Fair Play (All's Fair Book 2) (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Your father knew that J.Z. and Star were in Canada this whole time?”

Elliot was lying on his bed in his hotel room on Sherbrooke Street, talking on his cell to Tucker. “According to J.Z. and Star, yes. I don’t think he was in communication with them. I think he was still pretty disgusted with them both. They were a little sketchy on that subject. But I think once he realized what the rest of his old gang thought had happened, he headed up here to make sure they were still alive and breathing.”

“Wow,” Tucker said at last. “That is pretty...”

“Far out?”

“I was thinking more on the lines of fucked up. Do they have kids?”

“Grown, but yes. Two boys and two girls.”

Tucker gave a short laugh. “So where is your dad now?”

The old-fashioned ceiling fan threw lopsided flower shadows across the dingy white ceiling. Somehow it reminded Elliot of those sixties Flower Power posters. “I’m not sure. That’s what’s worrying me. He should be back at the cabin by now. You’re sure he didn’t call?”

“Sure. Anyway, he’d call your cell, right?”

“Probably. What worries me is he left here Friday night and flew back to Seattle, which I’d have realized if I’d bothered to notice that he’s been filing incoming email in all those damned folders in his inbox. His itinerary was sitting in the folder marked Travel the whole time.”

Tucker made a sound of amusement or maybe commiseration. “He couldn’t be as disorganized as he lets on or he’d never have survived on the run all those years.”

“Tell me about it.” Elliot sighed. “Which I have to assume is what’s he’s doing now. Lying low. He put out the word that he’s not going to publish the book after all, but I don’t know how far the news has spread. Anyway, I’m not sure I believe it. And if I don’t believe it, I can’t imagine someone who was willing to kill him taking a chance on it.”

“If something had happened to him, we’d know. We’d have been notified.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s okay,” Tucker reassured. “He’s a wily old fox. How are you holding up?”

“Me? Everything’s groovy, baby.”

Tucker laughed. “You do sound more chipper.”

“I never thought my father had killed J.Z., but it’s a relief to know nobody else in the group did either. And even if it’s true that Frank Blue or Tom Baker made a try for him, that’s over and done. Nobody is coming after him now, except maybe SAC Montgomery.”

“Well, there are those survivor benefits to consider.”

“Exactly. Anyway, Frank Blue has been blowing in the wind ever since his plane went down in ‘93, and I don’t see Tom flying up here to pop J.Z. now. He’d have no reason.”

“Which doesn’t change the fact that someone is willing to kill to keep that book from being published.”

“I know. I was too quick to dismiss the political fringe element. Once I discovered J.Z.’s alleged murder, I figured I had my lead.”

“As leads go, that looked solid.”

“It did, but I forgot one of the basic rules of law enforcement. If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, you should be checking NCIC for ducks.”

Tucker made an amused sound.

“I’m going to try and get an off-the-air interview with Will MacAuley.”

“Why? Blewe is the one who sent his goons after you.”

“Because I think I know why Blewe tried to get in my face. But MacAuley...ever since this all began, I’ve been reading his blog and listening to his radio show. That kind of zealot gives me a bad feeling in my gut.”

“Maybe that’s too much French food?”

“For the record, I’m off pastry for life. Anyway, back when I was working civil rights cases, I had a few run-ins with MacAuley clones. Cranks who advocate the use of force to protect those things they deem sacred. Who secretly believe they’re justified using any means necessary.”

“Is there an echo in here?” Tucker sounded sardonic.

“The irony isn’t lost on me. But I think Nobby may have called it when he said this manuscript is an affront, an insult to people like MacAuley. I think the MacAuleys of the world might view publication of such a book as an act of aggression, an assault on their beliefs, their values, their moral standards. And they believe in fighting back.”

“We all believe in fighting back.”

“Okay. Fair enough.”

“Meanwhile there’s a direct connection between the assault on you and Councilman Blewe.”

“I intend to talk to Blewe.”

“At the risk of disturbing this rare moment of tran—”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Elliot interrupted. “What did Blewe say?”

Tucker’s tone grew caustic. “Overzealous staff members who suspected, and tried to preempt, an attempt at blackmail.”

Elliot sat up. “
Blackmail?
”

“That’s the story.”

“That’s bullshit. He accused
me
of attempting to blackmail him?”

“It got a little fuzzy once the councilman learned you were working in conjunction with the Bureau. He offered assurances that the overzealous staff members would be reprimanded and that nothing like that would ever happen again.”

