Fair Play (All's Fair Book 2) (13 page)

“Where did Star come from? Did she ever talk about her family or where she grew up?”

Tom laughed. “It’s almost fascinating hearing your ideas of what it was like back then. It wasn’t summer camp, let me put it that way. We were busy trying to overthrow the government and build a new world order. We weren’t roasting marshmallows and sharing favorite holiday memories.”

“You’re telling me nobody ever talked about home or their family or why they felt like we needed a new world order?”

There was a pause and Tom said irritably, “Star was Canadian.”

“How do you know that?”

“Eh,” Tom said. “She tagged that Canadian
eh
onto every other sentence.
Nice decade for a revolution
,
eh?
”

“If you don’t believe J.Z. was murdered, why were you so against this book being published?”

“
Why?
Are you being disingenuous? God only knows what Rollie put in there. If he only put half of what happened, it will be too much information. It’s fine for Rollie, he’s retired. But what about the rest of us?”

“You think that’s why someone tried twice to kill him? Because they don’t want to take early retirement?”

“You’re looking in the wrong direction,” Tom said. “If you’re really trying to find out who wants your father silenced, turn right after Will MacAuley’s lunatic asylum.”

Chapter Nineteen

The soggy ruins of the house in Ballard still smelled of smoke.

The cleanup process had begun and a lot of the debris had been carted away, but it was still hard to believe anyone would ever live there again. Elliot walked the perimeter of what had once been Roland’s backyard, and grimly studied the charred remains of a red-and-blue birdhouse.

Mrs. MacGillivray came outside and spoke to him over the fence, asking after Roland.

“He’s okay,” Elliot assured her. “Just lying low for a few days.” He hoped it was true.

“He’s coming back though?” Mrs. MacGillivray wore a flowered housecoat and orthopedic sandals. “I don’t know what we’d do without him.”

“Same here,” Elliot said, and she beamed at him.

“Tell Rollie I said hello.”

“Will do.”

Mrs. MacGillivray bustled away to restock her birdfeeders. Elliot looked down at one of the blackened rose bushes and spotted a speck of green. A tiny leaf. New growth. He smiled faintly.

In front of the house was a large old-fashioned yellow mailbox painted with a peace sign. Elliot opened the mailbox and found it stuffed to capacity.

Roland had either overlooked or not had time to arrange to have his mail redirected after the fire. Elliot collected it all, right down to the last piece of junk mail, and sorted through the bundle on the ferry trip back to Goose Island.

No crayon-addressed anonymous letters, but there were a couple of credit card statements, and after a silent apology to his missing father, Elliot opened them.

The closing date on one card was the previous Saturday. The last charges were for a rental car—on Saturday afternoon in Seattle—followed by a cup of coffee and croissant on the same day.

The other credit card statement showed no activity beyond the purchase of two tickets for a Mary Chapin Carpenter concert earlier in the month.

Great. Three guesses as to whom Roland’s guest had been.

But that really was none of Elliot’s business. He went back to contemplating the car rental charge.

No convenient gas charges to give a hint as to where Roland had been headed. But if he was driving, it couldn’t be too far, right? Wait. What had he said on the phone?
I’m not even in the country.
Had he actually said that? It had barely registered at the time, but yes, he had said he was not in the country. But how the hell could he leave the country without a passport?

Had Roland’s passport been in the little safe he rescued? Elliot didn’t recall seeing it that night, but it would make sense. Either way, it was a dumb question. This was someone who knew all about fake IDs, might even still possess fake IDs.

Christ. Hopefully not. Hopefully this was not going to end with Roland thrown in prison for something like passport fraud.

But if there was one foreign country that Roland had a lot of experience sneaking in and out of, it was the one that just happened to neighbor Washington.

Canada.

Elliot’s first impulse was to call Tucker. Not just because Tucker could probably get the information Elliot needed within a matter of hours, if not minutes, but because he was used to talking to Tucker, bouncing ideas off him.

The memory of the current situation between them stopped him cold. And cold was the right word. He felt chilled at the idea of not having Tucker to talk to, to share his thoughts with. He missed him. He missed him as though they had been separated by days or miles.

He missed him so much that he almost thought to hell with it and phoned him anyway.

But no. Because as much as he missed Tucker, he was also disgusted and disappointed and angry.

But mostly he missed him.

* * *

The rain started again as Elliot drove off the ferry and started up the winding road to the cabin. The slate skies and gray light made it seem later than it was, and the moist, balmy air had an almost autumnal feel.

