One Little Secret Page 6

  As if in response, I heard an engine fire up. A small garage-like door lifted in the far corner of the arena and the zamboni machine slowly pulled out onto the ice. I was too far away to make out the figure seated behind the wheel and had to wait until the ice re-surfacer drove closer.

  The man’s dark hair was cut close to his scalp, but not quite high and tight as if he’d been in the military. Despite the chill of the indoor ice rink, he wore only a t-shirt and jeans. He looked different without the oversized suit he’d worn to the funeral, but I readily recognized the driver as the man for whom I’d been looking.

  I was in no hurry, and he’d just begun to re-surface the ice, so I took a seat in the lower risers and watched the surprisingly calming movement of the zamboni machine. It brought back memories of the zamboni man at my hometown rink in St. Cloud. We’d watch him drive around on ice, our noses pressed against the foggy Plexiglas, pining for the opportunity to get behind the wheel. He’d been a giant. A hero.

  Landon Tauer drove with care and precision around the edge of the rink, careful not to bump the vehicle against the hockey boards. His features looked grim and serious as he drove around and around, neglecting no part of the ice. I wondered if this young man had thought his life would turn out like this.

  I stood up after he raised the re-surfacing blade, and I walked in the direction of the garage door where I knew he and the zamboni would soon disappear behind. I knocked on the clear Plexiglas that separated us. I wasn’t sure he would be able to hear me over the classic rock and the zamboni engine, but his head turned toward me.

  I removed my badge from my belt and pressed it against the clear glass. “Can we talk?” I spoke over the rumble of the engine.

  Landon responded with a thumbs up and a nod of his head. The engine cut out, and he gingerly climbed down from the elevated zamboni seat.

  “What’s this about?” he asked as he approached me.

  “Mind stepping off the ice so we can actually talk?” I proposed.

  I didn’t like having a conversation with a thick panel of Plexiglas between us; it reminded me of visiting hours at a prison, but without the plastic phone on the wall.

  He jerked his thumb in a backwards motion. “Do you mind waiting? I’m kind of on the clock. I’ve gotta set up the nets before the water freezes over their piers.”

  There was nothing pressing at the office, and Stanley and Sarah knew to call my cell in case we finally heard back from the crime lab about a potential bullet match. But I didn’t know how long it might take him to finish up the rink, and I’d already spent too much of my day tracking him down.

  “I’ll come out to you,” I decided.

  “Are you sure? It’s icy,” he warned, as though I had no knowledge of the properties of ice.

  “I’m from Minnesota, too,” I returned evenly.

  Landon’s mouth curled into a small smile. “Fair enough.”

  He opened the side board door for me, and I carefully stepped out onto the ice. After being freshly resurfaced, the ice was more damp than slick, but I was still cautious as I shuffled along the ice to follow him towards the end boards.

  It might have been because we walked on wet ice, but Landon Tauer walked with a noticeable limp. There was something off about his gait. He looked stiff, as if his hips or knees had once been injured.

  “So what’s this about?” he repeated his original question.

  “Kennedy Petersik.”

  I carefully watched his reaction to hearing her name, but surprisingly, he had none. “Oh yeah? What about her?”

  “You were at the memorial service.”

  I didn’t exactly have a list of questions at the ready for him. I’d thought his conflict at the party with Kennedy’s ex-boyfriend was of interest, but it also could have been nothing. Either way, he might be able to provide some valuable context for Kennedy’s life since her mother had denied me access to her journals.

  “I didn’t make it to the church service, but I thought I should at least pay my respects afterwards,” he noted.

  “Were you and Kennedy close?”

  “We grew up next to each other,” he said, offering up information I already knew.

  “But you went to different high schools,” I observed. “Were you still close then?”

  “No. I was always here,” he said, gesturing to our surroundings, “and she’d made a new group of friends at Pius.”

  “Friends like Chase Trask,” I supplied.

  “He was a dick. Still is,” Landon snorted. “Couldn’t play hockey worth shit, either.”

