Fair Play (All's Fair Book 2) (11 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Two goons in suits were waiting for Elliot in the university back parking lot when he finally locked his office and headed home.

One reason he chose to park behind the Cambridge Memorial Chapel was because it was nearly always deserted, and this afternoon was no different. Because he was preoccupied with what he’d learned from Ruth Margolies-Rossiter, he didn’t notice them until they got out of their black sedan. Not that he would have necessarily been on guard. Unlike the people he was trying to track down, Elliot did not view everyone in a suit as the enemy.

Or maybe, like Tucker thought, he was just losing his survival instinct.

“Mr. Mills?” The man nearest to Elliot held out an official-looking ID. “FBI.” He was about Elliot’s age. Dark hair, black shades, lean and hungry looking. He snapped his ID shut. “We’d like a word.”

“Really?” said Elliot. “FBI?”

“That’s right.” That was the other goon, coming up on Elliot’s left. Also dark-haired and wearing shades. He was bigger, beefier. Not as big as Tucker, but big enough to be a problem.

He might be wrong, of course. Maybe they were Bible salesmen trying a new approach.

“Could I see that ID again?” Elliot asked.

“No, you fucking can’t,” said the second goon, and he grabbed Elliot, shoving him backward onto the hood of the Nissan.

Elliot slammed down hard on his back. The back of his head made painful contact. He could feel the sun-hot metal of the hood through the cotton of his shirt.

Yeah, definitely out of practice, and reflexes way, way too slow. He hadn’t expected that escalation, and that was how most people got hurt or killed.

The Nissan’s car alarm went off, deafeningly loud, the electronic shriek bouncing off the school building walls and windows. Even so, it was hard to miss a guy speaking about an inch from your face.

“You want to be a wiseass, fine. We can do it this way,” Goon #2 said.

Goon #1 leaned over Elliot from the other side of the engine block. His mean-looking upside-down mouth said, “We have a message for you. Stay out of things that don’t concern you.”

“That could be a lot of things,” Elliot said.

Goon #2 was practically lying on top of him, breathing the steak-and-onion sandwich he’d eaten for lunch into Elliot’s face. It was a vulnerable position. Elliot was aware that he might get in a couple of good blows, but he was not going to be able to take both of them. It would not end well for him, and there was no need for it, because if they’d planned to really hurt him, they’d have started with a fist in the guts followed by a clip on the jaw.

So he held still and made himself focus on the shape of the guy’s ears, his chin, his mouth...looking for and memorizing distinguishing features.

“Yeah, and they could all be hazardous to your health,” Goon #1 was saying.

Goon #2’s hands curled into fistfuls of Elliot’s shirt. “If I were you, I’d take a nice long summer vacation somewhere far away from here.”

“Because if you don’t—” Goon #1 picked up his cue, “—we’re going to come back and break your kneecaps. Or maybe your back. Understand?”

Goon #2 gave Elliot a shake. “Understand?”

“I understand.”

He let go of Elliot’s shirt with a final shake, as though reluctant to part before serious bodily injury had been inflicted.

They drew back, staring at him almost clinically. Elliot remained as he was, watchful, wary, demonstrating that he was not a threat. Trying to play it smart, no matter how hard smart was on his ego. Because as much as it hurt to lie here like a dog on its back, it would hurt a lot more to have to listen to Tucker say
I
told you so
when he came to visit in the hospital.

Goon #2 laughed. “He understands. He’s smart. He’s a schoolteacher.”

They walked away. Elliot sat up. He watched as they got in their car, still chuckling, and drove away.

“ABZ 765.” He repeated it twice to himself. “Alpha Bravo Zebra 765.”

Got you.
You sonofabitches
.

He shoved his hair out of his face, aggravated to find his hand unsteady. That was adrenaline overload. Not just adrenaline though.

He picked up his briefcase, which thankfully had not burst open when he’d dropped it. He found his keys, unlocked the Nissan and crawled inside. He hit the locks and turned on the engine.

