her game. That Sam understood the importance of that was further confirmation of what a great guy he was.
Nate glanced down at his watch. After the interview with Laura, Dan had gone to Judge Simpson to get a warrant to search Sherman Klein’s house. Dan and an evidence team were on their way to Klein’s house now. Nate had ordered two squads. Assuming Klein was home, he told Dan to “invite” him to come to the station for an interview. Nate huffed a short laugh, remembering Dan’s response, “Yeah, I’ll offer him a ride. How can he refuse?”
Nate’s gut told him Sherman wouldn’t resist. Sherman had been nervous as hell the first time he interviewed him. In ten minutes he’d shot to the top of Nate’s list of suspects. Even though it was obvious that Laura had thrown him under the bus, her insights helped confirm the fact that Sherman had more than enough reasons to want to kill Mike.
As if reading his mind, Sam observed, “For some reason, I can’t picture Klein being the one who tortured Mike. Your instincts are a matter of record, Nate. What’s your sense?”
“Interesting you ask that, Sam. I agree. There’s nothing in Klein’s background that indicates a familiarity with whips or weapons of any kind. He was never in the military and, hell, the guy doesn’t even hunt. Now, in Northern Minnesota that makes him suspect for other reasons. At least he likes to fish. It’s why I’ve been pushing Eric as hard as I can on this BDSM crap. It could be that’s where he learned to use a whip. If, and it is always an if, he is our murderer.
Jerking his phone out of his pocket, seeing the caller I.D. he put it on speaker.
“What’s up, Dan?”
“Let me put it this way, Nate. Don’t think Klein will be coming back to the station tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Because as far as I know, we send dead bodies to the morgue.”
“Jesus, Dan.”
“Nate, you don’t know the half of it. Get here as quick as you can. The emergency team is arriving as we speak.”
Chapter 27
Nate circled the body, shaking his head at the sight. Damn, nothing like the most bizarre case he’d ever had getting crazier. He stepped back to take in the whole room. He’d seen autoerotic asphyxia cases before. They were always difficult. Accidental deaths that never should have happened, but often did. On several occasions, the families tried to “clean” up the scene, not wanting anyone to know how their loved one died. They preferred that the cops think it was suicide. While Nate understood the impulse, it made their jobs harder.
They’d picked up the Chief on the way over. Shaking his head, the older man came over to stand by Nate, a puzzled frown creasing his brow.
“What’s your read, Nate?”
“Damned if I know, Chief. If we take it at face value, it seems that Sherm accidentally killed himself.”
“But?”
Nate threw his mentor a knowing glance.
“But, something’s off. I can’t seem to grab hold of it, but it’s almost too neat.”
“You thinking it’s suicide?”
“If it is, why the hell would he go to this trouble to create the scene?”
The clopping of boots on the wooden floor signaled the entrance of uniformed firefighters, often the first team at a death scene. Along with the EMT’s they were part of the first responders. In the absence of a coroner, they were often the ones who’d pronounce the body dead.
Knowing that he always followed his team, Nate was gratified to see Connor rounding the corner.
Connor stood in the doorway taking in the scene, shaking his head.
Catching his gaze, he walked over to join Nate who was standing off to the side with Sam and the Chief.
“Holy fucking God! What the hell is going on, Nate?”
“That’s a damn good question, Cuz. Hanging here before you is our number one suspect in the murder of Mike Peterson. I guess we’re supposed to believe that as the net was closing in on him, he decided to get his rocks off.”
“You think it’s a set-up?”
“I don’t know what I think. I just know that if these heebie jeebies don’t stop crawling up the back of my neck I’m gonna need a skin graft.”
The Chief’s frown deepened.
“I don’t know, Nate. I’ve got a lot of respect for the back of your neck. Can’t remember when it’s ever let us down.”
At that moment Pete Larson, head of the technical team, jumped to his feet.
“Fuckin’A! Detective, you better get over here. Looks like our friend, Sherman, or ‘Sherm,’ as he calls himself here, wanted to make a confession. Not to us. But to her.”