When he reached the cabin, he signed into Roland’s email. It didn’t look like Roland had checked his inbox since Sunday. Elliot considered leaving a note for him, but that was liable to backfire. Roland might change his password and Elliot would be back at square one.

He thought of Roland’s credit card statements. An idea occurred. He checked Roland’s passwords folder, and yes, sure enough, the information he needed to log into Roland’s credit card accounts was all there.

He spent the next half hour studying Roland’s credit card purchases, and then he booked a plane flight. Tucker would not be happy about the trip north, but chalk that up to the long list of things Tucker was not happy about.

Was Tucker coming home that night? He hadn’t said, and Elliot was not about to ask. But if Tucker was planning to spend the night on the island, dinner out would probably be easier on both of them rather than struggling through another meal at home. Granted their dining-out options were limited. There was one restaurant on the island. The Boathouse was technically part of the Dorado Bay Yacht Club, but it served the entire island. In any case—and to Elliot’s bemusement—Tucker had become a member of the yacht club when he’d moved to the island.

So Elliot made reservations for that evening at the Boathouse. Problem solved. The service was good, the food was better, and there was a full bar, which was probably going to come in useful.

Assuming Tucker didn’t decide to spend the night in town. Frankly, that was probably the choice Elliot would have made if he’d had a hideout on the mainland.

Or at least once would have made. But though Tucker had his faults, emotional cowardice wasn’t one of them. He would come home tonight.

But not for a few hours yet. Elliot reread the sections of
Power to the People
he had highlighted the first time through, and then he phoned Mischa again.

She must have recognized the number, because she answered saying, “Elliot. I was just thinking about you.”

“Uh-oh. Sorry to phone at dinnertime. Have you heard from my father?”

“Have
I
heard from him? No. I just heard from Nobby. He told me Roland has decided not to publish the book after all.”

Elliot digested this startling piece of information. “When did Nobby tell you that?”

“A few hours ago.”

Elliot was silent, and into his silence she said, “This is news to you, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

She gave a short laugh. “I thought it sounded a little too good to be true.”

“It might be true. I haven’t spoken to Dad since Monday.”

“If it’s true, it’s the first time I’ve ever known Roland to just give up.”

“Did Nobby say when he spoke to my father?”

“No.” Elliot was thinking that over when she added, “Was there something in particular you wanted to ask?”

“Sorry. Yes. I’ve finished reading my dad’s manuscript, and I had a couple of questions.”

“Oh?” She sighed. “Very well. Ask. But I can’t promise that I’ll remember let alone be able to answer.”

If anyone knew where exactly Roland might be headed, it was probably Mischa. She would have been Roland’s companion on more than a few trips across the border. She would know where he usually stayed and if he had friends to call on. But unlike Tom Baker, Elliot wasn’t convinced the only people who might want Roland out of the way were Will MacAuley and his fan club. He suspected someone in the Collective might have a pretty good reason for wanting Roland stopped. And the problem with asking questions was when you knew how to interpret information, the choice of question told the interviewee as much as the answer did the interviewer. Sometimes more.

One piece of information Elliot did want disseminated to every former member of the Collective was that he had read the manuscript. If there really was information in those pages that someone did not want to get out, the leak was already sprung. There was no point going after Roland unless that someone was willing to come after Elliot as well. He intended to send that message as clearly as he could.

He continued as though Mischa hadn’t spoken, “And I’ve talked to a few people about it—”

“Who did you talk to?” She sounded mildly curious, no more.

“Ruth, Tom, Nobby, the FBI—”

“
The FBI?
”

“I’ve still got a few friends at the Bureau. Anyway, it looks like no one ever saw J.Z. McGavin again after he walked out of the house you all shared in Bellevue. The Bureau believes that he was murdered by someone in the Collective after his cover was blown.”

“That’s what we all think, whether some of us will admit it or not.”

“You’re saying you all believe my father killed J.Z.?”

“No. I’m not saying that. I’m saying none of us had the nerve to ask any questions or look too closely.” She said abruptly, “Roland is no killer. I want to tell you something. Had your father been able to keep his pants zipped, he could have been a great man. And I do mean great. He was a natural leader. People gravitated to him, listened to him, followed him. He could have achieved important things.”

“Maybe he thinks he did.” That was a son speaking, not an objective investigator, and Elliot was irritated with himself.

