Fair Play (All's Fair Book 2) (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

“You’re becoming a pest, kid,” Nobby said. “I don’t know how many times I can say it. I don’t know where Rollie is. And I don’t care anymore.”

“I know,” Elliot said. “I apologize. I had another question though. Who used to practice archery out in the back pasture?”

There was a silence.

“Nobby?”

Nobby said reluctantly, “We all did.”

“All of you?”

“Most of us.”

“That’s different. Most revolutionaries like to play around with guns.”

“I had enough of guns to last a lifetime. Anyway, it was just for fun.”

“So you owned the equipment? You were the one who introduced the others to archery?”

“No.” The reluctance grew pronounced in Nobby’s voice. “That was Mischa. Mischa was the real archer. She was a world-class competitor. Even with everything going on, she took part in the 1969 World Archery Championships. It was the last time she ever competed. She was that good. In fact that was one of the things she was fighting for. Getting archery back into the Summer Games.”

“
Mischa?
” Elliot repeated. He hadn’t seen that coming.

“I don’t think she’s drawn a bow in years,” Nobby said.

But he was wrong about that. After Elliot got off the phone with Nobby, he went online and began searching for “Mischa Weinstein archery,” and found that Mischa was an active member of the New York State Archery Association as well as the NYC Archery Club, with photos to prove it.

He was still thinking about that and revisiting a few theories when he fell asleep that night.

* * *

At nine-thirty Elliot turned up at Star Books and pushed through the green-and-glass door into the shop, which smelled pleasantly of old books and cinnamon from the attached
pâtisserie
.

“
Bonjour
.” A young dark-haired woman behind the counter smiled at him.

Elliot smiled back. On a Saturday morning, the shop had customers but was not so busy he could wander around unobserved.

The building was much larger than it seemed from the street. The walls—those not covered by shelving units—were painted dark blue with gold stars and various colored planets. The interior felt stuffy and it was certainly cramped. It was a place you could get lost browsing for hours and no one would care. Actually, you could probably literally get lost, given the maze of shelves and stacks of books, and they probably wouldn’t find you for days. Too many shelves and too many books on the shelves. Still, it had a weird sort of charm.

Elliot wandered through the labyrinth, studying the French and English titles. The subjects seemed to be laid out as someone had thought them up: anarchism, art, ecology, green anarchism, primitivism, labor, anti-repression, native studies, anthropology, history, economics, anarchist fiction—what in the name of green anarchy was that?—feminism, and queer/LGBT studies.

He felt a flare of excitement that had nothing to do with the reading material before him and everything to do with the certainty that he was on the right trail—although so far there was nothing to prove it beyond a gut feeling. Maybe his dad just really, really liked the croissants.

The girl at the front of the shop conversed fluently in English and in French with her customers.

Elliot picked out a book on astronomy, paid for it, and wandered into the
pâtisserie
half of the shop, where he purchased a coffee and a cinnamon sugar bun. He opened his book and spent the next few hours—and hours—reading, drinking coffee and observing who came and who went in Star Books.

That was easy enough because nobody but customers came and went.

Tucker had requested that he check in throughout the day, and Elliot texted as promised, although his “Think I’m getting warm” felt increasingly optimistic.

Eventually all the coffee and sugar buns exacted their price and he took time out from surveillance to visit the
petits garçons
room. On his way back from admiring the minimalist décor of the washroom, his attention was caught by a row of framed black-and-white photos. He paused to study them and his heart jumped.

Moving Day some forty years ago. Hand-painted signs, crates of books and a slim young woman in bell bottoms and a floppy hat sitting on top of a huge barrel. But even the wide brim of that ridiculous blue straw hat could not hide the heart-shaped countenance and wide, grave eyes he had been looking for in the face of every woman in this city.

Star.

It was true. The Star in Star Books was indeed the same Star who had once wanted to change the world, but ended up fleeing from a murderer.

Or had she?

