Fair Game (3 page)

“What was ‘like always’?” Elliot questioned, glancing up to find Tucker staring at him.

“Quiet. Serious. Polite. He was liked well enough, but I wasn’t able to identify anyone who considered him a close friend.”

“That seems to support what his mother said. Baker was gay. Were you aware of that?”

Tucker’s gaze sharpened. “I had my suspicions. We didn’t turn up anything conclusive.”

“He came out last summer. Tom Baker had major problems with it. He and Pauline chose to keep that piece of information to themselves.”

“That supports our theory that the kid walked.”

“Literally,” Elliot retorted. “I think if he’d left voluntarily, he’d at least take his car.”

“Maybe someone else drove.”

“I don’t think s—”

“
You
don’t think so?” Tucker’s tone was edged with barely restrained hostility. “You’ve been on the case for five fucking minutes. What do you think happened? He was kidnapped? I know it’s been a while, but even you should remember how rarely adult males are kidnapped from college campuses.”

Elliot flicked him a cool glance. “I was thinking more along the lines that he might have capped himself.”

Tucker sat back in his chair. “Maybe. If I had to spend a semester reading Renaissance philosophy, I’d cap myself. But where’s the body?”

Elliot drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. He shook his head.

“Yeah, that’s the problem.” Tucker added grudgingly, “Baker Senior’s disapproval does change the dynamic, I’ll give you that.”

“There’s a boyfriend. That adds another suspect to the mix. And a potential motive in addition to the father’s disapproval.”

“A boyfriend?” Tucker expelled an impatient breath. “Fucking A. That’s two weeks’ worth of investigation—” He caught himself.

“Yeah,” Elliot said neutrally. He understood and he did sympathize. “What about the video surveillance cameras?”

“Nothing showed up.”

“Nothing?”

“The kid walked out of the library. No one followed him. The cameras are only positioned in strategic campus areas. What it gets down to is Baker walked out of the picture.”

“You checked the kid’s computer?”

“His laptop disappeared with him. Cell phone too.” Tucker took out a pen and notepad. “What’s the boyfriend’s name?”

“Jim Feder. He’s also a student at PSU.”

Tucker frowned, considering. “I don’t think he turned up in our initial investigation.”

“That’s squirrely right there. If they were hooking up, he’d probably start asking where Baker was. And if he was asking questions, someone should have noticed.”

“Maybe he knows where Baker is. Maybe he’s AWOL too.” Tucker’s gaze—so blue, so intense—met Elliot’s, and Elliot felt the old drag of awareness.

“It’s worth finding out.”

Tucker was still looking at him, his expression unreadable. Elliot heard the echo of his words. For some reason it suddenly felt like they were talking about something entirely different.

The strange moment passed. Tucker glanced at his watch and rose unhurriedly from the table. “Sometimes you already know the answer. Sometimes it’s just not worth the bother.”

“Try this.” Roland Mills held out a teaspoon with a dab of white on the tip.

Elliot sampled the teaspoon and closed his eyes. A delicate, buttery cheese melted across his tongue. He opened his eyes. “Wow. What is that?”

“Mascarpone cheese. For the mushroom cream sauce that goes over the rigatoni.” Satisfied, Roland returned to the stove.

They were sitting in the kitchen of Roland’s comfortable bungalow in the artsy and eclectic historic Ballard district, about a ten minute drive from Seattle. Elliot had grown up in this house with its glossy bamboo bedroom floors, natural rock fireplace and tranquil front and back gardens. For the first few years after his mother’s death in a hit-and-run accident, it had been hard for him to visit. He’d always tried to meet his father on campus or at a restaurant, but eventually he’d got past it. The house no longer echoed with the emptiness of that missing voice, that absent laugh, those vanished footsteps. Elliot could remember the good times without grief—although he still didn’t understand how his father could sleep in the same bedroom, same bed, he’d shared for twenty-four years with the bright spirit of Jesse Mills. But then there were a lot of things he didn’t understand about his father. And probably vice versa.

“What can you tell me about Tom Baker?” he asked, idly watching his father’s ponytail sway gently with the motion of powerful shoulders beneath blue denim as he swiftly, precisely sliced mushrooms. Roland had waxed scathingly on the gloomy financial forecast for several local arts groups—although if Elliot were honest, he had only half listened, his attention still mostly focused on the brief and unpleasant meeting he’d had with Tucker at the Tacoma RA.

He really,
really
didn’t want to think about Tucker or start the inevitable sifting through the ashes of their brief—however intense—relationship. Though listening to his father bitch about Republicans, the recession and cancelled art grants wasn’t a whole hell of a lot of an improvement. It bothered Elliot how a few minutes’ conversation with Tucker could stir up…so much.