“Knowing your father, I’m sure he does.” Mischa sounded tart. “Don’t misunderstand. I’m still very fond of Rollie. I can’t say I was particularly delighted with him back when he was bopping everything that moved, but we went to high school together, so I can’t say I didn’t have fair warning.”

“I didn’t realize you’d known each other that long.”

“Rollie and I grew up together,” Mischa said almost wearily. “We grew up in the Movement. We shared...we have a bond that time and differences can’t erase. It wasn’t like it was with Ruth or even with your mother. Don’t misunderstand me, we couldn’t have remained together, we’d have killed each other. But we will
always
be connected.”

She said it with flat and total certainty.

Elliot decided it was time to change tack. “What happened the night Star disappeared?”

“
Star?
” Mischa sounded startled. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Well, no one ever saw Star again either. Is that correct?”

“I...yes. I suppose it is.”

“I’m trying to get the timeline straight in my head. J.Z. was thrown out of the group and then the
following
night Star left?”

“Er...yes. We learned that J.Z. was an undercover FBI agent. Absolutely ironic given that some of our best ideas for sabo—civil disobedience came from him. Of course the smart thing to do would have been to let him think we didn’t know, and to start feeding him false information, but your father was so outraged, so offended he couldn’t keep it to himself.”

“How was J.Z.’s cover blown?”

“Frank found out. Frank Blue. You’re too young to remember him, but he was supposed to be Seattle’s answer to Bob Dylan. Back when Dylan meant something. Anyway, he played a concert at the new governor’s mansion in Olympia. His family had been involved in politics for years. One of his great-great-grandfathers had been governor himself. It turned out that some big shot from the local FBI office was there, had a few drinks, and—not realizing Frank was one of us—let slip that they had a mole in the Collective.”

“There wasn’t any question who the mole was?”

Mischa laughed. “No. Well, as I’m sure you’re aware, the FBI didn’t have women agents until ‘72, so that left Roland, Frank, Nobby and J.Z. as our possible mole. Nobody had any doubt who it was. Besides, J.Z. folded like a house of cards when Roland questioned him.”

“What happened next?”

“Nothing. Roland told him to pack up and get out. He did.”

“No one threatened him?”

Her laugh was disbelieving. “Are you joking? Of course there were threats. You can’t imagine our sense of betrayal. This was a man we had lived and worked with for months—for some of us, years. He was one of us. We ate together, slept together.
Slept!
” She spluttered. “That’s a good one. He was Ruth’s lover, Suzy’s lover, even Star’s lover—though Roland had warned him to keep his hands off her. Oh, you had better believe there were threats. We all threatened him.”

“So J.Z. was banished. Then what?”

“The next evening Star came in. She was crying. She grabbed all her belongings and began stuffing them in her backpack. She wouldn’t tell anyone what was wrong. Roland got in not long after and tried to talk to her. She lost it. Entirely. Totally freaked out—and freaked us out as well—screaming at him, accusing him of murdering J.Z., and then finally fleeing into the night like the crazy little slut she was.”

“She specifically accused Roland?”

“Yes.”

“And what did the rest of you do?”

“Spent the next couple of hours trying to figure out what she was on.”

“You didn’t think even for a minute that maybe there might be truth to her story?”

“There was no story. There were tears, crazy allegations and a slammed door.”

“No one went after her?”

Mischa hesitated. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so or you don’t want to say?”

“I don’t remember.”

Elliot let that go. “Who, in addition to yourself, was there that night?”

“We all were.”

“Well, you said Roland came in later, so were you all there the entire time or—?”

“No. Actually, you’re right. Nobby had taken off for Canada that morning. I’m not positive he even knew about J.Z. He was stoned a lot of the time and living out on the farm. Frank was not there, I remember that because he
had
been there the night before when Roland went after J.Z. Ruth was there, Tom was there, Suzy D....I think was there.”

“You’re sure Frank was there the night J.Z. was expelled?”

“Yes. Positive. He said he believed J.Z. had a right to face his accuser.”

Yet according to Roland, Frank had not been there. So whose memory was at fault? Or was it a deliberate obscuring of facts? Protecting the fink?

“So the night Star walked out, it was Dad, you, Ruth, Suzy D. and Tom.”

“I think so. Ruth may not have been there the whole time. She didn’t like big emotional scenes. I think she may have ducked out when Star began hitting notes in her upper register.”

A revolutionary who didn’t like emotional scenes? Elliot kept the thought to himself.