Elliot studied the other photos and the people in them. Star was the center of every photo, but there were a number of people—men—in the background carrying boxes and furniture into the building. Lots of beards, lots of long hair...

“You like our cinnamon buns a lot?” a woman asked from behind him.

Elliot glanced around, smiling. “I sure do,” he said, convinced he would never eat another piece of pastry as long as he lived.

She was probably about sixty. Plump and gray-haired, grandmotherly looking. She wore a flour-spattered white apron and a hairnet. Not Star, though his brain did its best to match up her oval face and blue eyes with the picture in his brain.

He pointed to the photo. “Did you work here back then?”

She smiled, but it was the smile of someone who wasn’t quite sure what he meant. She started to reply, but his phone rang.

Tucker.

The woman moved away with a smile, and Elliot answered his phone.

“Hey.”

“
Bonjour
,” said Tucker, sounding like his usual self. If his usual self spoke French.

“
Ça va
.”

“Showoff. The reason it took so long to get information on the license plate of the goons who roughed you up is they’re connected.”

Startled, Elliot lowered his voice. “Mob connected?”

“Politically connected. The car they drove is one of several belonging to Seattle Council President George Clifton Blewe.”

“
Your
George Clifton Blewe?”

“I renounce any and all holding interest in him. But yes, the victim in my attempted-murder-for-hire case.”

“I don’t understand why a city councilman would have a problem with me. I’m not even sure how I would pop up on his radar.”

“I am,” Tucker said. “I spent my morning looking for the connection, and I found it. Frank Blue, the guy who wrote the worst wedding song in the world, is Councilman Blewe’s father. Frankie changed the spelling of his last name for stage reasons and to separate himself from his politically ambitious family. One of his great-grandfathers was governor of the state at one time.”

“I do remember Mischa saying something about that. I didn’t make the connection to Councilman Blewe though. How old is this guy?”

“Forty-something. When Frankie was in college, he got the daughter of another politically connected family pregnant. There was some kind of arranged marriage, which was never leaked to the papers because married folk singers were apparently a hard sell at the ticket booth. Anyway, the marriage didn’t seem to slow Frankie’s social life any.”

“I’m not sure how Councilman Blewe got wind of me poking around. Frank Blue is about as peripheral a character as there is in all this.”

“Maybe not as peripheral as an ambitious politician would like. Frank Blue is the one who blew Zelvin’s cover, remember? Some people—like any political opponent Blewe ever faces—could make the argument that Frank Blue was responsible for the death of an undercover FBI agent.”

“Having sat through way too many crazy political ads, I think you might be onto something. But I haven’t pursued any line of questioning related to Frank Blue. How would he—”

“That’s the other connection I was hunting for,” Tucker said. “The answer is your old pal Tom Baker. He’s Blewe’s attorney—and one of his favorite golfing buddies.”

It took Elliot a few seconds to come up with a response, and then the best he could manage was, “He’s not my old pal.”

“No, he sure as hell isn’t. With pals like that, you and your dad don’t need enemies.”

Elliot absorbed this bleakly. “I knew Baker wasn’t thrilled with me asking questions, but I didn’t realize how not thrilled he was.”

“Now you know. So watch your back.”

Through the glass partition Elliot saw an older woman bearing pastel shopping bags enter through the main door and greet the girl behind the counter with kisses on each cheek. The girl beamed and greeted her in French.

The older woman smiled, and Elliot’s heart leaped. She was taller than he had imagined, and she had thickened around the middle. Her hair was darker too, only now starting to gray, but that three-point smile and those wide eyes belonged to Star.

Star continued through the shop. Going upstairs to the second-story apartment, Elliot guessed. He said, “I found her.”

“Found who?” Tucker’s voice sharpened. “Star?”

“Yes. I’m positive it’s her.”

“And you’re at the bookstore?”

“Yes.” He nearly added, “Now in pursuit,” but remembered in time that he was only a private citizen—and in fact not even a citizen of the country he was currently in.

