Fair Play (All's Fair Book 2) (18 page)

Chapter Twenty-Six

Will MacAuley sounded delighted to hear from Elliot. “Professor Mills the Younger,” he said in that deep, brushed-velvet voice. “I thought you’d call. I had a feeling you’d change your mind. When did you want to come on the show?”

“I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t,” Elliot said. “I was hoping you might find time to meet with me for an off-the-record conversation.”

“You
don’t
want to come on the show?”

“Not at this time.”

MacAuley sounded less delighted, even a little petulant. “Then I’m not sure what we would have to talk about.”

Elliot said persuasively, “To be honest, I’d like to get your political insight. If there’s anyone who understands how the machine works, it’s you.”

That was probably laying it on too thick, but after a moment MacAuley said, “Now you’ve piqued my curiosity.”

“I’m in Seattle right now. If you’re at the radio station, I could drop by. I don’t want to take up a lot of your time.”

“I’m not at the station. I’m at home.” He seemed to be thinking. “You say you’re in Seattle?”

“That’s right. I just had lunch with Councilman Blewe at Metropolitan Grill.”

MacAuley still seemed to be thinking. He said abruptly, “Yes. Why don’t you come by for a drink. I’d like to talk to you. You interest me.”

He gave Elliot directions and hung up.

You interest me?
Oh boy.

Elliot phoned Tucker and left a message with MacAuley’s address. It was a very nice address. Waterfront property, unless he missed his guess.

And it turned out Elliot was correct. The house had been built in the early sixties. It was not large, as houses in that zip code went, but it overlooked a couple hundred feet of pristine waterfront. It had a dock, a boathouse and spectacular views of Mt. Rainier, the Olympic National Park, and the University of Washington campus. Expensive and secluded.

MacAuley met him at the front door, drink in hand. “You made it,” he said in that deep, melodious voice. One thing for sure, MacAuley would never find work as an anonymous caller. His voice was too distinct.

“You give excellent directions.”

“I do. That’s true.” His smile was startlingly salacious, and Elliot took a harder look at him.

MacAuley was probably in his late fifties. Not handsome but certainly attractive. He was bald and, beneath the midnight-blue brocade and velvet smoking jacket, very fit. Elliot began to wonder if there was a herd of Playboy bunnies out on the back deck.

“We’ll talk in the game room.” MacAuley turned away. “What will you have to drink?”

“Whisky?”

“Scotch or whisky? There’s a difference, you know.” MacAuley led the way through airy, sunlit rooms with walls of windows and modern furniture that only an interior designer would believe looked homey. The house had a peculiar odor. A combination of harsh cleaning solutions or disinfectant and patchouli candles.

“Scotch, if you have it. Black Bull, if you have it.”

“Black Bull?” MacAuley paused. “Well, well. I knew we were going to get along.” He smiled. His eyes matched the color of his smoking jacket.

He led the way into a long room. The room was much darker than the rest of the house; the windows had been specially tinted, treated to filter the light so as to preserve the fragile contents. It took Elliot’s eyes a second or two to adjust.

The walls were covered with animal heads. Mounted trophies of big game like charging water buffalo and snarling grizzlies. Enough heads to fill a dead animal zoo. There was a polar bear skin on the floor and a tiger skin over the back of a long, leather sofa.

MacAuley, watching Elliot’s face, laughed. “When I said ‘game room’ did you think I meant billiards?” He went over to a glass-and-steel drinks cart and picked up a crystal decanter.

At the far end of the room was a glass case with a display of modern weapons, including assault rifles. And at the near end of the room was another such case with primitive weapons like halberd and spear and crossbow.

Elliot began to wonder if he had seriously miscalculated MacAuley’s role in his father’s disappearance.

“Do you hunt?” MacAuley asked, handing him a short tumbler with amber liquid. “That’s forty-year-old Black Bull, by the way.”

“Thanks.” Elliot sipped. Malty, masculine, but unexpectedly refined. “Nice. No. Judging by the trophies on your wall, you obviously get a kick out of it.”