Elliot made a disgusted sound. He lay back into the stack of pillows. “Speaking of the Bureau, Zelvin is going to be contacting Montgomery on Monday.”

“I was going to ask.”

“I think he’s more than ready to come in from the cold.”

“It’s about to get a lot colder.”

“True. But they have their love to keep them warm.”

Tucker snorted. “When do you get in tomorrow?”

They talked about Elliot’s flight arrangements. Before Elliot rang off, he said, “You’d like this place. I think maybe we should come up here on our vacation.”

“Oh, yeah?” There was a smile in Tucker’s voice.

“Yeah. I think it might be kind of fun to go someplace neither of us really knows. Explore together.”

“Well, we’re going to have to book somewhere pretty soon, if we really are going.”

They said their good-nights.

Restless, Elliot looked through his notes on
Power to the People
once more. He studied the photos of the Collective, glanced over the copies of FBI files Tucker had made for him.

In some ways Mischa did look good for bad actor in this particular movie of the week. She was smart, aggressive and fearless. She seemed to have some lingering resentment, even bitterness, toward Roland. But she also seemed genuinely fond of him. So what was the truth? She was not afraid of violence, and she certainly knew how to shoot a crossbow. It was possible she knew how to fly a plane. But though she had been in town when Roland’s house burned, she had driven a rental car onto the island, so it was logistically improbable that she was Roland’s attacker.

Besides, although motive was often the least important part of the crime equation, it seemed hard to believe that Mischa would wait nearly half a century to take vengeance on Roland for his inability to keep his pants zipped. And what other reason could she have? Of all the members of the Collective—barring J.Z. and Star—Mischa had seemed the least troubled by the idea of
Power to the People
. And she had been there from the bright and shiny beginning to the corrosive end.

She had been there the whole time.

He called Tucker back.

Tucker, sounding wide awake, answered with, “Can’t adjust to the time change?”

“I’m just about to turn in. But I wanted to ask a favor while I’m thinking of it.”

“What do you need?”

“Can you ask Seattle PD for BI on Susanne DeWoskin?”

“Who is Susanne DeWoskin?”

“Exactly,” Elliot said. “Suzy D. She’s the only core member of the Collective I haven’t been able to talk to. She dropped out of the picture and, while everyone agrees that she was the kind of chick likely to drift from cause to cause and group to group, I’m still curious about her. She was there. She must have had some perspective. Or at least an opinion.”

“Or something to hide?”

“Someone has something to hide.”

“We don’t have a file on her.”

“I know. Which right there...is it because she drifted away or because she made so little impression that even J.Z., who was supposed to be vigilantly watching and tracking these suspected terrorists, didn’t think she was worth the ink and paper?”

“That’s unlikely. It sounds like she just didn’t stick around long enough.”

“But she was there for most of it. She may have been floating on the edges, but she’s in the photos.”

“I’ll see what I can find out for you.”

“Thanks.”

“Sweet dreams.”

“You too.”

Elliot’s dreams were not sweet though and he woke drenched in perspiration, heart pounding in confused recollection of running at night through the old apple orchards at Nobb’s Organic Farm while the Sculptor stalked him with a crossbow. His knee was aching as though he really had been racing for his life over uneven ground.

He rose, splashed cold water on his face, filled a smudgy glass with water from the bathroom sink, and popped a couple of aspirins.

He was on his way back to bed when the floorboard outside his room door creaked loudly. As though someone stood on the other side.

Back when he had been a young, cocksure, know-it-all special agent, he had learned—the hard way—never to ignore that warning prickle. Elliot moved to the side of the door and listened tensely.

He looked around for something he could use as a weapon if someone suddenly burst through. But everything in the room not too heavy to lift had been nailed down. He could try and trip them up with the bedspread, but his best bet was simply to dive out the door and make a run for it.

If
there was anyone even there.

The clock on the table next to the bed clicked over another fuzzy number. Four-thirty. Only another hour before he had to get up and get over to the airport.

Silence continued from the hall. So either the most patient intruder in the world waited outside or there was no one there.

He leaned over and peered out the peephole. The hallway appeared to be empty.

He unlocked and opened the door. Gray light, worn carpet and no one in sight. Elliot closed the door and locked it again.

Of course, mostly the warning prickle was wrong. And this appeared to be one of those occasions. But better to be wrong ten times than ignore that fatal once.