“Keep me posted.” There was the tiniest edge of unease in Tucker’s voice. That was because he still adhered to the theory that Star might be a femme fatale in peacenik clothing.

At one point Elliot had believed that was a reasonable theory too, but looking at the photos in the pastry shop had changed his mind. He’d had an alternate theory from the first, and he was now sure he was right.

He clicked off, dropped the phone in his pocket, and walked into the bookshop half of the building. He could hear the lady from behind the counter in the
pâtisserie
calling to him, telling him he had forgotten his book. Or at least he supposed that was what she was saying. She was speaking in French, and he wasn’t really listening anyway.

The dark-haired girl behind the counter smiled at him, surprised to see him back again, but something in his expression made her own turn wary.

She spoke to him, but Elliot continued down the aisle of books. The girl called to him again, more loudly.

He rounded a bookshelf, narrowly avoided falling over a small display table with a copy of
The Adventures of Tintin:
Breaking Free
, and spotted the green iron staircase winding up to the second level.

There was no sign of Star.

The staircase clanged beneath footsteps though. A man was coming swiftly down the steps. The supporting beams hid the upper half of his body. Elliot saw moccasins, blue jeans, a blue denim shirt...and then shoulder-length silver hair, a neatly trimmed silver beard, and pale blue eyes.

The blue eyes met his and widened in surprise.

Elliot said, “You must be Special Agent Jacob McGavin Zelvin. How’s that counterintelligence case of yours coming?”

Chapter Twenty-Three

J.Z. said, “
Elliot?
Elliot Mills?”

“That’s right,” Elliot said warily. This he had not anticipated—that J.Z. would recognize him, know him on sight. So that answered another question.

“I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it.”

His wariness and the initial surge of triumph, the almost primitive satisfaction of bringing a successful hunt to a close—and yes, the awe at confronting someone who had achieved almost mythic stature by then—were followed by a flare of hostility that surprised even Elliot.

So this was the famous J.Z. This was the man who had abandoned his post, walked away from his responsibility, his duty—and a job Elliot would have given a lot to still call his own—without having the decency or courage to inform his superiors? This double agent who had tried to play friends and colleagues against each other? Who had waltzed off with a teenaged girl—and allowed, even encouraged, people to believe that Elliot’s father had
murdered
him?

Elliot was surprised by how much he wanted to punch J.Z. right in his openly amazed—and unreasonably pleased—face.

The staircase was clanging noisily again, and the older woman—Star—appeared, leaning down from above. “Oh my God. Is that
Elliot?
”

Yes, no question Roland had made contact with J.Z. and Star. What the hell? Had Roland been showing them family photos?

“Is my father still here?” Elliot asked.

“Come up where we can talk.” J.Z. was beckoning to him.

At the same time Star was saying, “Have him come upstairs! Elliot, this is so unbelievable. Your dad was just here telling us about...well, everything going on.”

They were leading the way back up the staircase, and there really didn’t seem to be any option but to follow them. Elliot climbed after, and the green iron railing hummed, the steps vibrating beneath their feet.

Someone was speaking quietly in French as Elliot entered the upstairs flat. He realized the TV was on. The room was almost disturbing in its ordinariness. Star’s shopping bags had been dumped on a brown sofa. A bowl of popcorn, a couple of TV remote controls, a utility bill from Hydro Québec and a copy of
National Geographic
littered the coffee table. There were scenic but unremarkable photos of Monument Valley and San Francisco on the walls. Everything looked clean but lived-in. The aroma of what smelled a lot like eggplant parmesan casserole wafted from the kitchen.

“Rollie left yesterday,” Star told him. “Last night. We drove him to the airport.”

Had Elliot walked over to Star Books first thing yesterday, he might have managed to catch Roland, but there was no use thinking about that now.

Star was running on, a mile a minute. “Would you like some tea? Some coffee? Oh I know. We have wonderful, fresh baked cinnamon buns. I’ll just warm them up for you.”