“I do. Yes. It’s the greatest of all adventures. There’s nothing like pitting yourself against a creature capable of tearing you limb from limb. Men are hunters by nature. We even have the digestive tracts of carnivores.”

Probably no point offering to share eggplant parmesan casserole recipes with MacAuley.

“Is that so.” It was not a question because Elliot thought MacAuley was a jackass.

“Is that a note of disapproval in your voice? I understand. Animals must seem far too easy prey after you’ve hunted humans.” MacAuley’s gaze was bright and uncomfortably inquisitive.

“I wouldn’t quite put it like that,” Elliot said.

“Wouldn’t you? But that’s what you do—used to do—as a G-man. That’s certainly what you did in Pioneer Courthouse Square that afternoon. You hunted Ira Kane like the wild animal he was, and you put him down.”

“That wasn’t my intent when I went after him,” Elliot said. “He shot and killed two people in that courthouse, and wounded three others. He had to be stopped. But if there had been another way, I’d have taken it.” He hoped that was true. And he had never—would never—confess to anyone he wasn’t completely sure. In the end he hadn’t had a choice.

“A single shot to the head. Remarkable.”

“No. Not at all,” Elliot said. “That’s what we’re trained to do. We’re trained to go for the headshot. These days too many bad guys wear body armor.”

“What did that feel like? To take a human life?”

Elliot said dryly, “Was this what you were going to ask on the air?”

“Not necessarily. But I do want to know.”

It surprised Elliot how many people wanted to know, how many people had asked him that question. Not the two people who knew him best. Neither Tucker nor his father had ever asked. At the time of the shooting, Elliot had only felt relief. He had been fighting for his life. He had been wounded, mortally wounded he suspected. He had been in agony that words could not describe, and with his knee blown away he had been unable to escape even if he’d wanted to. He had not wanted to.

Afterward, in the hospital, he had felt...hollow. Mostly what he had felt was unease that he did not feel more. But he had a lot of other things on his mind, and maybe that was part of the reason for the numbness.

He gave MacAuley his standard answer. “It’s not something I ever want to feel again.” And that was certainly true.

“I followed the case,” MacAuley said. “In fact, I’ve followed your career ever since. I was fascinated by the bifurcation of a terrorist having a lawman for a son.”

Bifurcation? If that meant
complication
, MacAuley was right. He was wrong about the other though, and Elliot said, “I don’t consider my father a terrorist.”

“Well, he’s your father. Of course not. But the government did. The FBI did.” He gave Elliot another of those toothy smiles. “I want you to know that I admire courage more than any other quality, and you clearly have courage. The courage to go after a crazed killer on your own. The courage to go against the expectation of your family, your father.”

“Thanks,” Elliot said uncomfortably. “But...”

“I wouldn’t trick you or try to trap you. You could come on the show and not worry that I wouldn’t treat you with respect. I have great regard for you.”

Elliot began to think there was less and less likelihood of Playboy bunnies on the deck or anywhere else in MacAuley’s little animal kingdom. “That’s not my worry. I don’t want to be interviewed. I don’t need or want that attention. I teach history now.”

MacAuley said quietly, sympathetically, “That must be very difficult for you.” His eyes seemed to look right inside Elliot and read the restlessness, the frustration that Elliot managed to keep hidden most of the time, even from himself.

“I like history,” Elliot said. “I like teaching.”

MacAuley made an “umm-hmm” sound like a doctor examining a suspicious X-ray. He said, “What did you want to ask me? Where I was in 1969?” He laughed that deep, attractive radio-announcer laugh. “I was twelve years old. Like the rest of the sane world I watched what your father and his friends were trying to do to our country, and I hoped they’d blow themselves up. I used to pray for that every night. And some of them finally managed it. Not your father, unfortunately. He went on to have a long, illustrious career warping the minds of gullible college kids.”

“Can I ask where you were the Friday evening before last?” Elliot asked. “Since you’re in such a forthcoming mood.”

“The night of the so-called ‘shooting’ on Goose Island?” MacAuley watched Elliot closely. “The papers have that wrong, don’t they? The unsub—that’s what you used to call it in the Bureau?—used a crossbow, not a rifle.”

