Killer Dreams Ch. 41-45

"We have a problem with the Allison Decker death," she began.

"I thought St. Paul ruled that a prostitution-related homicide," Judge Christopher said. "Nothing ties her to the Society meeting. How is there a problem?"

"It was another folder on the desk of Minneapolis Homicide until the Hardin murder." She explained how St. Paul investigators were trying to connect my son-in-law, Michael Klinesmith, to Tracy Hardin's death. She passed around a color photograph taken in her dungeon; the nude blonde was tall and athletic, blonde, maybe thirty years old. "This is Detective Talia Devine, a junior detective with Saint Paul Homicide working the Hardin case. She was assigned to investigate whether Michael had an inappropriate relationship with the victim."

"Michael never met his subs outside the Society unless it was professional and public," I replied. "He knows better."

"Well, Talia is a good investigator because she found the tie. Every second Saturday, their phones were at home, but they had no activity and answered no messages or calls until early Sunday morning. She learned of the Society and came to me for information a week ago."

"What did you say to her," Tony asked.

"I confirmed the Society existed and gave a general idea of the rules. I had to give her something; I never gave the name of an active member, and I told her that no one would name or confirm any member because of our non-disclosure agreements. I intended to confirm her suspicions about the Society, but it would be a brick wall. Michael being a member and knowing Tracy through the Society isn't a crime, and she wouldn't be able to compel my cooperation. I thought I was successful holding her off until yesterday."

"What happened then," I asked.

"Talia was tasked with checking if any unsolved murders in Minneapolis might be early work of the serial killer. Allison Decker's case came up, and Talia mentioned the potential Society link. Talia came back with more questions. Still, Allison's murder changes everything when it comes to our agreements. Talia warned me that with the FBI joining the serial killer investigation, every lead would get a second look, and open leads aggressively followed. That is especially true for her leads."

"Why is that," Tony asked.

"Talia is under suspension for a potentially inappropriate relationship with David Hardin, the lead suspect. The FBI will have agents on everything she's worked on to see if she hid evidence for her boyfriend."

"Shit," I said. "How bad could this get?"

"Grand jury subpoenas, material witness arrests, and the Feds crawling up our assholes with financial investigations and interviews," Tatiana replied. "All they need is for one person at the September meeting to flip, and we're all fucked."

Everyone was looking at me, but the physical threat came from Tony. "You fucking IDIOT! You've ruined us ALL," Tony shouted as he stood up from the table. "You KNOW we ban breath play at Society functions for safety reasons, but you couldn't resist choking that little bitch out with your fucking DICK!"

I leaned forward, meeting his stare. I'd worked my whole life in Construction, and we both knew I'd beat his ass bloody in a fight. "It was an accident." I let the others exhaust their anger, then smacked the table again. "What did you tell Talia in the second meeting?"

"She's trying to make a tie to a Society member to clear her boyfriend of the murders," Tatiana said. "I gave her no names, but I told her the basics. She knows Allison was a party favor voluntarily auctioned off to a sadistic Master. She knows that during the session, Allison stopped breathing." Shit. "I told her that I and others attempted CPR, then another person took her to the hospital. Since I'm unaware of a crime occurring on the grounds, I won't violate the non-disclosure agreement. Detective Devine doesn't have a badge, so she can't do anything about it. She desperately wants to find out who killed Allison, and there is our opportunity."

"What do you mean," the Judge asked.

"Talia Devine wants to get into tonight's Society event, and I told her she can go as a Party Favor."

My eyes weren't the only ones that were wide open at this. "Why would we let the snake into the garden," the Judge asked.

"The people involved won't be there to find. Talia is an eager little beaver. You should have seen her pussy dripping when I described what being a Party Favor entails. She'll be an enjoyable distraction for the remaining members," Tatiana said as she smiled. "After tonight, she will be one of us. Better yet, we can gain a valuable asset inside the police department."

"How?"

"In order to attend, Talia must sign a non-disclosure agreement. You know the financial penalties involved. I propose we install a few cameras in the rooms where we place her, carefully controlled, so we do not show faces. A few still shots of her deviant sexual activities will warm up any cold feet she might get about helping us later on. She gets ruined professionally and financially if she goes against us."