Funny that he hadn’t pictured her at all as the maternal type. In photos she had looked so serious, almost somber, and rather enigmatic. There was nothing enigmatic about her. In a minute she would be pinching his cheeks.

“No, thanks. Really.”

“He needs a drink, Stella,” J.Z. said. “And so do I. Whisky?” He looked at Elliot.

Actually, he
could
use a drink. Elliot nodded. “How did you recognize me?”

“Roland showed us pictures,” Star told him. She smiled—beamed—at him. “He’s so proud of you. And, well, look at you!”

This was getting to feel more and more like a dream. Was he still on the plane? Had he fallen asleep? Had he slipped into a diabetic coma after all those cinnamon buns?

Elliot said to Star, hoping to catch her before she vanished into the kitchen to bake him cookies or make pudding, “You said my father told you about everything going on. Did he tell you someone has tried to kill him twice over the book he wrote about...your time together.”

Your time together?
Well, how was he supposed to describe that period?
You know
,
back when you were all trying to blow up the world?

“He always said he was going to write a book one day.” Star smiled reminiscently. Then his words seemed to register. She stopped smiling. “Yes. Rollie told us. It’s crazy. It’s insane. Who would do that?”

J.Z. said, “Some people have long memories.”

Star glanced at him. “But memories of what? In the end, we didn’t
do
anything.”

“That’s not true.”

“But I mean, not something anyone would want to kill us for. Why would someone want to kill us?”

“They don’t want to kill you,” Elliot said. “They want to kill my father. To keep him from publishing his memoirs. I thought—everyone thought—because there was something so potentially damaging in them.”

J.Z. handed Elliot a whisky. “Bottoms up.” His smile was crooked. “Because someone feared they’d be unmasked as my killer?”

Elliot said, “They burned down his house—and everything in it. They hunted him through the woods with a crossbow. It’s not so funny to me.”

J.Z.’s smile faded. “No. Sorry. Of course not. Rollie didn’t go into details. He just told us everyone still believes me—and maybe Stella too—dead.”

“Which is kind of my fault,” Star admitted.

Elliot turned to her. “Yes, it kind of is. Why did you accuse my father of killing J.Z.?”

She put her hands over her face and groaned. J.Z. eyed her sympathetically. She murmured, “It’s all so mixed-up now. I was angry with him, of course. For throwing Jacob out. But I also thought if everyone thought Jacob was already dead, they wouldn’t try to kill him again and we could get away without any more trouble.” She lowered her hands and said, “Plus I kind of always had a thing about Rollie.” She made a face. “I had issues back then.”

One piece of information in that confusing flood stuck out. Elliot said slowly, “What do you mean
they wouldn’t try to kill him again?
” He turned to J.Z. “Are you saying someone
did
try to kill you?”

J.Z. nodded.

“Frank tried to kill him,” Star said.

“Stella.” J.Z. gave her a warning look.

She ignored him. “Frank tried to run J.Z. down with his car that night. The night Rollie threw him out.”

“I didn’t see who was driving,” J.Z. said to Elliot.

“I saw the car. I recognized the car,” Star insisted.

J.Z. shook his head. Still talking to Elliot, he said, “She couldn’t tell a Volkswagen van from a Datsun pickup back then. Still couldn’t. She identifies cars by color. She thinks it was Frank because Frank outed me and he was in love with her. But they were all in love with her, so that doesn’t count.”

“They weren’t
all
in love with me.” Star was smiling. “Rollie wasn’t in love with me.”

It was like chasing butterflies. Elliot hung on to his patience—and his net. “What did happen that night? I thought you weren’t there?” he said to Star.

“I wasn’t. I was walking back from work. And I saw J.Z. get knocked down by someone driving a car that looked a lot like Frank’s.” She gulped. “I thought he was dead. The van roared past me and I ran to Jacob.” She let out a long sigh as though she were living it all again. “But it was okay. He came to right away.”

“And what’s your story of what happened that night?” Elliot asked J.Z.