The radio came on and with it Will MacAuley’s now familiar voice. “...liberal lamestream media is actively aiding in the destruction of our great republic. It was Thomas Jefferson who said, ‘Our liberty cannot be guarded but by the freedom of the press, nor that be limited without danger of losing it.’ And yet as listeners of this program know only too well, today the press is actively engaged in furthering the political ends of a corrupt and morally bankrupt government...”

Cold air blasted out of the air conditioner vents, and Elliot wished he could blame the fact that he was shaking on that. But no. Truth? The kneecap comment had terrified him. And now he was enraged.

Had that been generic intimidation or had it been tailored to him?

You’d have to have been through knee surgery—or a kneecapping—to understand what a vicious threat that was. He automatically massaged his knee.

He found his phone but had to wait a few seconds till he was sure his voice was under control. He dialed Tucker.

“Hey,” Tucker said curtly. “Not a good time.”

Elliot said equally tersely, “Can you call me back?”

At least he thought he said it with equal terseness. But Tucker’s voice sharpened. “You okay?”

“Bitchin’.” Elliot clicked off.

Thirteen minutes later, Tucker rang back. By then on his way to the ferry, Elliot pulled to the side of the road and answered his phone.

“Sorry for that. What happened?” Tucker asked. “Is your dad okay?”

“As far as I know. We must be on the right track because I just got warned off the case.”

“As in—?”

“As in two enforcer types just threatened to break my legs.” He had to wait for Tucker to stop swearing before he could give him the whole story. “So that’s the good news
and
the bad news.”

“Have you reported the assault yet?”

“No. I’m on my way to Steilacoom.”

“What? You need to report this. Now. You can look through the mug books, see if you recognize anybody. There’s a good chance you—”

“Right. And how do I report it without letting Seattle PD know that I’m poking around their case? They’re going to love
that
.”

Tucker was silent.

“Exactly,” Elliot said. “I’ve got a license plate number though.”

“Let me have it.”

Elliot quoted the number back.

“They will rue the day,” Tucker growled. He wasn’t kidding either, and Elliot snorted. Somehow Tucker’s rage diffused his own.

“It’s got to be MacAuley,” Tucker said. “Who the hell else in this case would or could hire muscle?”

“Including MacAuley,” Elliot said. “The guy’s just a local political commentator, right?”

“A billionaire local political commentator.”

Okay. That was news. He figured MacAuley for a kook, but a billionaire kook was liable to make things more complicated. Even so...

“That still doesn’t make sense. Why would he be bending over backwards to cooperate with the police if he’s going to turn around and do something so obvious as send muscle to threaten to kneecap me?”

Poor choice of words. Word. Tucker started swearing all over again.

“Okay, okay,” Elliot said. “I appreciate the sympathy, but they actually didn’t do more than wrinkle my shirt.”

“
I’m
going to have a word with goddamned MacAuley.”

Once upon a time he would have been incensed at Tucker thinking he had to thump his manly chest on Elliot’s behalf. Now he could grin—albeit sardonically. “Hold off on that, will you? At least until we can talk this through. Are you home tonight?”

Tucker said something to someone on the other end before answering. “Yeah, I’ll be there for dinner.”

“See you then.”

“Take care of yourself.”

Elliot smiled. “You too.” He clicked off.

* * *

He stopped at the island’s general store with its old-fashioned rust-colored gas pumps and the oval now-faded painting of Puget Sound over the front door. Duckee’s also served as bakery, deli, hardware store, gift store, post office and ATM. Elliot picked up his mail and purchased fresh salmon, a carton of half and half, and freshly baked peanut butter brownies.

Home at last, he turned on the stereo—the Civil War’s “The One That Got Away” filled the silence—and headed upstairs. He changed into jeans and a soft gray T-shirt, came back down and set about preparing the salmon for dinner. It was going to be a perfect mild evening, and he was tempted to grill, but in the end he decided to broil the fish with a rosemary and thyme mustard glaze.

Already the incident in the chapel parking lot was dimmed, although his knee was more achy this afternoon. That had to be psychosomatic. He popped an aspirin and tried to think why Will MacAuley might do something so dumb. It really didn’t make sense, especially after what he’d learned from Ruth.

