Fair Game (6 page)

“In other words,” Zahra Lyle returned, “this is the official kiss off.”

“No. It’s not. But in order to proceed, I need to ask you a few questions.”

“I know all about the questions you’re going to ask, Mr. Mills. I already heard from Dr. Oppenheimer. All you’re interested in is proving to yourselves that Gordie ran away. You’re not going to convince me and I’m not going to shut up.”

This was one seriously pissed off lady. He had to wonder at the runaround she’d been getting so far. Or was she always like this? “Listen, Ms Lyle. I don’t want you to shut up. I’d like to help you, but I need you to answer my questions. I’m looking into the disappearance of another student and I’m trying to determine whether there’s a possible connection.”

Zahra demanded, “What other student?”

“Did your nephew ever mention a boy named Terry Baker?”

“No.” She unbent enough to add, “I don’t think so.”

“I’d rather not do this over the phone. Can we meet?”

There was a silence. “I’ll have to think about it,” Zahra said at last. She disconnected.

The Wharfside restaurant was a popular meeting place for Seattle University students and young professionals. On the outside it was all rustic timbers and small iron bridges over saltwater ponds filled with starfish and sea anemones. On the inside it was muted lighting and leather booths. A wall of curved windows offered superb panoramic views of the marina and downtown Seattle.

By the time Elliot arrived on Friday evening, the bar was crowded, the tinkle of the piano blending with the low babble of voices. The picture windows offered dramatic skies darkening to hues of apricot and brick. The marina water was glazed in silver and the indigo silhouettes of the city beyond blinked and glittered with lights. Elliot glanced around the wood paneled room. He was early for his meeting with Jim Feder—assuming Feder really planned to show.

An attractive woman with long dark hair and stylish glasses sat in front of the fireplace at the opposite end of the room. He recognized fellow teacher and friend Anne Gold and he made his way through the tables, watching as Anne sipped her drink and looked at her watch.

She looked up quickly as Elliot reached her table. Her smile faded, but she made an effort to recover it. “Elliot. What a nice surprise.” She raised her cheek for his kiss. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

Anne taught art history. She was twice divorced and reputedly a man-eater, whatever that meant, but Elliot had always found her charming and intelligent company. Then again he’d had the full series of man-eater immunization shots long ago.

He pulled out a chair at her gesture. “It’s a bit out of my way.” Out of Anne’s as well.

“I suppose so.” She offered as though by way of explanation, “The appletinis are legendary.”

“I don’t think I’m an appletini kind of guy.”

She laughed. She had a pretty laugh. “No, possibly not. How are you? It seems ages since we’ve talked.”

Elliot couldn’t help but notice that despite her smile, Anne’s gaze darted past him and then back. Waiting for someone who was already late.

“I’m good. Still settling in. I won’t stay. I’m here to meet someone. I just wanted to stop by and say hi.”

Anne made a face. “It doesn’t look like my friend is going to show anyway. The rat is now officially forty-five minutes late. Why don’t you have a drink and visit till your date arrives?”

“Not a date,” Elliot said. “Definitely not a date.”

“God, you make it sound like all that is behind you now. You’re not even forty. You’re certainly younger than me. Anyway, they say age is a state of mind.” Anne shook the ice in her glass and frowned.

“What are you drinking?” he asked her.

“Scotch and ginger ale.”

“Philistine.”

“Yes, I know. But on me it looks good.”

Elliot laughed. “It does. Let me get this, though.”

“If you insist, I won’t arm wrestle you.”

He rose, managing not to wince as he slightly twisted his knee. That was one of the hardest things to get used to, the need to always move carefully, plan ahead. As he grew stronger and the pain faded, it was hard to accept that he couldn’t do everything he once had. At first he had been grateful for merely being able to walk.

Leaning against the bar after he ordered their drinks, Elliot gazed idly around the crowded room.

Several couples were engaged in low voiced conversations, a group of guys sat glued to the big screen TV behind the bar, and at the end of the bar a young woman in a fisherman’s sweater was brooding over a drink with a tiny umbrella in it. Still no Jim Feder.