We discussed it for a few minutes, eventually agreeing to the camera exemption to ensure Detective Devine's cooperation. "There's one other problem," Judge Christopher said after the vote. "Detective Devine remains suspended, so she can't do anything to stop the investigation into Allison's death. If her warning is true, the FBI and Minneapolis Police will still come after us."

"We need to cut out the cancer and cauterize the wound before it spreads," Mistress Pauline replied. "This is your fuck-up, Thomas. I don't care how you fix it. The Minneapolis Police need to find their killer, and they need it handed to them on a silver platter. That's the only way this investigation gets shut down before it destroys the Society and all of us with it."

"You don't expect me to confess, do you?"

"I don't want to know," the Judge said. "Pauline is right. The Decker case needs to be solved by Monday before the FBI can get a task force up to speed. It's the only way."

"And if I don't?"

Tony looked at me with thinly disguised contempt. "Then a few of us give sworn statements naming you as the killer, Thomas. That is our duty as Board members. We protect the Society against all threats, internal or external."

"Agreed," the Judge replied, followed quickly by Tatiana and Paulina.

"Any other business," I asked. "Thank you for coming. Please see yourselves out."

I returned to my office, sitting in the chair and looking over the city. I made three phone calls before I left. The first was to my daughter, asking her to join me at home for lunch. The second was to Michael Klinesmith, asking if I could meet him at his home at three.

The third was to the CEO of Bannon Commercial Construction, a major player based in Chicago. They'd been after me for years to sell my business, and it looked like this was the time to do it. I had their offer on my desk as I called his phone. "Terry, it's Thomas Brickline. I've finished reviewing your latest offer. I'm willing to sell Brickline Construction on one condition."

"What is that, Thomas?"

"You've done your due diligence, and I know you have the capital. I want to close the deal on Monday."

"Jesus, Thomas! Do you know how much paperwork is involved?"

"It's not easy for me, either. Can you do it?"

There was a pause. "Yeah, I'll call my lawyers as soon as I hang up. We'll need to sign the papers in Chicago, though."

"That's fine. You buy dinner, though."

"Deal. See you Monday."

I'd have to make a lot of moves quickly to get this to work. I didn't know how much time I had before my options were gone.

Chapter 44

David Hardin's POV

Lake Superior Home

Saturday, October 9, 2021

Rocky ran off along the shore while I carefully entered the cold waters for my morning swim.

He wasn't my only guest. Floating along a few hundred yards offshore, in water too deep to anchor, a fishing boat was slowly moving north. I'd seen it last night, and it didn't even have fishing lines in the water. No, the heated cabin contained an FBI surveillance team. After all, the only view you could get from the road was the shoreline where I was now swimming. Thick trees hid my home and windows from view unless you were out on the lake.

Did I care? No. Gerald warned me I would be under close surveillance and that I should welcome it. The FBI was my alibi should Book Four happen. I made my way into waist-deep waters, breathing through the cold shock to my body, and waved at the boat. Then I waved at the photographers on the east side of Highway 61 before diving forward into my swim.

Swimming is my escape and my exercise. Out here in the water? My mind clears up, and my body heals. I settled into a leisurely pace, moving north along the shoreline. When I make the turn, the boat is even with me. By the time I reach the finish point, it has turned around again. I decided to strike a pose for the paparazzi, dipping my hair into the water before flinging it back as I stood tall again. Ripped abs make for good clickbait, and I didn't look bad for my age.

An hour later, I'd finished my workout and was eating breakfast when the buzzer sounded. I walked to the hallway and answered it. "It's Joseph Warneke. Gerald sent me."

Joseph was the electronics and counter-surveillance wizard he'd brought up from the Twin Cities. "Come on up," I said.

I opened the door to a stereotype. Joseph was a hipster in his twenties, complete with the man bun, knit cap, and lumbersexual plaid shirt untucked over faded jeans and a vest. Not a down or fleece vest, but a freaking DENIM vest with ten buttons in front. He had a laptop bag over one shoulder and a device with an antenna in the other. He wasn't a spindly bookworm, though; he'd spent time in the gym. "Gerald says you're very good at your job," I said.