Maybe if MacAuley was somehow connected to McGavin/Zelvin? But that seemed unlikely given that McGavin/Zelvin was from back east and they had different surnames.

He peeled and boiled potatoes, scrubbed and chopped veggies. They’d have sour cream mashed potatoes and broccoli salad with cherry tomatoes, hazelnuts and fresh basil.

The CD ended, and in the wake of its last note Elliot could hear a woodpecker. There were three types on the island. In fact, it was a birdwatcher’s paradise. From hummingbirds to herons. The hollow sound hung lazily in the still, warm air.

He felt calm again. He’d been shaken by the incident in the parking lot, but he was okay. He was unhurt and he was undeterred. He’d figure out this thing with his father. He moved to the kitchen table, idly sorting through his mail—where was Roland’s mail going now?—vaguely considering whether he wanted a beer or not. One of the envelopes caught his eye. Or rather the stamped return address: Washington State Penitentiary.

The hair on the nape of his neck prickled.

Elliot knew only one current resident of the Washington State Penitentiary.

The Sculptor.

Chapter Seventeen

The note was short and to the point. The pleasure of his company was requested by celebrity psychopath and homegrown serial killer Andrew Corian.

Mills
,

You and I have our differences
,
but one thing you are not is stupid.
At least
,
not always.
As I am currently experiencing a dearth of entertainment possibilities
,
not to mention intellectually stimulating companionship
,
I’m extending you an open invitation to visit.
The amenities are not what either of us are used to
,
and I can’t promise to share the information your fascist friends are hoping for
,
but I can guarantee that I will not reveal that knowledge to anyone else but you.

Some hours later—he had lost track of the exact time—Elliot heard the familiar sound of Tucker’s Xterra coming down the drive.

“The orcas are back.” Tucker walked into the kitchen, loosening his tie. “I saw them in the cove before we landed. God, I’m glad to be home.” He paused, studying Elliot. “You okay? Is there word on your dad?”

Elliot, seated at the table, looked up. “Hmm? No. I mean, yes, I’m fine. No, there’s no word from Dad.”

Tucker bent down and kissed him. Elliot smiled and kissed him back. “Good day?”

“Yeah. It was.” Tucker’s brows drew together in a line. “You were a million miles away. Those gorillas from this afternoon on your mind?”

“No.” In fact, Elliot was surprised to realize he’d forgotten all about the goons. The incident in the chapel parking lot seemed like a long time ago. He handed Tucker Corian’s letter. “But it does seem to be my day for psychos.”

Tucker took the letter and read it over with absolutely no expression. He looked at Elliot. “What are you going to do? Are you going to go see him?”

There was no particular inflection in Tucker’s voice either. Maybe it was the complete lack of surprise that confirmed Elliot’s uneasy niggle of suspicion.

“You knew he was planning to write me?”

“No, I didn’t,” Tucker said grimly, and that was the truth because it was obvious to Elliot that Tucker would have headed this letter off if he’d known about it.

“But you knew he wanted to see me.” This time it wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” Tucker said. “He’s been asking to see you for months now.”

Elliot stared in disbelief at Tucker, who stared right back, unmoving, granite-faced. “Why the hell wouldn’t you tell me?”

“Because I don’t want you getting sucked back into his mind games. For your sake and for the sake of my case.”

It was not easy to hold back the things he wanted to say. He understood that once again Tucker was trying to take care of him. He understood that Tucker was trying to take care of his case by retaining control of it. He understood, but he was angry and bewildered at Tucker’s actions. So he struggled until he could get out a relatively neutral, “You don’t think you should have discussed it with me?”

“No. Because it won’t matter what I say. You’ll believe you have to confront him. You’ll think it’s your duty. You’ll think you have to prove something.” There was no apology, no embarrassment, no self-consciousness from Tucker. Incredibly, his only regret was not keeping Elliot from seeing that letter.

“So instead of talking to me, you shut me out of the case—a case you wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t handed it to you on a silver plate.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“You lie to me—”

“I didn’t lie to you,” Tucker interrupted again. “I haven’t lied to you once. I’ve chosen not to discuss certain things with you, but that’s not a lie.”