Elliot didn’t move a muscle. But his very stillness was probably a giveaway, and in fact, MacAuley seemed amused. “That must be one of the things they teach you at Quantico. Show no emotion. But before you Taser me or attack me with whatever weapon I’m sure you’re carrying, I didn’t attack your father. I didn’t burn his house down. I didn’t try to shoot him with my crossbow. I just have good friends at the police department. More friends than Professor Mills the Elder.”

Elliot’s phone rang. Tucker’s ringtone. “Excuse me.” Not taking his gaze from MacAuley, who smiled and sipped his drink, he found his cell. “Hey.”

“I thought we agreed you weren’t going off anywhere on your own without talking to me first.”

“Timing is everything.”

“You’re still at MacAuley’s?” Tucker’s tone was alert.

“Right. Just about to leave.”

“Susanne DeWoskin is in the NamUs database. She’s been officially listed as a missing person since 1974.”

“Who reported her missing?”

“Her parents. They’re both gone now, but her kid sister added her to NamUs and maintains the file.” Tucker added, “I phoned the sister.”

That was unexpected. “You did?”

“She says Suzy was smart and pretty—also pretty wild. Sometimes she would go months without phoning home.”

“Where was home?”

“Fargo, North Dakota.”

“When was the last time they heard from her?”

“I’m getting to that. She wasn’t good about calling, but she never—as in literally never—missed sending birthday cards. Her sister has a stack of them starting with a couple of hand-delivered crayon drawings all the way up to Hallmark circa 1972.”

“Crayon drawings?” Elliot said thoughtfully.

“One for every year.”

“The first missed birthday was 1973?”

“April 15, 1973. That was the father’s birthday. Suzy had argued with him the last time they spoke on the phone, so the family thought she might be holding a grudge, although she wasn’t the grudge-holding type. But the mother’s birthday was in May and the sister’s in June, and Suzy missed them all. The family tried to report her missing, but the local cops resisted filing a report for several months because of Suzy’s reputation as a footloose hell raiser.”

Elliot was thinking. “There’s a photo of her dated around Valentine’s Day ‘73, so she disappeared sometime between mid-February and mid-June.”

“That’s the way it looks.”

“Thanks for checking on that for me.”

“You sound strange. Are you—”

“I’ll call you in five.” He knew now that MacAuley did not pose a threat. Or at least not a threat related to
Power to the People
and the Collective. He could safely cut this interview short.

“Don’t forget. Because it would be very embarrassing if SWAT was to show up on MacAuley’s doorstep looking for you.”

That drew a laugh from Elliot. He disconnected.

MacAuley said, “And I’m guessing that was the FBI agent boyfriend?”

Elliot stared at him. He said mildly, “You seem to know an awful lot about me, Mr. MacAuley.”

“Please. Call me Will. Yes, I do know a lot about you. I have resources, and as I said, I’ve been interested in you ever since I read about the Pioneer Courthouse Square shooting.”

Elliot tried but failed to think of a response. MacAuley was exhibiting some perturbing tendencies, but whether his interest was just the stuff of simple fetish or something more sinister was unclear. What was clear was that he was not involved in the attacks on Roland. Roland’s trouble had begun and would end within the circle of the Collective. Tucker’s update made that a certainty.

Elliot said finally, “Should I be concerned?”

“I don’t know why you would. I’d like to know you better, that’s all. Whether on or off the air.”

“It won’t be on the air, I can tell you that much.” And it wouldn’t be off the air either, but Elliot saw no need to make that point.

“Don’t judge too hastily.” MacAuley gave him a grimace of a smile. “You think you have conflicts in your life? Try being a gay conservative. To begin with, most gays don’t believe such a thing even exists.”

“I know there are gay conservatives,” Elliot said. “I’m probably more what you consider a bleeding heart liberal.”

“I’m guessing you’re more of a moderate. And I would still like to get to know you.”

Elliot frowned. “But you know I’m in a relationship.”

“I assume you have friends?”

Yes, Elliot had friends. Tucker had friends. He didn’t see Will MacAuley fitting into either of their circles of friends.