He carried the glasses back to Anne’s table.

She took her drink with a murmur of thanks. “How’s Rollie these days? Still planning to overthrow the government?”

Elliot winced. “Don’t joke.”

She laughed. Her gaze traveled past him to the door once more.

“He’s fine. I think retirement suits him. He says he can’t figure out how he used to get anything done having to work all the time.”

She laughed again, but it was reflex. Her mind was a million miles away.

“At the moment he’s got me looking into the disappearance of the son of some friends. Do you know Pauline and Tom Baker?”

He had her full attention now. “Tom Baker? Oh yes, very well. Pauline…not so much. She’s an odd duck.”

“How so?”

Anne said vaguely, “A mild case of agoraphobia or something. Or maybe she simply prefers home and hearth.” Her expression changed. “You mean Tom’s son is missing?”

“It’s starting to look that way. Did you know Terry?”

“Oh my God. No. Yes. I had him in class one semester. One of the general requirement courses. ATRHI 115, I think. Art in a Global Context. That was a couple of years ago. He’s pre-law, isn’t he?”

She remembered the exact course and she knew the Bakers, or Tom at least, well enough to know what field their kid was studying. Interesting.

“He is. He’s also studying architecture. You teach a seminar in architectural history, don’t you?”

“Yes. Not this semester, though. I only had Terry in class the once. How is it you’re letting yourself be sucked into this? Or is that a silly question?”

“Why would it be a silly question? I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”

Her smile was both sympathetic and mocking. “It’s a silly question because it’s obvious you miss being a cop.”

“I like teaching,” Elliot objected.

“But you liked the FBI more.”

He couldn’t argue with that.

They chatted a few minutes more and then Anne finished her drink and said she had to get going. “Let’s do dinner next week. How about Wednesday?”

Elliot said yes to Wednesday, they agreed on a local restaurant, bussed cheeks, and he watched Anne weave her way through the maze of chairs and tables. There was something about the line of her shoulders that seemed…dispirited? He wondered who she had been waiting for. A man, obviously.

Elliot sipped his drink and scrutinized his fellow bar patrons.

A young man with curly blond hair and brown eyes sat at a table gazing inquiringly his way. He looked about the right age for Feder. Certainly Elliot couldn’t imagine any other reason this kid would be eyeing him so intently, and it occurred to him that maybe Anne had a point. It had been a long—very long—time since he’d even considered getting back into dating. Mostly because he had no desire to date. Sex, yes. He’d like to have sex again.

Soon.

He mouthed across the crowded floor, “Jim?”

Feder nodded, picked his glass up and made his way to Elliot’s table. “You’re Dr. Mills?”

“Call me Elliot.” They shook hands and Feder sat across from Elliot. “Thanks for meeting me at such short notice, Jim.”

Feder nodded. He looked uncomfortable. “Sorry if I was rude on the phone, but…” He changed that. “You said Terry’s parents hired you to find him?”

“I’m acting as a consultant in the case. The FBI is looking into Terry’s disappearance.”

Feder slopped his drink on the table. “The
FBI?
” No mistaking the shock there. It could have been the echo of Charlotte Oppenheimer’s own apprehension. Feder recovered and took a long swallow, watching Elliot over the rim of his glass.

Watching him, trying to read him, Elliot said, “Terry’s parents are convinced he didn’t take off of his own volition. That he’d never do something that hurtful.”

“What about the hurtful stuff they’ve done?”

“What have they done?”

Whatever they had done, Feder let it go. He said instead, “The Bakers are well connected, that’s for sure, but Terry’s going to hate this when he finds out. The
last
thing he’d want is the FBI, or anyone else for that matter, digging in his private life.”

“So you feel sure that Terry disappeared voluntarily?”

“Yeah. I’m sure he did. He’d had it with his old man. With the whole…bullshit facade.”

Elliot considered Feder’s boyishly handsome face. “Did Terry tell you he was leaving?”