"I was in Marine Counterintelligence before I got out, doing embassy security," he replied. "Money is better now, and you wouldn't believe the chicks around the U."

"I went there, so I would," I told him as he set his bag down. "What's the plan?"

"Finish your breakfast. I need to sweep the house and cars for listening devices, so it's best if you stay in one place. After that, I'll check your phones and computers for bugs."

"Knock yourself out. The computer is in the office on the other side of the living room. I don't have a landline or smartphone, as I only use prepaid cell phones. Only two are activated right now. One is only for contacting my editor, the other for local calls."

"Personal calls?"

"I don't have those."

"I'll get going then."

Rocky followed him around the house while I ate, then I joined him in the office. The first thing he did was to install a jamming device over by the windows. The box sat on a table, and wires led to small transducers affixed to the windows with suction-cup attachments. "This is a white-noise generator and signal jammer," he told me when he turned it on. "The white noise helps mask sounds for your usual bugs while the transducers stop the lasers."

"Lasers?"

"Yep. That FBI group with the cameras and binoculars out there?" They were hanging out just south of me. "Think of this window as a big speaker. When we talk, the sound waves make the window vibrate just a little, but enough for a laser aimed at it to pick up. The jammer works like noise-canceling headphones. It picks up the sound waves, inverts them, and the transducers set the windows vibrating in the opposite direction. It's the best I can do without setting up a dedicated safe room for you."

"Are you putting these everywhere?"

"These aren't cheap, so no. If you need to speak without the FBI listening in, come in here and turn the machine on. Outside this room, pay attention to what you say."

"What about outside?"

"You've heard of parabolic microphones, haven't you?" That settled that.

After an hour, he pronounced my home clean of surveillance. "I guess the Lakeville cops couldn't get a warrant for that," I said. "I know they will bug any phones I use, so I'm careful with those. How can I communicate with someone in a way they can't listen in on? All I can think of is my Discord chat."

"You can use a Signal app on your phone or computer. It only transmits encrypted data over the internet or cell towers."

"But could the FBI still tell I was talking to a specific phone or computer?"

"Probably. The best defense is not to say anything." He handed me a small device. "This is a portable audio jammer. If you are in public, you can use it to defeat most listening devices. It's a white noise and ultrasonic noise generator. Turn it on and set it between you."

"Thanks," I said as I pocketed the device; it was about the size of a Tic Tac container.

"I'm going to leave you this thing," he said as he handed me the device with the antenna. "It detects transmitters, like audio bugs and GPS trackers. Use it if you take your car anywhere. Do you have a home alarm system?" I nodded. "Use it. If you suspect anyone was here when you weren't, check with this thing or have Gerald get me back up here."

"What if the FBI does another search warrant on me?"

"Gerald will get me back here. With hours alone in your home, they can take their time setting up surveillance." He handed me a bill; I had to open the safe to get the three thousand dollars to pay for the equipment, his time and travel, and his services. "Saying nothing and sending nothing is the best defense," he told me.

That was the excitement for the morning. After lunch, I decided to check in with the neighbors. I wasn't sure how they would take the news of the Headless Horseman killer, and I needed to know Jennifer Parson was safe. I locked up and set the alarm, then walked with Rocky down the private road until I got to their home. Before I reached the door, Alan Parson opened it.

And he pointed a shotgun at my feet. "That's far enough, David."

I stopped and raised my hands while Rocky took off for the door to find Jennifer. "I wanted to make sure Jennifer was safe."

"Funny. That's the same thing I'm making sure of."

"Did you take my advice and send her away?"

"She can't miss school, and the FBI doesn't think the threat is enough to put her in protective custody." My hands dropped a little at the news. "Look, David, you've been a good neighbor, and I want to believe you aren't a part of this crap. You understand that I have to protect my family, right?"

"I want you to do that, Alan. If you need anything, including money, let me know."

He nodded. I heard Jennifer yelling inside the house as Rocky whined at the door. Alan raised the shotgun until it pointed at my chest. "The FBI warned me about you. Stay home and don't come on my property again, Hardin. The next time you do, I'll assume you are after Jennifer and act accordingly. There's not a jury up here that will hold it against me. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly. I hope the police find the killer soon, Alan." He lowered the shotgun again. "Tell Jennifer that Rocky and I miss her. Come on, boy." I turned to walk back home. Rocky barked a few times, then ran after me.

