Fair Game (12 page)

“Not that I’m aware.” Charlotte’s smile was slightly pained. “Students, even gifted students, do elect to leave us. Rarely are the reasons sinister.”

That was certainly true. Most people who disappeared chose to do so. It wasn’t a crime to be a missing person. No matter how much it hurt the people who loved you.

Elliot murmured something noncommittal as Roland moved around to the back of the sculpture.

Charlotte added quietly, “His aunt isn’t here either. That’s interesting, don’t you think?”

Interesting. Mildly. Hardly conclusive. Elliot had talked to Zahra after his dinner with Anne, in an effort to find out what she and Gordie had argued about the morning Gordie had disappeared. Zahra had initially denied arguing with Gordie, then she had claimed she had been worried he would make trouble for himself by pursuing a relationship with a professor.

He’d been unable to get a straight answer as to what Gordie’s response had been. But maybe that was because Gordie’s reaction to Zahra’s concern had not been clear cut. It seemed to Elliot, that for all Gordie’s reported bad temper, he had restrained himself with Zahra. Gordie appeared to be genuinely fond of his aunt, which lent some credence to her belief that he wouldn’t take off without a word to her.

He made a so-so gesture to Charlotte.

She chuckled as though he was deliberately being stubborn. “You do enjoy your mysteries.”

He did? Maybe he did.

She squeezed his arm affectionately and moved away as Roland rounded the pedestal. He rejoined Elliot.

“What was that all about?”

“I agreed to look for the Lyle kid. Charlotte thinks I’m wasting my time and energy.”

“Oh yes? I saw the mother making an appeal on TV. On the KONG station. Very touching.”

“That was his aunt. According to her, he’s been missing for about a week. She’s worried.”

“The boy’s a student of yours?”

“No.”

“Then why are you getting involved?” Roland’s tone was curious.

“I wish I knew. Maybe it pisses me off the way everyone is so ready to dismiss this kid’s disappearance—and his aunt’s concern. My experience has been that most people aren’t concerned
enough.
”

Roland laughed and patted him on the shoulder. It seemed to be Elliot’s day for
atta boys.
“Like it or not, you’re a chip off the old block, Elliot. Even if you did choose to express your desire to help mankind in the pay of a repressive, authoritarian institution.”

Elliot sighed. “Dad, go tell it to your pal Andrew Corian. I get enough of that rhetoric from him.”

“Corian’s all right. Maybe a pinch over-opinionated.”

He left Elliot chewing over that sweeping irony, and Elliot moved to the next exhibit, a very well-done male nude in limestone.

“I may not know a lot about art, but I know what I like. I like
that.
”

Jim Feder stood next to him, his shoulder brushing Elliot’s. He offered a smile that was slightly shy, but determined.

“It’s a beautiful piece,” Elliot agreed.

“Terry’s funeral is Sunday.”

“I’d heard.”

“Are you going?”

“I haven’t decided. I’m not sure that’s what Terry’s parents would want.”

“I’m going.”

“You should go,” Elliot assured him. “I didn’t know Terry. You did. You cared about him.”

Feder took a deep breath. “I was wondering,” he began very casually, “if you would want—”

“Elliot,” Roland said, strolling up to them. “A few of us are going to dinner at Giacometti’s. Are you coming?”

“I’ll be right there.” He gave it a moment, and then turned to Jim. “It’s nice seeing you again, Jim. Take care.”

Good food, good wine, good company. They had always ranked high on Elliot’s list of life’s pleasures, but he found himself restless and unable to concentrate as he sat in Giacometti’s restaurant after the art exhibition listening to the usual professional gabble about funding and screening and online social networking.

The food
was
good: from the zuppa toscana soup to the swordfish a la siciliana. The wine, a Sicilian chard, was also excellent. The problem was him. Elliot knew that much. From the minute he’d agreed to look into Terry Baker’s disappearance, his restlessness and dissatisfaction with his new life had steadily escalated. The reentry of Tucker into his life hadn’t helped.