“No. Not in so many words.”

“What
did
he say?”

Feder admitted, “Nothing, I guess.”

“How close were you?”

The uncomfortable look was back. “Not as close as we used to be.”

“So you weren’t…dating?” Did they still call it dating? Sometimes Elliot felt like his social “real age” was forty-seven instead of thirty-seven.

Feder shrugged. “It wasn’t like…officially over, but we weren’t seeing much of each other anymore.”

“Why’s that?”

“Why else? Terry’s dad. Mostly. There was always like this yardstick he was waving over Terry’s head. This impossible standard he set. Being gay was not part of the program.”

“And that put pressure on your relationship?”

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s funny Terry didn’t take his car or any clothes if he left voluntarily. His suitcases are still under his bed.”

Feder stared at Elliot. He began to shake his head. Elliot watched him curiously.

At last Feder said, “That sonofabitch killed him, didn’t he? Killed his own son.”

“Time out,” Elliot said. “I’m not suggesting anything like that.

“But that’s it. That
has
to be it.”

“A couple of minutes ago you were assuring me Terry walked away under his own steam.”

“But that’s because…” Feder’s voice faded away. He gazed at Elliot unhappily.

“Tell me about Terry,” Elliot invited at last.

“What do you want to know? He’s a straight A student. A straight arrow.”

“Yes, I got that. But what’s he like? I can’t seem to get a fix on him. No one has a negative word to say about him, but I know he didn’t have a lot of friends.”

“He doesn’t have enemies either. Terry’s quiet, kind of shy. He’s your typical nice guy. He doesn’t like to rock the boat.”

“I gather he’s taking pre-law because that’s what his father wanted.”

“That’s right. Terry wants to be an architect, but his dad insisted on law. It’s not like architecture is some way out artsy fartsy major. But it wasn’t good enough for Tom My-Way-or-the-Highway Baker. And Terry…” Feder shook his head. “Terry doesn’t like to make waves.”

“To the extent of training for a job he didn’t want—and giving up a relationship he did?”

Feder threw Elliot a funny look. “It’s not like…I mean, Terry and I weren’t…”

“Serious?”

He flushed. “No. I mean, it’s not that I—we—didn’t
care
about each other, but we’re not—we’re only in college. It’s not like anyone wanted to settle down.” Feder’s eyes met Elliot’s with sudden guilty intensity. “I still want to…see people.” He gave Elliot a diffident but engaging smile. “I’m still available.”

Feder was attracted to him. The realization caught Elliot by surprise. He reached for his own drink, took a sip to give himself time and said neutrally, “Did Terry feel the same way?”

“I don’t know.”

Translation: no.

“Can you think of anything else that might be useful?”

“Not really,” Feder said apologetically. “I mean, I was surprised and I
wasn’t
to hear Terry had split, if you know what I mean?”

“Yeah. If you think of anything that might be helpful, or you happen to hear anything, will you let me know?”

“You mean like if Terry calls me?”

“That, sure.” Elliot thought the chances were pretty remote. “But if you hear anything about Terry, I’d like to know.”

“Okay. Sure.”

Elliot started to rise and Feder said quickly, “Um, could I buy you another drink, Elliot?”

Elliot hesitated. Feder was attractive and seemingly interested, and it had been way too long since Elliot had been with anyone. But not only was Feder a student, he was technically a suspect. A suspect in
what,
remained to be seen, and Elliot’s own involvement was mostly unofficial, but he was approaching this like any case. And doing the—as his father would say—wild thang with a suspect was definitely not okay. “How about a rain check?”

Feder looked flatteringly disappointed, but recovered. He said playfully, “It rains a lot in Seattle.”

Elliot grinned. “It does, yeah.”

He rose, careful not to move his knee the wrong way, self-consciously aware of Feder’s attention as he threaded his way through chairs and tables and people.

“Night, Elliot,” Feder called softly after him.

The doors to the Wharfside swung closed behind Elliot. The night air smelled of briny ocean and broiling steaks.