“Her?”
Nate plopped down in the seat that Pete vacated and turned the computer screen toward himself.
Turning to the group crowding around them, Pete answered Nate’s question.
“‘Her’ is Mrs. Peterson, or as he calls her, ‘Lover Doll.’”
Ignoring the widespread gasps from the team, Nate sped through the draft e-mail, his eyes widening as he read. He spit out bursts of information as he read..
“It’s a suicide note. To Laura. Apparently he didn’t push send becuz it’s stuck in his drafts. If Pete wasn’t so damned smart, we might never have found it.”
Pete gave a dismissive shake of his head.
“Give us more credit than that, Nate. Not much gets by me no matter how deep they try to bury it. Hell, this was just sitting in the ready pile. He musta forgot to hit send.”
Nate broke in as he continued to read. “Didn’t mean to insult you, Pete. Still just tryin’ to grasp the magnitude of this.”
He shook his head in amazement.
“Damn! He confesses to everything. Killing Mike. Setting up the off-shore accounts. Having a kinky lifestyle. Damn, I’m surprised he didn’t confess to kicking his dog.”
Nate scrolled back to the top and began rereading, muttering under his breath.
Dan joined in. “Christ, Nate. It’s almost a letdown. After all of this, we solve the case becuz the guy confessed and then hung himself?”
The Chief echoed their disbelief. “You’re right, Nate. This is nuts. It’s almost too neat.”
“Any explanation for the scene?” Sam asked, waving his hand at the man hanging from the rafters.
Nate glanced at him. “Yeah, there’s even that. Says his family wouldn’t be able to collect on his life insurance—if it was discovered he committed suicide.”
The Chief scowled. “You know that’s not true.”
“Yeah, I know that, Chief. And that’s only the beginning of the problem with this note.”
Pete stepped in. “For the rest of us with sub-genius I.Q’s: Want to tell us what you two are talking about?”
Nate nodded.
“It’s a common misperception that insurance companies don’t pay out for suicides. In most states if a guy was rational when he bought the policy, after two years, the insurance companies are required to pay the beneficiaries.”
The Chief’s face lit up. “Hmm. You’d really think ‘Sherm’ would have found that out before he offed himself.”
Nate grinned to himself. In his experience, no one was as good as the Chief at figuring out these angles. Except for himself… and he’d learned 90 % of what he knew from the Chief.
A wave of excitement rolled over Nate. He managed to keep his voice calm, controlled, but it was hard. It always happened like this. It took one little thing, one detail and then like the ‘walls of Jericho, the truth came a tumblin’ down.’
Nate took a deep breath.
“You’re right, Dan. It would be a letdown if this was a simple suicide. But it’s not. And from the look on your face, Chief, you agree.”
“Yes, Nate, I do.”
Sam spoke up. “I’m not too proud to say that I don’t understand. What am I missing, Nate?”
“Dan got at the underlying issue. This thing is too big for one man to pull off. And just
so you know. Sherm wasn’t alone tonight.”
Pete scowled. “What the hell, Nate? How do you know that?”
Nate turned to Dan.
“Dan, who was first on the scene?”
“I was. Me and my squad. Why?”
“I know the answer to this, but I’m gonna ask it anyhow. Did you move anything?”
Dan scoffed, “You know we didn’t, Nate.”
“Yes, I do know that.” Nate stood and moved away from the desk, closer to the body. He pointed down. “What I don’t know is how that stool got to where it is without falling over.”
The group as a whole focused on the upright stool.
Connor was the first to speak. “You mean—”
“I mean someone moved it.”
“Helped Klein commit suicide? You think this was an assisted suicide, Cuz?”
Nate and the Chief shared a knowing glance.
The Chief replied with a sardonic grin. “Assisted suicide implies consent.”
“You mean—”
“Yeah. I’ll bet the back of my neck on the fact that Sherman here really did think he was gonna get his rocks off. His partner had other ideas.”
“His partner?” The crease between Pete’s brows looked as though it might crack his face in half.