“I believe most of our faculty make the effort to preserve their private lives, but professors really have responsibilities twenty-four-seven.” Charlotte’s voice drifted to him across the table. “We all have to be conscious of that. The university is drafting a social media policy for those of our faculty who choose to engage in online interaction. We have to be conscious all the time of the boundaries between student and staff.”

Was Charlotte directing that comment toward him? Elliot wondered as he met her gaze over the candles and wine glasses and filled plates. Maybe she’d seen him talking to Jim Feder and misread the dynamic? Or maybe she was thinking about Zahra Lyle’s allegations. Not much went on around campus that Charlotte wasn’t aware of. Did she have her suspicions as to which professor Gordie had been involved with? It wouldn’t be too difficult to pin down. There were only about five female professors who were unattached and in the right age bracket.

Assuming Gordie limited himself to a particular age bracket.

Come to think of it, maybe he shouldn’t make any assumptions about that.

“It’s always been a consideration,” Roland responded, “but things were looser in my day. At the same time we didn’t have so many tiger traps. Blogs, Facebooks, Twitters.”

“No,” agreed another older lady professor whose name Elliot had missed. “We seduced our students the old-fashioned way.”

The others laughed, but Elliot could see Charlotte was not amused.

“Are you going to Andrew’s opening next Friday?” Anne asked from next to him, her voice startling Elliot out of his thoughts. He could understand why she was hoping for a change of subject.

“Andrew?”

“Corian.” Anne’s smile was deriding. “You remember Andrew? World famous artist? His office is in the same building as ours.”

“I remember Andrew.”

“You two don’t care much for each other, do you?”

“I never thought much about it.”

She chuckled. “Proof positive. That dismissing tone says it all. But next to your father he’s probably our most famous alumni. Well, not counting Charlotte.”

Charlotte had written two highly respected books on women poets of the Romantic period, but she was not a local celebrity in the way of Roland or Andrew Corian. Elliot said, “I didn’t realize Corian was having another exhibition.”

“I don’t know how you could miss it. The flyers are plastered everywhere.”

He bit back an uncharitable comment. “Are you going?”

“I suppose so. We have to support each other. It makes Charlotte happy.”

Elliot glanced across the table at Charlotte. She was sipping her wine and smiling serenely as her gaze rested on the faces of her staff. She reminded him of a queen benignly observing her obedient courtiers.

*  *  *

It was not until dinner was over and they were leaving Giacometti’s that Elliot had a chance to speak to his father alone.

“It’s good to see you making the effort to get out and be with people again,” Roland said as they walked to their cars. “I admit I was worried for a while there. You’re a lot like your mother. You both always took things too much to heart.”

“
We
did?”

But Roland wasn’t being facetious. “The world will break your heart if you let it, son.”

“Dad, I was in law enforcement for how many years? I don’t think I’m any starry-eyed idealist.”

“Of course you are. All cynics are disappointed idealists. The more stars in the eyes, the harder the fall.”

Elliot’s amusement faded. “What was Mom disappointed about?”

“Not in you. Never in you.”

“Was she disappointed in you?”

Roland looked flabbergasted. Slowly, the affection in his face hardened into something else. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Elliot had not meant to have this conversation here and now—he wasn’t sure he had ever meant to have it, would ever have had the nerve for it—but all at once it was on them, and he couldn’t see how to turn back.

He heard himself say, “What’s your relationship with Pauline Baker?”

“
What?
”

“Are you having an affair with her?”

For one instant Elliot thought his father was—for the first time in his life—going to strike him. He braced for it, mentally as well as physically, but in fact Roland’s unmoving silence was worse.

“An affair? With the wife of one of my best friends?” he said after what seemed like a very long time. “That’s what you think of me, is it?”

“I…No. I don’t know. I have to ask.”