He walked over the bridge to the parking lot, passing talking, laughing couples on their way inside. Starlight sparkled on the marina water. The docked ships and buildings along the wharf cast rippling black shadows on the water. Music and laughter drifted from the restaurant as the doors opened and closed again.

Elliot fished his cell out of his pocket and thumbed the numbers he still remembered.

“Lance,” Tucker answered briskly almost at once.

Elliot had expected the call to go to message, so he was disconcerted to find intelligent conversation required. That was what was making his heart pound, right?

“It’s Elliot.”

There was a fraction of a pause and Tucker said smoothly, “This is a surprise.” His voice dipped and there was chink of ice in a glass. “What can I do you for, Professor?”

Elliot picked out the background noise of a dishwasher. Tucker was in his kitchen fixing himself a drink, a scene Elliot remembered from more than one evening where a long, wearing day had ended at Tucker’s apartment and, after a couple of drinks, in Tucker’s bed. The undertow of memories nearly sucked him under for a second. How the hell could you be homesick for a place that had never been home?

No, it wasn’t Tucker’s home or Tucker that he wanted; what he missed, with sudden gut-wrenching longing, was his old life. That was all. Because anything else would just be too damn sad.

“I just met with Jim Feder, Baker’s boyfriend.”

Tucker took a swallow—maybe to give himself time—and said flatly, “Really? When did we agree on that?”

Elliot pressed his key fob and the lights to his Nissan 350Z flashed on and off halfway down the long line of parked cars. He walked toward his vehicle, energized by annoyance. “I don’t need your permission, remember? I’ve got Special Agent in Charge Montgomery’s permission. I’ve got the permission of PSU’s president. I’ve got the permission of Terry Baker’s family.”

“I see.”

Elliot was expecting a more aggressive response. Tucker’s restraint put him in the unfamiliar role of belligerent. He unwound enough to say, “I’m not trying to step on your toes. I know you’ll want to interview Feder yourself. I told him to expect it.”

“That’s big of you.”

That was more the response Elliot had been waiting for. He added caustically, “When you get around to it.”

“You know, I do have other cases.” Tucker was probably not trying to rub in the fact that Elliot was no longer with the Bureau. He had his faults, but pettiness had never been one of them. He was likely merely stating the facts, but it hit Elliot on the raw all the same.

He retorted, “I don’t. The Bakers are family friends and they’re in hell waiting week after week to hear if their kid is still alive.”

He reached the 350Z, opened the door and slid under the wheel, listening for Tucker’s terse, “If you’ve got some complaint about the way I’m running my case, let’s hear it.”

“
Are
you running the case? Because the impression I get is your mind is made up. You think Terry Baker walked away and further investigation is a waste of time and energy.”

Tucker drawled, “Same old Elliot emotionally lashing out at anyone who doesn’t ask
how high?
the minute you say jump.”

“
Same old Elliot?
What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“Are you telling me you had a problem with the way
I
did
my
job?” Why the hell that should matter so much was anyone’s guess.

“A problem with the way you did your job?” Tucker sounded disconcerted. “No.” He recovered fast. “Not particularly. With the way you handled some other things? Yeah. I’ve got a problem.”

Just like that it was in front of them: the brutal, disastrous ending of their relationship.

“The way
I
handled things?” Elliot snarled. “Christ. You’ve got a complaint about how
I
handled things? You’re the biggest asshole on the planet, but you’ve got a complaint about how
I
treated
you?
Let me try and understand. Wasn’t I sensitive enough? Wasn’t I supportive when you needed me? Wasn’t I understanding of what you were going through?”

In the resounding silence Elliot could hear a foghorn wailing across the harbor. Belatedly it occurred to him that Tucker had probably had more than one drink that evening. That made them even because if Elliot was sitting here in a parking lot yelling at him about the good old days, he’d clearly had more than enough too.

“Well, at least you’re not holding a grudge,” Tucker said finally, mildly.