An awful lot of memories for a relationship that hadn’t lasted a year. Hadn’t lasted three months, to be accurate. In fact, calling it a “relationship” was kind of an exaggeration. Realistically, they’d been fuck buddies, right? Which was why, when Elliot had managed to get himself nailed following a shootout at the federal courthouse, there had been nothing to hold them together. The only thing they ever had in common was the job.

And a mutually weird sense of humor.

And a love of Nissan cars and pizza.

And the sex.

Which…yeah. Here he was full circle back to remembering the very thing he didn’t want the think about.

“Tom’s an okay cat. He’s one of the good guys,” Roland was saying as he whipped the mascarpone cheese. They were having lentil salad with the rigatoni. Elliot had inherited his love of cooking from his old man. Roland was good enough in the kitchen to make vegetarianism palatable, not that Elliot was converting anytime soon. In his opinion, all that was keeping the evening’s dinner from perfection was the absence of pork or lamb chops.

He met his father’s light gaze as Roland added, “He has a temper. I won’t argue that.”

“How much of a temper?”

“He didn’t kill his son.”

Elliot considered a couple of replies. He settled on, “I want to remind you who got me involved in this.”

“I’m not forgetting, but if you’re considering Tom as a suspect you’re wasting everyone’s time.”

“Because Tom’s an okay cat?”

“Because Tom wouldn’t kill his own child.”

Elliot studied his father for a moment. The differences between them were more than physical, and physically no one would pick them for father and son. Roland was medium height and built like a small bull. His brown hair and beard were finally going silver, but only in the last few years. Elliot was tall and slender like his mother had been. He possessed the same dark hair and gray eyes. Also her tempered idealism—which Roland referred to as “dismaying cynicism.”

“The thing is,” Elliot said neutrally, “people lose their temper and strike out, and human beings are pretty fragile when you get down to it.”

Case in point: his knee was aching at the swift approach of rain. He resisted the desire to massage it. He didn’t want to bring attention to it; nothing made Roland angrier than the recollection of his only child lamed in the service of a government he’d spent most of his own adult life battling.

“You pull your punches with your children.”

Roland truly believed that, and Elliot found himself without the energy or heart to dredge up all the sad, sordid exceptions to the rule he could think of. He said instead, “The kid, Terry, was gay. Did you know that?”

“Did I know that? No. I haven’t seen Terry since he was…hell. Fourteen or fifteen. I’m not surprised to hear it, though.” Roland met Elliot’s eyes and he smiled.

Elliot had been determinedly in the closet until he started graduate school. It had been disconcerting to finally come out to his parents only to learn they’d believed he was gay from the time he turned fourteen.

“Pauline seems to think that was a major problem for Tom.”

“It would be, sure,” Roland said calmly, “We’ve all got our hang ups. Tom’s unfortunately have to do with sexuality. He was always uptight when it came to the wild thang.”

“The wild…” Elliot decided to let that pass. “Right. So Tom wasn’t okay with his son’s sexual orientation. What kind of family dynamic do you think that would create?”

Roland dumped the sliced cremini, shiitake and button mushrooms into the pan with the shallots and garlic. He reached for the large milk-glass salt and pepper shakers. “I think it would make for some awkward family get-togethers.”

“I think it’s possible the kid might have killed himself.”

“I hope not.” But Roland didn’t sound entirely surprised at the idea.

“I hope not too, but…from what I’ve picked up so far he was a high achiever and a perfectionist. I don’t think it would be easy for him to disappoint his parents. I mean, it’s too early to speculate, but it is a possibility.”

Roland nodded. “I know. Neither Pauline nor Tom will accept the possibility, but…I saw enough of the damage loving parents can do when I was teaching.”

“This temper of Tom’s…I thought he was another bleeding heart liberal?”

Roland grinned. “Sure, but this was back in the day when we made the other side’s hearts—and ulcers—bleed too.”

“What about Pauline?” He happened to be looking directly at his father, which was how he noticed the sudden, slightly self-conscious blankness of Roland’s features, the hint of color on his cheekbones. Elliot just managed not to do a double take.

“What about her?”

“What’s she like?”

“She’s…sensitive, bright, a bit fragile.”

He wasn’t imagining things. His father liked Pauline. A lot. His good friend’s wife. Which seemed bizarre given how Pauline was totally unlike his own direct and even-tempered mother.

“She’s sort of young for him, isn’t she?” he asked shortly.

Roland’s gaze met his. “She was a clerk in his law office. They fell in love after he divorced Patricia. Pauline was pregnant with Terry when they married.”

“Great.”