Before he could answer, Nate’s phone vibrated. Pulling it from his pocket, he checked the caller I.D. and held up his hand.
“I need to get this. It’s Eric.”
He spoke into the phone. “Wait, Eric. Let me put you on speaker.”
“How’s it hangin’, handsome soldier boy?”
Looking up at the body, Nate choked, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. What have you got? Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Well, buddy boy, the big news is that I tracked down Sherman Klein. As you anticipated, Nate, he’s a big time BDSM aficionado.”
“We’re gonna need to change that verb tense, Eric, but don’t let me rain on your parade. Do you have confirmation?”
“Solid. The best the Chief’s money can buy.”
The Chief growled, but waved Nate onward, wanting to hear the rest.
Eric continued. “I know you knew that, Nate, but here’s something that might surprise even you.”
“Try me.”
“He’s not a ‘dom.’”
Nate whistled. “Even with the problematic verb tense, that is big news, Eric.”
“Guess I don’t have to tell you what that means, buddy boy, war hero extraordinaire.”
Nate grimaced. His friend was an incorrigible tease, but also one of the smartest and most disreputable guys he knew. “No, man, you don’t have to tell me.”
Taking in the puzzled looks of those surrounding him, Nate huffed a sound between a laugh and a snort.
“For those of you like my cuz and Dan here, who think the only way you can have sex is like good little missionaries, let me elaborate.”
He let the good-natured laughter die down before he explained.
“If Sherm wasn’t a ‘dom,’ a dominant, he’s what they call a ‘sub’ or a submissive.”
Dan shook his head, “Speaking from my missionary perspective, that means exactly what to our case?”
“It means that it is a virtual 100% certainty that in any scene involving a whip, Sherm was the whippee, not the whipper.”
The excitement that began surging through Nate when he understood the importance of the upright stool rose dramatically. It was all there, rattling around in his brain. And, Nate realized, it always had been. He just hadn’t put the puzzle pieces together.
He asked the obvious follow up question.
“Any ideas about how someone might learn to wield a whip well enough to torture a guy to death?”
“As you might expect, oh fearless leader, I asked my snitches exactly that.”
“And the answer was?”
“That it takes a hell of a lot of money, to find an expert willing to coach a newbie. And determination and a driving purpose on the part of the newbie to get to the level of the evil creature that tortured Mike Peterson.”
“And?”
“And, I discovered, again for a piece of the Chief’s slush fund, that there are a couple of masters out here who will work with wannabe ‘doms,’ or for that matter, dominatrices, who fancy the whip. For a hefty price, they insist they can train anyone.”
“Even prospective students who hail from ChicadiafuckingFalls, MN.?”
“Yep. Especially, if they have mile-long legs, bazonkas that fulfill the dirtiest dreams of a pig like me, and blond hair down to her ass.”
Eric was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was rife with emotion. “Go get her, buddy. Take her down hard.”
Nate closed his eyes to gather his composure and contain the rush of emotion threatening to swamp him.
Connor’s devastating words cut through Nate’s exhilaration.
“Nate. Oh my God, Nate.”
Nate turned to his cousin. At the agony on Connor’s pale face, a wave of dread cascaded over him. He didn’t have enough spit in his mouth to get the word out. He could only whisper, “Erin?”
Connor nodded, “Nate. Laura has Erin.”
Chapter 28
Erin replayed the message over and over. Each time she heard it, a fresh stab of fear ripped through her chest. She took shallow breaths, preserving her strength. She was going to need every bit of that strength, both physically and emotionally, for the task ahead. The message was terrifying. Laura insisted that Nate was her lover, and that they’d been meeting at Laura’s hideaway cabin for the last year. Laura’s voice sent shards of fear up her spine.
“He’ll be here tonight. Like he is every night—when he can escape you. It’s time you know the truth. Erin. And time that Nate confesses who he truly loves. You need to come and see for yourself. And Erin, if you don’t come, OR if you tell anyone where you are going, Nate will pay the price. A VERY high price.”