“Where I’m standing, it feels like a lie.”

“Where I’m standing, it feels like the only real choice. You didn’t listen to me last time. You let him pull you in once, you’ll let him pull you in again. You can’t help yourself.

“I can’t
help
myself? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what I said. You’re going to tell yourself you have to do this, that it’s your responsibility, that if there’s even a slim chance of bringing closure to the families of the victims, it’ll be worth any amount of hell. For both of us. I know you, Elliot. The more you don’t want to do something, the more determined you are about facing it, getting it done. You won’t see that he’s pulling the strings, that you’re playing his game—by his rules.”

“Wow. Thanks for your faith in me.” Elliot gave a short laugh. “And you think
I’m
the one who doesn’t respect parameters?”

Tucker’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything.

Where the hell did they go from here? Elliot had no idea. He was too angry. He couldn’t trust himself. And he wasn’t getting any help from Tucker, who continued to stand there, powerful shoulders squared, watching him as though Elliot had turned into a dangerous opponent on the other side of a battlefield.

He beckoned at the stove. “Help yourself. I’m going to work upstairs for a while.”

As he reached the doorway, Tucker said, “I want to point out that you’re the one walking away from this conversation. Not me.”

“If I don’t walk away, I’m going to say things I regret.”

“Then we’ll talk when you’re ready.”

That polite, almost understanding tone made Elliot want to hit Tucker with the nearest frying pan, so he left the kitchen and went upstairs—where he promptly spent the next forty minutes staring out at the twilight, trying to cool down enough to indeed work.

Putting everything else aside—which was easier said than done—this was the third time in a week that he had discovered Tucker had concealed important information from him.

Or was that fair? It wasn’t that Tucker was concealing information, exactly, it was more that he was simply shutting Elliot out, closing himself off and cutting Elliot out of certain channels of communication.

It hurt like hell. That lack of trust, lack of faith, lack of... Elliot swallowed. Respect.

What did they have, if they didn’t have
that?

He was so angry with Tucker that his earlier repulsion at the idea of having to once again face the Sculptor was almost secondary. And the assault in the chapel parking lot had dwindled to an afterthought.

It felt like such an enormous betrayal—and from such an unexpected direction—that he couldn’t seem to put it aside. He was thrown by Tucker’s certainty. Tucker was absolutely unapologetic. He was convinced he had made, not only the right decision, the
only
decision.

He kept coming back to the same depressing thought.
Where the hell did they go from here?
He didn’t know.

And having circled around to that conclusion several times, he finally turned on his laptop and began to work on something safe and neutral: inputting test scores.

At a little after eleven, Tucker appeared in the doorway of Elliot’s office. He tapped on the door frame. “Are you coming to bed?” His gaze was somber.

Elliot was equally polite. “Not right now. I want to try and get these grades finished.”

Tucker hesitated and then turned away.

Elliot continued working till his eyes felt gritty and the words on the screen began to blur. He turned off his computer and stared at the shadows stretching from the corners of the room. Outside the open window, the wind sighed through the trees. He could see flashes of far-off lightning over the Sound.

Corian had committed murder in this very room. Elliot looked across to where the bed once sat. He still dreamed about it sometimes. They’d had to rip up and replace the carpet to get rid of all the blood. And the cement in the cellar was permanently stained.

A shiver caught him by surprise. Corian was a sick, twisted sonofabitch, and the last thing Elliot wanted to do was have to face him again. But that had to be his choice. Tucker couldn’t make those decisions for him.

He went downstairs to the kitchen. The stove light was on, illuminating his untouched place setting on the table. Tucker had eaten half the salmon, cleaned up and put the leftovers away in the refrigerator. Elliot had a glass of milk, staring out at the moonlit treetops and the silvered water in the bay.

He wondered where his father was—and what he was up to.

Elliot turned on the sink taps, rinsed his glass and went upstairs.