He crawled back in bed and switched off the lamp.

* * *

When the alarm clock went off Monday morning, Tucker leaned over, kissed the back of Elliot’s neck and whispered, “No school today. Enjoy the first day of your summer vacation.”

Elliot smiled. His flight had been delayed and it had been a long ass trip home. He had just managed to catch the last ferry Sunday night. He was very glad to be in his own bed again, the sunlight dappling the floorboards and the cool breeze off the Sound blowing through the window. He closed his eyes and fell into a deep, deep sleep.

When he woke again the phone beside the bed was ringing.

He groped for the phone, dragged it off the hook, and cleared his throat. “Mills.”

A too-perky voice said, “Professor Mills? This is Councilman Blewe’s office. The councilman was wondering whether you were free for lunch today?”

“Councilman Blewe?”

Councilman Blewe’s Office chuckled merrily. “The very same! Are you available for lunch, Professor?”

Elliot marshaled his thoughts. He felt foggy and sleep-logged, but no way could he let this opportunity pass. “Today? What time?”

“Is one o’clock convenient?”

Elliot glanced at the clock. A quarter past nine. Hell. “Yes. One o’clock is fine. Where?”

“The councilman always dines at Metropolitan Grill. Do you know it? It’s in Seattle. On Second and Marion.”

“I know it,” Elliot said. “And I’ll be there.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

“First thing we’ll do is hang all the liberals,” Will MacAuley was saying jovially over the radio as Elliot pulled into the parking lot at Metropolitan Grill.

“Don’t get me wrong, some of my best friends are liberals. You’ll never meet nicer, better-intentioned people. But the sad truth is the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and the liberals are dragging the entire country down their rabbit hole. Their warped idealism and obsession with sex, their faith in false idols...liberals are the hippies of today. They want to put a Band-Aid on a gaping wound and call it healed. Well, you can’t solve world hunger with a free lunch. There are no free lunches in this world.”

“And there’s no shortage of clichés either,” Elliot muttered, and turned off the ignition.

Metropolitan Grill—known locally as The Met—was a steakhouse in the classic tradition. Housed inside the historic Marion Building, it promised “the best steak in town,” and usually kept its promises.

Elliot passed under the green awning, pushed through the tall mahogany doors and was greeted by the tuxedo-clad maître d’ who led him through the twenty-foot painted columns, past mahogany and brass railings to a plush, oversized booth where Tom Baker sat with a heavyset, fair-haired man in a sharp navy suit.

Councilman Blewe spotted Elliot, put down his martini and rose. He smiled a white and practiced smile as he offered his hand.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet me, Elliot. It’s okay if I call you Elliot? And you know Tom, of course.”

Tom Baker nodded impersonally to Elliot.

Elliot nodded back and shook hands with Blewe.

“Sit down, take a load off,” Blewe said. “What will you have to drink? I recommend the martinis. They’re legendary here.”

A waiter had materialized beside the table. Elliot sat down and ordered a Black Bull.

Blewe was short but handsome. He looked a little like his celebrity father—same blue eyes and wayward curl in his blond hair—but you’d have had to know the connection to spot it. He wore a pinky ring with a large diamond. Not that a pinky ring was an indication of character. Well, maybe.

“We’ve already ordered,” Blewe said. “But take your time.”

“I’ll have the sixteen-ounce prime New York strip loin,” Elliot told the waiter. He figured Blewe owed him for not filing assault charges.

Blewe didn’t bat an eye at the idea of a sixty-three-dollar steak lunch. He breezed on about local affairs and controversies, telling Elliot about issues the Education and Governance Committee was working on. If he thought he was going to get Elliot’s vote when he came up for reelection, he was mistaken. Elliot listened politely. Every so often his gaze met Tom’s. Tom’s expression gave nothing away, but then that was probably true of Elliot as well.

Their meals all came at the same time, so someone in the kitchen was surely scrambling. Blewe picked up his steak knife and sliced off a bloody hunk of meat. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I can’t seem to leave well enough alone.” He laughed heartily. He had a deep, booming laugh. “But I felt like I owed you a personal apology for the misunderstanding the other day.”

“My attempt to blackmail you, you mean?”

Blewe’s laugh boomed out again, and a few heads at other booths briefly turned their way. “Don’t remind me! Somebody in my position has to be so careful. We all have a tendency to leap to the worst-case scenario.”