Elliot strangled a laugh. How the hell did Tucker do that? Make him laugh at the worst times? Make him laugh when, the truth was, nothing was funny. He said, “You know what? I don’t care. I don’t care what you think or don’t think. It’s ancient history. Do you want to hear what the Feder kid had to say or do you want to interview him yourself?”

“Sure, I want to hear what the kid said.”

Elliot sucked in a breath, struggling for professional distance. Not that he’d ever been exactly dispassionate. Agents who specialized in civil rights cases tended to take their cases personally. “According to Feder things were cooling down between him and Terry. He blamed Tom Baker, but I got a feeling the fact Feder wanted to see other people was a factor.”

“Was the wish to see other people mutual or are we discussing possible motive for suicide?”

“Suicide didn’t seem to enter Feder’s thoughts till I brought it up. He started off by insisting Terry was taking a breather. Midway through the conversation he was accusing Baker Senior of murdering his son.”

“Interesting leap.”

“I think there’s a fair bit of guilt there. I get the impression the Baker kid was much more into the relationship than Feder, and that Feder would prefer to believe almost anything to the idea Terry got depressed and capped himself.”

“You’re not looking at him as a potential suspect?”

“Too soon to say. Out of curiosity, what kind of alibi does Tom Baker have for the evening of his son’s disappearance?”

“He doesn’t. His story is he was working late, alone, at his office.”

Elliot started to reply, but he noticed the clock in the dashboard read a quarter after seven. He needed to get over to Steilacoom fast or he’d be spending the night at his dad’s. He said reluctantly, “Noted. I’m about to miss my ferry. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Later,” Tucker replied instantly.

Elliot clicked off and turned the key in the ignition. The 350Z purred into life.

It had been harder to disconnect than it should have been. Why? Maybe just the relief that they were actually talking. Elliot was not antagonistic by nature. He didn’t usually hold grudges. Anyway, it wasn’t like Tucker was the only person in the world he could discuss the case with. He could talk it over with his dad, seeing that Roland was the one who’d lured Elliot into this in the first place. Except…realizing his dad had feelings for Pauline Baker made it hard to discuss the grim possibilities objectively.

Besides, Elliot decided as he pulled out of the parking lot, he didn’t want company. He wanted to go home to his quiet, comfortable cabin and spend a peaceful night reading plagiarized essays—

Essays.

“Shit!” He’d left Leslie’s essay and the reviews Kyle had been reading over in his office at Hanby Hall. He needed them for Monday. Ah. But it was Friday, and that meant the final ferry to Goose Island didn’t depart until five after ten. He had more time than he’d thought. He spared another glance for the dashboard clock. Plenty of time, in fact. And the university was on his way.

Elliot merged onto the WA-99, busy and moving sluggishly at that hour. Once he reached the I-5 South he punched the accelerator and made excellent time. It took him only slightly over forty minutes to reach the campus. He parked in his usual place in the back lot near the chapel.

The brick buildings were dark, the grounds deserted as Elliot cut through the arboretum. On Fridays the campus emptied out early and there seemed to be no one around. The stands of tall Douglas firs and dawn redwoods gave the illusion of walking in a forest, far from civilization. The sweet scent of damp earth and pungent wood filled the cold night. Elliot’s breath clouded the moist air as he trudged through the museum of trees.

Hanby Hall had that eerie after-hours feeling. Elliot let himself into his office, grabbed the papers from his desk, shoved them in his briefcase. He glanced around, made sure he hadn’t forgotten anything else and turned off the overhead light. Locking his office door, he started for the front entrance. The emergency lights cast a thin glare over the walls and utilitarian carpet as he walked.

A phantom noise down the hall stopped him in his tracks. He turned and listened closely. A cleaning cart sat at the end of the corridor, but there was no sight or sound of any maintenance staff. There were the usual mysterious ticking noises and creaks of any large, institutional building, nothing to account for his sudden unease.

Elliot waited, ears attuned to the silence of the empty hallway.

No sound reached his ears.