Perhaps reading his silence correctly, MacAuley said, “You might be surprised, Elliot. We have more in common than you realize.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“I’m sure it helps that you’re tall, dark and handsome,” Tucker said, when Elliot related his conversation with MacAuley. “I mean, I think you’re brave too, but something tells me if you were a middle-aged guy with a paunch and a nose like a turnip, MacAuley wouldn’t be inviting you over to sip scotch and admire his stuffed animals.”

“He’s an odd guy,” Elliot agreed. “Different from his on-air persona. But I think we can eliminate him from the investigation.” He turned the air conditioning vents his way. The dashboard clock read 5:30. The day was nearly gone.

“Any word from your dad?”

“No. Listen, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to stay at your apartment tonight.”

“Hell yeah, it’s okay. But I’m not going to be there until late.”

“I know. You said.”

“Are you not feeling well?” Tucker questioned, concerned in afterthought.

Elliot laughed. “I’m fine. I’ve just got some things to do, and I thought it would be easier to stay over.”

“Of course. I’m never going to object to coming home and finding you in my bed.”

That sounded promising, but Elliot knew how it was to be working several demanding cases at once. You staggered home, fell into bed, and swore when the alarm went off three minutes later. He said, “Okay. I’ll be the guy third pillow from the left.”

“The really, really brave one with the beautiful gray eyes. Got it. See you then.”

Elliot spluttered and disconnected.

It was after six when he let himself into Tucker’s apartment. The place was tidy as usual, but it smelled stale, as though Tucker hadn’t been there in days. He must have been staying on the island all the time Elliot had been in Montreal. He liked that idea. The idea that Tucker had come to think of the island as his real home.

Elliot poured a glass of cold water, sat down on the sofa and turned on his laptop. He quickly checked his email.

Still no message from his father. More out of exasperation than any expectation of getting an answer, he shot off an email with the subject header CAN YOU PLEASE LET ME KNOW YOU’RE OKAY?

Which made him feel like an overprotective parent—and was probably destined for Roland’s spam box anyway. As long as everyone believed that Roland was not going ahead with the book, Roland was probably fine.

Assuming he hadn’t been murdered after he arrived back from Canada. But Elliot thought that was unlikely. He had begun to suspect the truth in Montreal, and now he was as certain as he could be without the final piece of proof.

The question was: What was he going to do about it?

He didn’t want to bring Tucker into it. For one thing, Tucker was already stretched as far as he could go. For another, the FBI had lost interest in the case from the point that the question of what had happened to Special Agent Zelvin had been resolved. So this was a matter for Seattle PD. But bringing Seattle PD in was going to be loud and messy—and somebody was liable to get hurt. Maybe killed. Roland would not forgive that.

And maybe it didn’t have to go that way

Though considering himself cornered, and demonstrating a willingness to commit murder, Roland’s attacker had not wanted to take that final step. He did not enjoy killing and, as Tom had said, Roland was one of his oldest, closest friends. This old pal had asked Roland not to publish the book, he had tried to reason with him, and when that failed, when it became clear Roland was forging ahead, he had moved to stop him. But he had still tried to give Roland an out. He did not like shooting fish in a barrel.

In fact, now Elliot thought that Roland probably had been right after the attack on Goose Island. The arrows probably had been aimed at him. Because, again, this person did not want to kill Roland and because Roland would take a threat to Elliot far more seriously than any threat to himself. It was a good tactical move.

Did Roland know the truth?

Probably. He had guessed correctly that Elliot would not be in danger provided Roland appeared to be rethinking publishing the book.

Yes. By now he had to know. He had probably figured it out the moment he saw J.Z. and Star alive and well in their little Parisian—well, Montrealian—love nest. Because Roland already had the rest of the puzzle pieces.

And being Roland, instead of coming to Elliot and telling him what he knew and asking for help, he was going to try and work it out himself. Which meant...what? That he had walked into the lion’s den and was trying to convince the lion to give himself up?

God only knew. But the lion had been banged on the head one too many times and was just as likely to turn around and—in the words of Will MacAuley—tear Roland limb from limb.

So the question remained, where to go from here?

Roland obviously hadn’t managed to defuse the situation, or Elliot would have heard from him.