  Landon appeared to struggle with moving the hockey net to its original location. He’d had to move both out of the way while he’d re-surfaced the ice. I grabbed onto the top crossbar with him, and together we dragged the net back into place.

  “Thanks,” he approved.

  “You and Chase had a disagreement at the funeral,” I observed. “What did you fight about?”

  Landon passed his hand over his face. “Shit. I was wasted. I have no idea. I bumped into him or something. Stepped on his fancy shoes.”

  “Are you typically drunk on a Sunday afternoon?” I inquired.

  “Are the Vikings playing?” he tried to joke. “Death makes me uncomfortable. I had a little too much whiskey before going over there. But I called and apologized to Mrs. Petersik afterwards. That wasn’t my best self.”

  I nodded, moving on. “Do you know how long Chase and Kennedy dated? Or the reason why they broke up?”

  Landon shrugged. “Can’t help you there. Like I said, we didn’t really talk in high school.”

  “What about after?”

  “After what? After high school?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “I was in Canada for a year.”

  I vaguely recalled what Kennedy’s gossipy aunt had told me about Landon’s history.

  “Can you tell me more about that?” I pressed.

  “Not much to tell. I used to be really good.” He looked up at the lofted ceiling of the hockey arena. “I’m responsible for a lot of the banners hanging in here. I was offered a full ride to play for Minnesota, but then I got the call from Canada.”

  “To play Junior hockey.”

  “Yeah.” He paused and stared. He was probably wondering how I knew so much. But instead of asking me about my informant, he continued. “My parents wanted me to play for the Gophers, but Canada was offering money. Money beat out going to college.”

  “But now you’re back here,” I observed.

  “I got hurt.” He lifted one of his pant legs up to his knee. Pale, white scar tissue cross-crossed his kneecap.

  I had my own scars, but this wasn’t a competition.

  “I got checked low,” he explained. “Tore up my MCL and my ACL.” He pulled the leg of his jeans back down. “No team wanted to keep around an 18-year-old kid who was already damaged. And all those colleges that had wanted to give me a full ride were no longer interested.”

  He bent down, kneeling on the ice so he could secure the hockey net to the piers in the ice. “You got anything else for me?” he asked.

  “Yeah. One more question,” I said. “Do you think Kennedy killed herself?”

  Landon didn’t have a ready response. His face wasn’t in my line of vision, but his body visibly stiffened before he returned to his task. “I don’t know.”

  He stood up and brushed at his knees. His jeans were wet from where he’d been kneeling on the damp ice. “Like I said; we didn’t talk.”

  I left the high school hockey rink with more questions than answers. I tried not to read too much into Landon’s noncommittal response to my final question, but it was hard not to. Mrs. Petersik had been so sure—so adamant—that her daughter couldn’t have killed herself while Landon had given me reason to doubt her certainty.

  But I wasn’t a parent. I couldn’t know the shock and probable denial that had to come with the unexpected death of a child. Maybe there had been warning signs that the Petersi
ks had been blind to. I needed to know more about the mindset of this young woman. I needed to see beyond the smiling fresh face reflected in a photograph of a high school graduate with her whole life still in front of her.

  But before I could do any of that, I needed to be officially assigned to the case.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A light rain struck against the closed bedroom windows. The grey sky and partially closed curtains made it difficult to identify the hour. It was early though; Julia’s alarm hadn’t yet gone off. Julia slept on her side with her back turned toward me. Her pajamas were modest—a thin v-neck t-shirt and sleep shorts—but the bottom hem of her maroon t-shirt had crept up her torso in the night, leaving a gap between her shirt and shorts. I maneuvered closer until I could feel her firm backside press against the tops of my thighs.

  I liked to watch her sleep. It sounded creepy, but on nights when I couldn’t get my brain to shut off or when a bad dream had me waking up before the sun, I liked to observe the evenness of her breath, the rise and fall of her chest, the slight flutter of her eyelids. It was more cathartic than counting sheep. I envied how unencumbered she looked.