Tucker was asleep. Moonlight illuminated him lying facedown, one arm and one leg spread possessively over Elliot’s side of the bed, and Elliot grimaced. Nights like this he remembered why a bigger bed would have been a good idea.

He moved quietly around the room as he undressed, washed up and then crawled carefully, cautiously into bed. He was too tired for a confrontation and he wasn’t anywhere near ready to call for a truce.

Tucker mumbled, rolled over. They slept back-to-back.

* * *

He awoke to the sound of the running shower—and a soft patter outside the open window. The earthy smell of summer rain carried on the dawn breeze.

Elliot sighed. He was not in the mood for rain today.

Of course, if that was the case, what the hell was he doing living in Washington state?

The tap squeaked and the shower went silent. He heard the glass door pop open, heard Tucker moving around the bathroom.

His heart sank. They didn’t argue a lot, but man, when they did...

The bathroom door opened. Tucker strode out, pale blue towel draped fetchingly around his waist, his hair slicked back and still damp. He glanced at the bed, met Elliot’s eyes, looked fleetingly...what? What was that look? Self-conscious? Guarded? Defensive? Whatever it was, it was gone the next instant.

“It’s all yours,” Tucker said.

“Thanks.” Elliot retreated to the bathroom.

When he came downstairs to the kitchen, Tucker looked at his sweatpants and T-shirt with surprise. “You’re not going in?”

Elliot headed for the coffee machine. “Yes, but I think I’ll go in later this morning. I don’t have class until one.”

Rain scratching at the window over the sink filled the loud silence behind him. He measured out coffee, aware that Tucker had opened his briefcase. Elliot poured in water, turned the machine on, glanced around and Tucker handed over a folder of files. “I meant to show you those last night before we got sidetracked.”

Sidetracked.
Now there was a euphemism.

Elliot examined the folder. It contained copies of old FBI files. He shuffled through the papers, studying mug shots. Tom Baker, Mischa Weinstein, Oscar Nobb, Ruth Margolies, Franklyn Blue, and, of course, Roland Mills. He looked up in surprise. “Thanks.”

Tucker nodded.

Some guys say it with flowers.
I
bring you arson reports.

Elliot said unwillingly, “You want toast or something before you go?”

“No.” Tucker was eyeing him with grim speculation. “Elliot, I know you’re still angry.”

“I’d be worried if you didn’t.”

“Are we going to talk about it or are you just going to shut me out again?”

Tucker thought he was being shut out? Now that was funny. Elliot set the files on the table top. “I’m not shutting you out. But I don’t know what there is to talk about. As you say, you already know I’m angry. And you’ve made it equally clear you’re unapologetic.”

Tucker squared his shoulders, as though readying for battle. “I didn’t lie. I won’t ever lie to you.” Even to make it easier on himself.

Elliot acknowledged that truth wryly. “No, you don’t lie. But clearly you do keep stuff from me, and that is a kind of lie.”

“I don’t agree.”

“I know you don’t agree, which is why I don’t know what there is to say.”

Tucker’s blue eyes darkened. “Which means what exactly?”

Elliot shook his head. “It means it’s hard to forgive someone who doesn’t think they’ve done anything wrong.”

“Can’t you see that I’m trying to do what’s right for you
and
for my case? Corian is fixated on you. He thinks the two of you are still locked in some private mortal combat. All the rest of it, the cops, me, the trial, none of it interests him as much as the possibility of getting face-to-face with you again.”

A chill rippled down Elliot’s spine. Nothing like having the undivided attention of a homicidal maniac. Not that Corian was legally insane. But for all practical purposes? Psychopath.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he said. “I do accept your perspective. You’ve been working the case for six months. I figure you have insight by now that I don’t. Besides which, I have no desire—or need—to feed that monster. You didn’t have to hide anything because I’m not going to go see Corian.”

At Tucker’s look of relief, Elliot added, “Which doesn’t change what happened between us. Lack of trust isn’t some abstract thing. It’s fundamental to a relationship.”

“I do trust you,” Tucker said. “This wasn’t about not trusting you.”

“Sure it was,” Elliot said. “But that’s moot. The point is, I don’t trust
you
now.”