Laura’s sinister cackle was chilling but, more frightening was the repetitive loop at the end of the message. The crooning voice was Nate’s. And the words were achingly familiar. “I love you, baby. So god damned much, it’s killing me.”
There was no question. It was Nate’s voice. And it was his expression. He’d said those words to her a thousand times. They never failed to send sparks of excitement zinging through her. But now, hearing the words and his voice on Laura’s voicemail message was terrifying. How did Laura get that message? Did Laura somehow have access to her phone? To Nate’s phone? God, was that possible? The questions swirled in her brain.
Erin didn’t believe Laura for a moment. Laura was an evil woman, a dangerous woman. Erin trusted Nate. She knew he wasn’t involved with Laura. He would never meet with Laura—not the way that Laura described.
It didn’t make sense. None of it did. It was irrational. But then so was Laura. Erin had watched the woman at the press conference. Seen the craziness in her eyes. She’d heard the messages Laura sent to Nate. Erin knew that Nate had never responded to those messages. That fact alone was evidence of Laura’s obsession. An obsession that made her dangerous. Not someone to ignore or underestimate. Nate had underestimated her. And he had tried to ignore her. And look where it had gotten him. At least on the surface, he’d been branded a potential killer. A suspect in Mike Peterson’s murder. The thought infuriated Erin—and galvanized her.
If Laura said Nate was in danger, he was. Erin made up her mind. She would do what Laura told her to do. She would go to the place where Laura told her she and Nate would be. And at least until she’d scoped it out, she wouldn’t call Nate. She knew he’d be furious, but she needed to trust her own judgment. God forbid, if Laura did have access to her phone—or to Nate’s—she would know if Erin called Nate.
Erin used the GPS on her phone and easily found the exit from the highway. According to the Google map it looked like Laura’s hideaway was about three quarters of a mile from the highway, along a private country road. E
rin’s plan was simple. She ditched her car in the ravine close to the highway, and skirted the private road on foot. She wanted to get close enough to Laura’s cabin to see if Nate’s car was there. If it wasn’t, she’d hightail it back to the safety of her own car and immediately call Nate. If his car was there, she’d have to get closer. To make sure that he was alright. That Laura hadn’t hurt him. Her heart clenched at the thought. She bent over and put her hands on her knees and took deep breaths to marshal her resolve and squash her fears.
She patted her ankle, fortified by the gun she’d tucked in the ankle sheath. Nate had insisted she have a weapon and that she learn how to shoot. He’d been horrified when she was kidnapped last year that she had no weapon, no way of protecting herself. He gave her a Walther PPK with a red dot scope. He’d teased her. Said if James Bond used that gun, she could. At least once a week, he’d taken her to the police shooting range, and worked with her until she could hit the target from fifty yards away. As an extra safety measure, he taught her how to throw a knife—and insisted that she always carry at least one. As a final precaution he worked with her on self-defense moves, upping her skills from the basics she’d learned at the Firefighter Academy. She’d resisted at first, but her self-defense moves more often than not became hilarious precursors to unusual lovemaking positions. Soon “self-defense” practice became one of their favorite ways to end a rousing afternoon at the shooting range.
As she crept through the woods darting from tree to tree, she was grateful for Nate’s persistence. She refused to dwell on the fact that she’d never drawn her weapon except to shoot at a paper target. She’d refused to believe she’d ever have to actually defend herself. Even now, she wasn’t thinking about protecting herself; it was Nate she was protecting. The thought of Laura’s hideous sneer, her evil laugh, propelled her forward. By God, if she had to, she would shoot to kill—or at least, she was reasonably sure she could shoot to maim.
When she was fifty yards away, she saw a small log cabin nestled against a rise. The moonlight was bright enough to see around the perimeter of the structure. Nate’s Turbo was nowhere in sight. She breathed a huge sigh of relief and was about to head back to the highway when she heard the branch snap. Too late, the cold hard metal pressed against the back of her neck confirmed how careless she’d been. Erin closed her eyes and took a deep breath to steady herself, then sent a silent prayer to her angels for courage.