“
Why?
Why would you have to ask me that? What possible reason could you have for asking me such a thing? Am I one of your suspects? A suspect in
what?
”

Elliot’s stomach roiled with a sick brew of guilt and shame and stubborn fear. “You’re not answering the question.”

“It’s none of your goddamned business, Elliot. That’s why I’m not answering the question. I don’t know if I’m more horrified that you would ask this question or that you honestly think there’s a
need
to ask this question.”

Elliot licked his lips. His mouth felt like it had been swabbed with cotton. “When you talk about Pauline, I sense that…you have feelings for her.”

“
I’ve known her for twenty years.
She’s the wife of my oldest—”

“More than that,” Elliot cut in, and this time Roland stopped trying to talk over him and fell silent.

Neither moved. Neither spoke.

“Go to hell,” Roland said at last, with finality. He walked away. Elliot stood motionless, watching him get in his car, reverse in a tight, neat arc, and speed out of the restaurant parking lot. The angry hornet buzz of the engine was swallowed by the night.

Of the trip back to Goose Island, Elliot remembered little. He could only remember one other argument with his father that had left him feeling this lousy—if “lousy” was the right word for sick at heart—and that was when he had told his parents he had joined the FBI. They could joke about it now, sort of, but at the time Roland had viewed Elliot’s decision as a defection. As a rejection of everything Roland believed in and had fought for. Roland had seen Elliot’s career choice as a betrayal, pure and simple. They had not spoken for six months. In fact, if Elliot’s mother had not died, they still might not be speaking. Despite what Roland thought, in some ways, Elliot was too much like him.

Too restless to wait in his car on the ferry crossing, Elliot got out and walked up and down the barge railings. Why had he pushed the issue? Why had he asked the question at all? He didn’t believe his father was accountable to him, nor did he believe that it was his place to judge if Roland
had
had an affair.

And he didn’t think—not seriously—that Roland had.

Except…there was nothing like working law enforcement for a few years to give you a jaded view of human nature. No matter how well you thought you knew someone, no one ever entirely knew anyone else. And if Roland had by some chance had an affair with Pauline Baker, how far back did that connection go? Why had Roland been so concerned over Terry Baker’s disappearance?

Elliot stood at the railing on the lower deck and listened to the slap of water, the rumble of the ship engines. Spray struck him in the face. It had a salty taste. His heart felt like lead. He was horrified that he could even consider these things. But what if they were true? What if Roland had an affair with Pauline? What if a child had resulted from that union? What if Tom Baker had discovered that fact?

Elliot shook his head. A little imagination was useful in solving crimes, but this bordered on delusional. And yet…

Somewhere in the black churning night a bell buoy tolled its sad song.

From the first he’d been skeptical of the idea that Terry had committed suicide. He needed to find out more about Tom Baker. Tucker had mentioned a police record. Granted, Elliot’s dad had a police record too, but Roland had advocated peaceful overthrow of the government. Passive resistance and canny handling of the media had been Roland’s idea of how to effect change. Baker, on the other hand, had a temper and Elliot had witnessed firsthand that he was prone to physical violence. Yes, Elliot definitely wanted to get a look at Tom Baker’s rap sheet, but with Tucker and the FBI’s withdrawal from the case, he was going to have to figure another way to obtain that criminal history record.

His uneasy preoccupation persisted as he drove off the ferry and headed home through the deep woods of Goose Island.

The two-story cabin was completely dark as he drove over the crest of the hill. He always left the porch light on, so the bulb must have blown. He parked in the garage and went through to the kitchen.

Maybe Steven was right. It would be nice to have a dog to greet him when he arrived home. The cabin felt cold and too quiet. A glance at the answering machine showed an unblinking red light, and he sighed. Fixing a drink, Elliot carried it into the sunroom where he spent a few minutes fiddling with the Pickett’s Charge diorama. Outside, the tall silhouettes of the pines swayed in the wind that shook the windows in their frames. He could see the long room reflected in the glinting, lamplit panes, see himself sitting hunched in his chair, nursing his drink and scowling at nothing.