Did Elliot call in the cops or did he go out there and try to extract Roland on his own? He wanted a peaceful resolution—and not just for his father’s sake. And how much did he plan on telling Tucker ahead of time? Because if he didn’t at least let him kn—

Elliot stopped, listening to the echo of his thoughts.

A few seconds earlier he had been fuming about Roland’s failure to communicate, and he was about to do the same thing to Tucker. In fact, he was about to do to Tucker the very thing he had come unglued over when Tucker had done it to him.

He thought of everything Tucker had said the night they made love in the sun porch. About fearing Elliot didn’t listen to him, didn’t trust his judgment, didn’t respect his opinions. And of course it wasn’t that. It was that he didn’t want to force Tucker to choose between loyalty to Elliot and doing what he felt was right. That and the fact that Elliot’s instinct was to protect Tucker, keep him out of harm’s way, do nothing that would put him at risk.

Elliot gave a short, disbelieving laugh.

He knew what Tucker would say to that.

The same thing Elliot had said. Only probably not as diplomatically.

He glanced out the window. Sunset.

He did not want Tucker involved. It was that simple. But he had given him his word.

And having Tucker there, having Tucker as backup would be a good thing. No question.

Maybe there was a compromise here. Tucker had his hands full with his caseload. Chances were he wouldn’t check his messages again until later—and by then it might all be safely over. Elliot could make the call and leave it to karma. How was that for a sixties-style solution?

Elliot phoned Tucker’s cell.

Tucker picked up on the second ring, as though he had been waiting to hear from him. “What’s up?”

Hell. He needed to get his karma checked. Elliot said, “I...think I know where my dad is.”

“Where?”

“Nobby’s farm.”

After a moment, Tucker said, “Nobby is the crazy guy who used to tip sleeping cows over and win all the logrolling contests?”

One thing about Tucker. He paid attention. Too much attention sometimes. “That was a long time ago.”

“Nobby is the one who kept falling for everyone else’s girlfriend. The guy who couldn’t get a date for the revolution.”

Elliot considered that in surprise. “Where’d you come up with that theory?”

“From little things you said. It sounded to me like every guy in that clubhouse was getting his share. Except Nobby.”

“He did get a date. Suzy D. was living on that farm for a while with him. In fact, that seems to be the last anyone heard of her.”

“Great. And the farm is where you got the tomatoes. The place outside of Bellevue where you used to go to pick blueberries and have picnics with your parents?”

“Right.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

Tucker had put that together even faster than expected. So fast that Elliot had to scramble. “Hold on. I didn’t say—”

Tucker said, “Don’t try to tell me that you’re not going out there because I know you are.”

“I am. Nobby knows me. But there’s no way that two of us walking in there is going to look like anything but what it is.”

“Okay. My turn. There is no way that you walking in on your own now is going to look like anything but what it is. And if you don’t give me your word right now that you’ll wait for me, I’m phoning Seattle PD the minute I hang up.”

“Christ, Tucker. Can you just once in your life—”

“No. You can chew my ass all you want later about butting in where I’m not wanted and not being able to trust me. Trust this, you go in there without backup and I will have that place swarming with cops before you can say green juice tastes like grass.”

Why fight it? Having Tucker provide his backup was the best news Elliot had had all morning.

He said, “I was going to say, you’re liable to be there before me. Don’t do anything to spook him.”

“Are you armed? Do you need my backup piece?”

“I’m armed.”

“You are?” Tucker sounded surprised.

“Hell, yes. Do you think I’d go meet someone who hired a couple of goons to rough me up, without packing a weapon? Or walk unarmed into the isolated house of a guy I thought might be involved in a conspiracy to kill my father?”

“No. Not when you put it like that.”

“I don’t know how else you’d put it.”

Tucker was not entirely joking as he said, “Okay. But when was the last time you had target practice?”

“Pioneer Courthouse Square,” Elliot said tersely.

There was a pause before Tucker said. “Let’s avoid the reenactment.”

“Let’s. See you there.”

“I’ll be the guy fondling the melons. Don’t dawdle, Mills.”