Still he waited. He wasn’t, by nature, jumpy. Far from it, but one thing he’d learned during his months of training at Quantico was to pay attention to his instinct.

At last, though, he began to feel foolish. University buildings were secured by key control and electronic card access. The chances of an unauthorized person gaining admittance were slim. Campus security was constantly on the prowl for doors left unsecured or propped open. He pushed out through the entrance door, sliding his ID card to relock it.

The chirp of crickets filled the crisp night air. Elliot went down the steps thoughtfully. It had been after eleven-thirty when Terry Baker had left the library the Thursday evening he disappeared. In terms of how deserted the campus was, roughly the equivalent of nine o’clock on a Friday night—in other words, it would have been pretty much a ghost town as Terry had started back for his dorm. Assuming he had headed for his dorm.

Elliot checked his watch beneath the pallid glow of one of the old fashioned street lamps lining the walkway. At this time of night it shouldn’t take him much more than twenty minutes to make it over to Steilacoom. He had time for some physical investigation.

Instead of heading back toward the chapel parking lot, he turned off toward the gymnasium and tennis pavilion. Behind the green netting of the high fences he could hear the hollow plop of a ball being volleyed back and forth. It was the only sign of life, although he could see lights shining from the residence halls through the low hanging tree branches.

He passed the music building, currently silent, and cut across Otter Circle with its stone benches and odd statuary. As he’d expected, the library was closed.

Kingman Library was one of the oldest buildings on campus. It looked pleasantly Ivy League with its diamond-paned windows and vine-covered brick. Elliot walked its perimeter slowly. The surrounding hedges and stone walls offered a number of places for concealment, but so what? Baker had been an adult-sized male and this was the middle of campus. No matter how deserted it had been that night, it was hard to believe that no one would have heard Baker yelling for help. Campus security wasn’t SWAT but they did put in regular appearances.

Assuming Baker had a chance to yell. But Elliot couldn’t quite wrap his brain around the idea of knocking a young, adult-sized male out in the middle of campus and then lugging him…where?

Besides, this part of the campus was all covered by security cameras.

Maybe Baker had been jumped on his way back to Tetley Hall? Elliot considered the possibility skeptically. It wasn’t impossible, of course. If Baker had been a female, he’d be seriously considering the theory, so maybe he needed to be more open-minded and less sexist.

He decided to walk the path Baker would have been most likely to take.

Tetley Hall was one of the furthest residences, a comfortable distance from the noise and bustle of the main campus. Elliot followed the curving paved walkway through the tunnel of trees. Moonlight caught and illuminated the bowed branches of white birch, leaves cascading in flickering shades of silver and bone.

It was quiet and it was dark. The trees provided plenty of hiding places as well as blocking visibility from the residences, and this part of the campus was not under video surveillance.

It took Elliot fifteen minutes to reach Baker’s dorm, but Baker would probably have done it in about ten.

When he reached the dorm he noted the number of lights still on—not so many on a Friday night—and the blue flicker of television and computer screens in windows. He tried both entrances and, per school security policy, they were safely locked.

But then he didn’t think Baker had been snatched out of his dorm. If he had been grabbed, it would have been in that short stretch when he was out of range of the surveillance cameras and out of view of the dorms. About seven minutes where he would have been invisible.

Of course he could have taken a shortcut, in which case his travel time would be shorter but his time off the security radar longer. But at that time of night most people stuck to lights and walkways. Elliot massaged his knee absently, thinking it over, then he started back the way he came.

If someone had been waiting for Baker here in the shelter of the trees, he wouldn’t have tried to lug his victim across campus to the main parking lots. The most likely scenario was that he would park in the back, probably in the chapel parking lot which was always empty except on church service occasions.

Elliot stopped and tried to calculate the fastest way to reach the chapel parking lot. The safest way—the way that offered least visibility—would be to skirt behind the long rectangle of the ceramics building and then cut right across the chapel garden. The chances of running into anyone would be about nil, although one would have to have observed campus patterns for a while to know that.