Too bad Jim Feder was a student instead of another instructor. Too bad he was a suspect. Elliot would have liked company tonight, and he wasn’t feeling particularly particular. Even so, Charlotte needn’t have any fears on his account. Getting involved with a student wasn’t his style. True, Feder was an adult and he wasn’t Elliot’s student, but witnessing Anne Gold’s misery was a reminder of why mixing academics and sex was such a bad idea.

Not that mixing law enforcement and sex was much better because who was he kidding? There was only one person Elliot wanted tonight.

And by the evidence presented, the feeling was mutual. He let himself remember that astonishing kiss in Tucker’s car. The way Tucker’s face had looked afterward, flushed, his hard mouth pink and swollen from kisses. Elliot’s own face heated thinking about it.

So what was the problem, really? So long as everybody was on the same page? They were both adults. They both knew it was only sex. Everybody needed sex. No shame in admitting that.

He rolled the whisky over his tongue, considering. He even put his glass on the table in preparation of getting up and going to the phone.

The problem was that his newfound acceptance, this hard won calm, was too much like his reconstructed knee joint. It still worked, after a fashion, and it was mostly pain free, but it was not built to withstand prolonged, extreme stress—and nothing defined Tucker Lance like extreme.

Elliot picked up his glass again and finished his drink. He remembered that the front porch light was out, and he went to fetch a screwdriver, flashlight and a work stool from the mud room in the back. He propped the front door, climbed cautiously on the stool and removed the dusty crescent-shaped globe—an old-fashioned moon in a green night cap. He changed the bulb—it had blown, as he’d expected—and refastened the globe into place.

The moon smiled cheesily as yellow light spilled across the oak boards and down the steps to the gravel path. Moths batted against the illuminated globe face. Elliot steadied himself, hand against the rough wall and climbed carefully down. Not so long ago something as simple as scaling a step stool had been absolutely beyond him, so he took a second to rejoice that he not only still had his leg, he could use it.

What was the line from that old Bette Davis movie?
Don’t let’s ask for the moon. We have the stars.
Something like that. He gazed up at the grinning moon over the doorway. Good advice.

The sudden crash and clatter of the trash cans behind the cabin sent his pulse rocketing into overdrive.

“What the—”

He picked up the stool, put it inside the house, locked the door and went through to the unlit mud room, gazing out the windows at the metal trash cans in a straggling line. Once in a while a black bear swam over to the island and disrupted a game or two of golf or ransacked a few trash cans, but that was pretty rare. Elliot had yet to meet the bear that thoughtfully replaced a trash can lid.

He continued to stand on the darkened porch, watching. Nothing moved in the clearing and then, just as he’d nearly convinced himself the wind had rattled the cans, he heard the distinct roll and thump of logs falling from the wood pile around the corner of the cabin. His heart kicked into high alert, his brain working fast, and before he knew it he was opening the floor safe in his downstairs office and pulling out his back-up Glock 27.

The slap of the “baby” Glock’s grip against his palm felt comfortable, natural—like shaking the hand of a dear old friend. He slid the loaded magazine in, chambered a round and headed for the back porch once more.

Easing the door open, Elliot slipped outside and took a few seconds to get his bearings. He listened for his quarry.

The wind sounded like a river rushing through the tops of the pines. It whistled a jaunty tune beneath the lip of one of the trash barrels. A bird house mounted on a post creaked. His back pressed to the wall, Elliot traveled silently along the length of the cabin, stepping soundlessly. He reached the corner, ducked his head around—saw nothing—ducked back.

Behind him, he heard the scrape of a sole on stone. He whipped around, bringing the pistol up into firing stance. A shadowy figure stood on the cement stoop outside the back porch, trying the door handle.