“Yes. We do.” Elliot glanced at Tom. Tom sipped his drink.

“A man in my position ends up seeing a lot of the worst side of people.”

Try being an FBI agent
, Elliot thought. But he didn’t say it. He smiled noncommittally.

“When Tom told me you were looking into the antiwar activities of some of my father’s former friends, I admit I jumped to the wrong conclusion. My political opponents have tried in the past to draw spurious correlations between my father’s politics—which I’m not ashamed of, by the way—and my own.”

“Maybe I can reassure you on one score,” Elliot said. “I’m not at all interested in the antiwar activities of your father or his former friends. I’m strictly interested in who seems to have a vested interest in stopping my father from publishing his memoirs. A number of people have suggested that might be you.”

As Blewe’s 24-karat smile faded, Elliot added, “Others have suggested Tom might have a motive or two.”

Tom didn’t quite choke on his drink, but he did swallow hastily. His eyes narrowed. He smiled. “Really? A
motive?
”

“There’s usually a motive for attempted murder.”

“Attempted
murder?
” Tom repeated, no longer smiling. His face looked sallow.

Elliot said nothing. Blewe’s expression was guarded.

Tom said, “I suggest, Elliot, that you think very carefully before you accuse me of trying to kill my oldest friend. Even one word more and I will sue you for slander.”

Elliot said, “Sorry. I didn’t make myself clear. I’m not talking about the attempted murder of my father. Former Special Agent Zelvin—Tom, you knew him as J.Z. McGavin—was never sure whether it was you or George’s father here who tried to run him down that night. He only saw a flash of white, and you and Frank both drove white vehicles.”

“J.Z. is
alive?
” Tom said.

“Yes.” Elliot regarded him. There was no doubting the amazement—and relief—on his aquiline features.

Blewe looked from Tom to Elliot. “You’ve spoken to him?”

“I had dinner with him and Star two nights ago in Montreal.” He had probably never had a more attentive audience in his life.

“They’re alive? They’re both alive,” Tom said. He sounded almost faint. “Does Rollie know?”

“Yes. He’s known for twenty years. What he didn’t know, until people began to flip out over this book, was that the rest of you believed J.Z. was dead—or that a couple of his closest friends imagined
he
had killed J.Z.”

Tom’s color had faded, but he reddened again. “I never believed he killed J.Z.”

“No. It looks like you thought Frank had killed him.”

“
What?
That’s
ludicrous
,” Blewe exclaimed. He made the mistake a lot of liars did, relying too much on volume and feigned outrage. “My father was anti-violence. He was a man of peace. He was an artist. He’s the man who wrote ‘Black Wedding.’”

Blue hadn’t always been a peacenik. Initially the Collective, like the larger group Weatherman or Weather Underground, had not shied away from violence. In fact, they had believed violence would probably be necessary to bring about any real and lasting change. But after the death of several members of the WUO in a 1970 explosion in the Greenwich townhouse where they were building a nail bomb to use at an army dance, both groups had disavowed the use of violence to achieve their ends. And certainly the Collective had stuck to that resolve while they remained together. But afterward? Mischa had gone to prison for armed robbery. Tom had had assault charges filed against him three times. Frank, by comparison, had numerous arrests for drugs, drinking and disorderly conduct. A poet of his generation he might have been, but he wasn’t exactly Thoreau.

“I don’t think your father was homicidal by nature,” Elliot assured him. “I think he was in love with a young woman in the group, and he was jealous of her relationship with J.Z. And when he learned that J.Z. was a traitor to the cause—and a serious threat to Frank’s own career—I think he gave in to a vicious impulse. It was a matter of timing and opportunity, and it was one time only.

“But then J.Z. disappeared. Completely. And Star, after making a lot of wild accusations, did too. And I think no one was quite sure what happened. Everything was coming apart and this was one more terrifying possibility—the not unreasonable theory that maybe J.Z. had been mortally injured in that hit and run and was lying in a morgue somewhere identified as a John Doe.”

Blewe began to bluster. “That’s the most ridiculous story I’ve ever heard. You can’t prove any of it.”

“Star witnessed the hit and run and is absolutely certain it was your father’s Volkswagen van that struck J.Z. But before you get any more worked up, nobody is trying to prove any of this. Star and J.Z. aren’t looking for anything—or maybe J.Z. would like absolution from the rest of the Collective. I don’t know. The main point I want to get across to all of you is that none of this is in my father’s book. None of it.”