I was mad about life as I trudged back home. For years, I'd been a self-imposed hermit, a minor celebrity hiding in my custom home on the shores of the Lake. Now that I knew I wasn't the killer, the suspicion was enough to restrict my movements even more.

They needed to catch this fucker, or I'd never be able to leave my property again.

I spent some time wandering the beach looking for agates with Rocky, taking advantage of the late-season sunshine. When I got inside, I didn't feel like cooking. I grabbed the burner phone and called my favorite pizza place. "This is David Hardin. I'd like my usual for delivery."

"Please hold, sir," the young woman said.

A minute later, the manager picked up the phone. "Mr. Hardin, I'm afraid we no longer deliver to your location," he said.

I couldn't believe it. "Joe, I've been getting delivery for you for years!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hardin." He hung up.

Frustrated, I called three more restaurants in Two Harbors that delivered. Two gave me the same answer, but the last one was honest enough to tell me why. Who wanted to do business with a serial killer?

I emailed my housekeeper with a grocery list, offering a bonus if she'd deliver before dinner. Ten minutes later, she replied with her resignation.

I'd have to find something in the freezer. I reheated my meal and took it into the living room with a beer. Sitting in my recliner, I turned the television news on.

The suicide was the lead story.

Chapter 45

Thomas Brickline's POV

Brickline Construction Offices, Minneapolis

Saturday, October 9, 2021

My lawyers had expected negotiations to go on another month, so they were shocked when I told them I'd accepted the offer and would close Monday. Pleas for more time fell on deaf ears. "I'm signing the papers Monday afternoon in Chicago," I told them. "Get it done."

They might need the whole office to work through the weekend, but they would do it.

I took the elevator to the parking garage and climbed into my latest toy. Construction workers wouldn't put up with foreign cars, but they loved American iron. My 2021 Ford GT500 Carroll Shelby Edition was a wet dream on wheels for car lovers. I hit the start button, bringing the 800-horsepower supercharged V-8 to life. Ford Motors only made a hundred of these special-edition cars each year, and it took me four years to get through the waiting list. I had the only 2021 model in Minnesota. I backed out of my reserved parking spot and drove out of town, letting the horses run free on Highway 394.

Weekend traffic was light, so I made good time to my home on Lake Minnetonka. I'd found the two-acre Excelsior property twenty years ago and built the prairie-style home of our dreams. My late wife, Leslie, worked with the architect and did all the interior design for the family home. The six-bedroom house was a tribute to her vision and energy, so we hadn't moved as my fortune grew. We'd raised our three daughters here, and we loved the place. The low grassy island between us and the main lake kept the waves and noise away, and the exercise room and sauna got daily use. I pulled into the garage bay next to my work truck, then entered through the mud room to the kitchen. "Hola, Margarite," I said to my housekeeper.

Margarite was a short, matronly woman in her forties. She'd joined our family eight years ago when Leslie had her first bout of cancer. Her smile and cooking skills quickly became indispensable as Leslie's battle raged, then ended six years ago. An immigrant from El Salvador, her husband and family were victims of gang wars, and she arrived in Minnesota as a refugee. Leslie hired her as our live-in housekeeper a month later, and she recently became a US citizen. "Welcome home, sir. Laura and Lisa are in the living room, and Lana's surgical rotation goes until six. Lunch will be ready soon."

"Thank you."

The girls were on their phones, so I waved and went to my bedroom. I changed from my suit into jeans and a golf shirt, then returned to the living room. I leaned over the couch, kissing Lisa on the cheek. She was 22, a senior at St. Catherine's in Saint Paul. The all-girls school had an excellent pre-med program, and Lisa wanted to be a doctor like her big sister. "How is school?"

"Biochemistry is kicking my ass," she said with a sigh. "And I've got two papers due next week I haven't started on."

"You're the one who wants to get into med school," Laura said with a smirk. "You'd think you'd learn from what Lana had to go through."

I patted Lisa's shoulder. "I can't help you with that. The only chemistry I know about deals with concrete." I walked around to Laura, who engulfed me in a hug. "How are you holding up?"