“I came in from class—I was supposed to be doing graduate work—and everybody was there, talking in a little huddle. I could tell the minute I walked in, the minute I saw their faces. I knew. Mischa had been crying. And Rollie’s face...” His own twisted. “Frank’s eyes were shining. He was practically gloating. They knew—and I knew.”

“Was everyone there that night?”

“Suzy had moved out to the farm with Nobby by then,” Star said.

“Right,” J.Z. said. “Everybody was there except Star.”

“I had a job at the Goodwill,” Star said. “I used to walk there and back.”

“And after my father confronted you, what happened?” Elliot asked J.Z.

J.Z.’s expression grew remote, strained. “What you’d guess. It wasn’t pleasant. Tom tried to punch me. Mischa slapped me. Ruth spit on me. They wanted to kill me, sure. And there was nothing I could say to reassure them or change their minds.”

“Reassure them? Wait. You’re saying that you had changed sides?”

J.Z. met his look squarely. “You know, it wasn’t just hippies who didn’t approve of that war. Anyway, yes, your father, Mischa, Ruth, even that asshole Tom. I didn’t approve of their tactics—for one thing, they mostly didn’t work—but I agreed with a lot of what they were trying to do. And I disagreed with a lot of the methods
we
were using to try and stop them.”

Yes, Elliot had some trouble with those methods too. It was hard not to get angry reading about police smashing Frank Blue’s guitar and breaking Mischa’s nose. Or the National Guard prying open Suzy’s and Star’s eyes to deliberately squirt them with pepper spray when the girls were seated in peaceable protest in the PSU administration building.

J.Z. was continuing, “So, yes, I guess I had undergone a change of heart by then. And when Rollie kicked me out, I knew I couldn’t go back to the Bureau and start all over again making friends and getting close to people who I was then supposed to betray for fighting what I believed in my heart was wrong.”

“And there was me,” Star said demurely.

The look J.Z. turned her way was about as doting as Elliot had ever seen outside of one cartoon character making googly eyes at another. “And there was Stella, who needed me every bit as much as I needed her.”

A seriously messed-up and underaged teenage girl. But Elliot swallowed it. Forty years after the fact was too late to lodge a protest.

He took a mouthful of whisky. Not bad. In fact, Glenlivet. He said to J.Z., “You walked out of the house in Bellevue and then what happened?”

“I was just...walking. I think I was in shock. I couldn’t think where to go. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I didn’t know if I would ever see Stella again. A white van—or maybe a truck—came roaring up behind me. I tried to jump out of the way, but the fender grazed me and I went flying. The van drove off. I was stunned. I’d knocked my head when I fell, so I didn’t see more than that, and I’m not positive—have never been positive—what kind of vehicle it was.”

“Someone in the Collective drove a white pickup?”

“Tom Baker. And Frank drove a white Volkswagen van.”

“It was a white Volkswagen van,” Star said firmly.

Elliot thought this over. “Okay. Then Star came running up. What happened next?”

J.Z. looked at Star. She gazed solemnly back at him. “I told Stella what had happened. I told her everything.”

Star nodded. “And I told Jacob that nothing would ever come between us.”

“So I took her to my apartment—I still had my own place under my real name—in Seattle. We talked till morning, making our plans. And then the next night she told the group her story. She packed her things and the minute she walked out of that house we started running. We never stopped. We hitchhiked to the border and then sneaked across into Canada. We lived with Stella’s family in Victoria for a few years. I pretended to be a draft dodger.” J.Z. shrugged. “That’s pretty much it.”

Elliot said, “And even after the war ended and a couple of decades went by, it never occurred to you to let your family or anybody know you weren’t dead? All this time the Bureau has believed someone, maybe my father, murdered you. You didn’t think—”

“Of course we did,” J.Z. broke in. His expression was earnest, he seemed to really want Elliot to understand. “I wrote my family a few months after I arrived in Canada. They kept it from the Bureau for obvious reasons. As for Rollie, Stella wrote him probably twenty years ago and told him what had happened.”