  I gently traced my fingertips along her exposed waistline, barely ghosting my touch above the bare ribbon of skin. I walked the pads of my fingers across her hipbone. A small gap existed between the curve of her hipbone and the waistband of her shorts. I continued to skate my fingertips along her waist before just barely dipping below the elastic of her sleep shorts.

  Julia shifted in bed, and I heard her quiet groan as my touch began to rouse her from sleep.

  “Good morning,” she husked. Her lower register was deeper and raspier than usual. “What time is it?”

  “Still early,” I murmured.

  I slid my palm along the lower plane of her stomach until my fingertips reached trimmed, coarse hair. The meticulously maintained landing strip guided my blind fumbling towards the cleft in her pussy lips. I bypassed her clit and lightly rubbed up and down her slit.

  “Mmm …” she quietly hummed. She arched her lower back and pressed more solidly against me. “What’s the occasion?”

  I pressed my nose against the back of her head and breathed in. She smelled sweet. “It’s Tuesday.”

  “And what’s so special about Tuesday?”

  “Nothing.” I nuzzled my nose deeper into her hair. “Do I need an excuse to fuck you in the morning?”

  “Absolutely not.” She drew out each syllable as if savoring the feeling of the word on her tongue.

  Her t-shirt was loose around her neck, giving me unencumbered access to her creamy breasts. Her breasts were warm and soft, the skin smooth and firm. I palmed one breast and then the other; I lingered long enough to pinch her nipples and make them hard. I rolled the spongy flesh between my fingers and lightly scratched my nails across the sensitive area. Her nipples—along with the rest of her body—began to wake up.

  I returned my hand to her shorts and forced my way under the top elastic band. From this angle, it was an awkward fit. Her shorts were loose in the front, but in this reclined position, her thighs were clamped together. I nudged my fingers as far as they could go until she rotated her hips and parted her thighs for me.

  I trailed my fingertips along the silky shaved skin of her outer pussy lips. Everything about her was soft. I moved my fingers in long, lazy circles, but avoided her clit. Her breathing became more labored the longer I stroked her up and down.

  “So good,” she approved in a breathy sigh.

  I used my index and ring finger to spread her open and slid deeper across the source of her wetness. Her velvety folds wrapped around my middle finger as I dipped inside, just to the first knuckle. She opened her thighs wider, and I slid in deeper until my palm mashed against her clit. I heard the staccato hitch of her breath, followed by a needy whine. I withdrew my finger and spread her juices on her outer lips and clit.

  When I sunk back inside, I curled my single finger against the spongy upper wall of her G-spot. I slowly eased my finger in and out with deliberately unhurried movement. Her pussy made a wet clicking sound each time I withdrew my finger as if she didn’t want to let go.

  I gathered her hair with my free hand and held it like a ponytail. I kissed and nipped at the nape of her neck as I began to quickened my thrusts. I pressed my lips against the back of her neck and sucked her flesh into my mouth. It was a safe place to leave bite marks. As long as she wore her hair down, the bruised skin would be hidden from view.

  I curled two fingers around the curve of her pubic bone and slid between her pussy lips. Her sex clamped around my fingers like a vise. I ground the heel of my palm against her clit each time I bottomed out.

  “Fuck, Cassidy,” she groaned. She reached back and loosely hooked her arm around my neck.

  My wrist ached from the awkward angle and my bicep began to burn. But I wasn’t going to stop until she was satisfied.

  Julia moved her hips and lower back in time with my fingers, matching each of my thrusts with one of her own. “Close. Almost,” she gasped.

  I rubbed my thumb against her clit while I continued to penetrate her with two fingers.

  “Cum for me,” I growled into her ear. “Cum all over my fingers.” Her earlobe was too tempting, so I sucked it into my mouth.

  A partially contained cry escaped her throat. Her body tensed and jerked in short, stilted movements.

  When the movements subsided, I gingerly eased my fingers out of her tender sex. Her juices coated my fingers down to their root.

  “Good morning,” I murmured into her hair.