Tom had been silent for a while. Now Blewe fell silent as well.

“I thought he had decided not to publish the book,” Tom said finally.

“I don’t know. But frankly I think that would be a shame because the book’s not bad. And I think maybe it’s relevant to some of what’s going on in the world today.”

“You’ve read the whole thing? What
is
in it?” Tom asked finally.

Elliot shook his head. “Nothing that can explain all the uproar. It’s a story about a group of idealistic young people at a turning point in history. It’s one man’s memories and one man’s viewpoint. Some of the ideas and opinions expressed there are going to be offensive to some people, and there are more than a few recollections that will embarrass others. But I can’t find anything to explain why you’re all in such a panic or why someone was so angry or so frightened they’re willing to kill to stop that book from being published.”

“So then the book isn’t going to be published?” Blewe looked from Elliot to Tom.

“My father says not,” Elliot said.

“That’s excellent.” Blewe looked relieved. “So. Situation resolved.” He looked inquiringly at Tom.

“Yes,” Tom said.

* * *

To Elliot’s surprise, when he left the restaurant, Tom walked out with him.

“I assume that despite Rollie’s decision not to publish, you’re still poking around in the past,” Tom said.

Elliot glanced at him. “I want to know who tried to take out my dad, if that’s what you mean. As far as I’m concerned, that person remains a danger. And maybe not just to my dad. You were all there, after all.”

Tom did not respond.

Still watching him, Elliot asked, “Do you know where my father is?”

“No.”

“But you can guess?”

Tom’s eyes met his. “I don’t like guessing games. If Roland hasn’t told you where he is, then I would have to conclude he doesn’t want you to know.”

“I haven’t heard from him since he left Montreal. I’m worried.”

“Rollie can handle himself.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Tom.”

Tom said, apparently in concession, “If I hear from him, I’ll tell him to call you. Despite what you think, Roland is my oldest and closest living friend. I would do nothing to jeopardize his safety—or, by extension, yours.”

“I see. But you must have realized telling Councilman Blewe I was looking into the history of the Collective might set him off. This is a guy willing to let his ex-wife get away with attempted murder to save himself the embarrassment.”

Tom’s expression was one of chagrin. “I warned George that threatening you would only guarantee you’d clamp your jaws down harder. But he’s used to taking shortcuts when dealing with people. I did miscalculate. But not entirely. You weren’t harmed.”

Elliot stopped beside his car. “That doesn’t make me feel a whole hell of a lot better.”

Tom said, “If anyone should know that poking in where you’re not wanted can be dangerous, it’s you, Elliot. You can’t say you haven’t had plenty of experience with people not taking kindly to your unwelcome interest.”

Tom turned around and walked back to the restaurant.

Elliot climbed into the Nissan, which felt like a small oven after sitting in the sun for so long, and turned on the air conditioning. His cell rang. He glanced at the screen.

Tucker.

He answered and Tucker said, “Seattle PD drew a blank with Susanne DeWoskin. There was an old arrest for shoplifting. She never showed up for court. It looks like she skipped. There’s nothing else on her.”

“Interesting.”

“Well, maybe not. There was a lot of that going on back then.”

“True. Can I ask another favor?”

“You can, but I’ve got my hands full here, so depending on what it is, I might not be able to get to it right away. In fact, that’s the other reason I called. I’m going to have to stay in town tonight.”

“Well, hell.”

“I know. What was the favor?”

“Could you try NamUs for me?” NamUs was the database for the National Missing and Unidentified Persons System.

Tucker said slowly, “You want me to access NamUs for Susanne DeWoskin?”

“Yes.”

“The fact that she left the state doesn’t technically make her a missing person.”

“I know. And I know that if she’s sitting in suburbia right now babysitting her grandkids, she’s not going to be happy with me. But the fastest way to find out if she’s already a case file is through NamUs, and you accessing the database as law enforcement is going to be faster and more efficient than me as a private citizen.”

“I can do that for you, but the fact that she may turn up as a missing person doesn’t mean she hasn’t chosen to remain underground. Look at the Zelvins.”

Elliot said grimly, “I think she’s underground all right.”

“Wait a minute. I thought DeWoskin was just a party girl. Why would anyone want her out of the way?”

“She
was
just a party girl, which is why there’s no logical reason for her not to have gone home after the party ended. Everyone else did. So what happened to Suzy D.?”