  She hummed appreciatively and pressed her backside more firmly against my front. “Good morning indeed.” She intertwined our fingers even though my hand was still sticky with her arousal. “Tuesday might be my new favorite day.”

  + + +

  “Darling? Have you seen my grey dress? I could have sworn I picked it up from the dry cleaners.”

  I sat at the dining room table eating my morning toast and drinking black coffee from my favorite mug. Julia rushed around the apartment, doing a million things at once in order to make it to work on time. Her morning ritual was excessively complicated compared to mine. I showered and pulled my hair into a bun, sometimes without even blow-drying my hair. My biggest dilemma was choosing which color button-up blouse to pair with dark slacks.

  “Which one?” I called down the hallway.

  Her voice carried from the direction of the bedroom. “Sleeveless. Wool. Buttons on the hips.”

  “Sorry. I have no idea.” I paid attention to her wardrobe, but I didn’t keep an inventory.

  I heard her high heels first before she appeared around the corner. She apparently hadn’t found the grey dress in question, as she was still in her bra and slip. She grabbed my coffee cup and helped herself to a quick sip. The thin muscles in her biceps and triceps flexed as she brought the mug to her lips. I wanted to kiss the lipstick off her mouth.

  “I can stop by the dry cleaner after work and double-check they don’t still have it,” I offered.

  She set the mug back in front of me. “Thank you, dear. That would be a big help.”

  Even though I knew she was in a hurry, I grabbed her arm and pulled her down onto my lap. She didn’t complain that I was going to make her late, so I wrapped my arms around her waist.

  “Am I crushing you?” she worried.

  “You’re like a feather.”

  “And you’re a liar,” she laughed.

  Her hands went to the sides of my face, and she drew me in for a soft, lingering kiss. Her tongue slid against mine; she still tasted minty from her toothpaste.

  “Thank you for this morning,” she murmured. “It was unexpected, but very much appreciated.” The low burr in her voice made me want to ditch my responsibilities and bring her back to bed with me.

  “I’ll be your alarm clock every morning,” I earnestly offered.

  She shook her head. “You’d get tired of me.”

  I sho
ok my head harder. “Never.”

  Her mouth curled at one edge. “We’ll see,” she hummed.

  “Oh!” I lightly tapped my hand against her thigh as I remembered a forgotten question. “Have you thought about your costume yet?”

  Her features pinched. “Costume?”

  “For Brent’s party,” I reminded her.

  “Halloween isn’t for several more weeks,” she pointed out.

  Ever since we’d been in the academy together, my friend Brent Olson—whom everyone affectionately called Viking because of the resemblance—had hosted a Halloween party at his apartment. Halloween fell on a Friday that year, which meant the bars of the Twin Cities would be wilder than usual. The revelry of the holiday would no doubt spill from the bars and onto the streets. It was a challenge being a cop and trying to have fun while off-duty. I tended to spend my time eyeballing bar patrons who looked younger than 21 and resisting the desire to ask them to produce identification. Taking the party out of the bars and into a private space was the best way to assure everyone could actually have fun.

  “You’d better not procrastinate,” I warned. “You don’t want to be the loser who shows up to the party in an after-thought costume.”

  “Loser?” She arched an eyebrow. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk like that before.”

  “That’s because this is a big deal! People go all out!” My hands waved for emphasis. “They start planning their costumes months ahead.”

  Her lips curled into an amused smile. “And what are you going as?”

  “It’s a surprise,” I denied.

  “Even from me?”

  “Especially from you,” I emphasized.

  “But what if we end up with the same costume?” she teased in a sing-song voice. “I’m sure that would be an embarrassment.”

  “I can pretty much guarantee you won’t pick this,” I denied.

  Julia’s eyebrows raised on her unlined forehead. “Well, now I’m even more intrigued. How about a hint?”

  “Nope. Never gonna get it out of me,” I refused.

  “Never? That sounds like a challenge.” She leaned closer so her lips just barely brushed against the outer shell of my ear. “And you know how I feel about that.”