Roland threw him an irritated look, and Elliot knew his attitude was showing. Really, what did it matter to him? Even if his father chose to remarry at some point, was it his business? Ten years was a long time to grieve, even for the love of your life.

Roland had been married twice before Jesse. He liked women. He liked marriage.

Elliot said, “Tom Baker isn’t the one concerned with Terry’s absence, is he? Consulting me was Pauline’s idea.”

“It was my idea, if you’ll recall. I’m sure Tom is very concerned, but he’s not a cat who shows his emotions. He and Terry have never been as close as he’d have liked.” Roland studied Elliot’s face. “Does Pauline have grounds to be concerned or is Tom right to downplay Terry’s disappearance?”

Elliot said reluctantly, “I think she’s right to be concerned.”

*  *  *

It wasn’t until much later that evening, when Elliot was home and crawling wearily into the comfortable double bed in the upstairs bedroom of his Goose Island cabin, that he allowed himself to dwell on the details of his meeting with Tucker.

Jesus, but it felt good to stretch out. The flannel sheets were soft and smelled comfortingly of cedar, but it was unsettling the way they brought back unwanted memories of that overnight sailing trip on Tucker’s boat. All at once everything was reminding him of Tucker.

He dropped the files on the striped brown-and-white duvet, powered on his laptop and leaned back into the stack of pillows, folding his arms behind his head and staring up at the knotholes of the open pine beams.

On the one hand, it could have gone worse. Tucker could have refused to work with him at all. Not that that was very likely given that he’d received direct orders from SAC Montgomery to cooperate. But, once he’d got over the unpleasant shock of Elliot, he’d been professional and straightforward. So that was great news. Why did Elliot feel more depressed than he’d felt in months?

He gazed out the line of rain-starred windows at the black silhouette of the tall pines surrounding the cabin. What the hell more did he want? Tucker had handed over a copy of his file, he’d briefed him and he’d promised—grudgingly—to keep Elliot informed of any developments.

Maybe it had less to do with Tucker and the way things had ended between them and more to do with Elliot’s own feelings of uselessness, futility, because practically from the minute he’d heard Terry Baker was missing he’d had a bad feeling. That old gut instinct that this thing wasn’t going to end well.

In the old days he’d comforted himself with the knowledge that you couldn’t win them all. You did what you could and saved the ones you could save. But the Terry Baker case already felt too personal.

It didn’t help that Elliot had his own set of parental expectations to try and come to terms with. This was the only time he could remember his father asking for his help, but he was very much afraid the outcome here was not going to make anyone happy.

He shook off the feeling, sat up and reached for his laptop.

Who was Terry Baker?

Googling brought up a discouraging zilch. There were plenty of Terry Bakers out there, but not Terry Baker of PSU. Not on Facebook or MySpace or Twitter. This was a kid who understood the meaning of privacy.

Or paranoia.

Elliot gave up that approach and turned to Tucker’s notes, browsing quickly. Brief but comprehensive, that was Tucker’s strong suit. Not a guy for nuance, but he rarely—if ever—overlooked the essentials. Sort of illuminating, really. He and Tucker had only infrequently worked the same cases. They had not been partners. Neither of them would have wanted that. Elliot had specialized in investigating civil rights violations including hate crimes. Tucker had worked major thefts and violent crimes. On the occasions that they had been teamed, Elliot had admired Tucker’s no bullshit approach. It wasn’t subtle, but it was effective. It was less civilized than his own style, but it worked. Maybe if Tucker had been watching his back that day—

But no. That kind of thinking was unproductive. Tucker had not been there—and he sure as hell hadn’t been there after the fact. From the point that Elliot had been officially out of action, Tucker had zero interest in him anymore. Fair enough, because it was the same way Elliot felt.

Right?

Tucker was angry because he didn’t like the idea of being maneuvered. Or maybe he was one of those people who got mad when they felt guilty?

Elliot stared down at Tucker’s Bureau card with the official blue and gold FBI logo. Same phone number. Funny all the things he’d forgotten, but he hadn’t forgotten Tucker’s extension or cell phone number. Or home phone.

He put the card aside and returned to Tucker’s notes, but it was a struggle to concentrate. He kept remembering the weird, unlikely pleasure of being rolled onto his face and fucked to within an inch of his sanity by someone bigger and stronger and possibly even hornier than himself. The seduction of giving up control for that brief period, of letting go and accepting delivery of almost bewildering sexual satisfaction…It was a long time—seventeen months—since he’d let himself think about that.

Sort of like Pandora’s Box. All those painfully vivid images flying out: how merely that fierce, smoldering look of Tucker’s across a crowded room—a briefing room—could heat Elliot’s blood and stiffen his cock so fast it hurt; the taste of Tucker’s tongue pushing into his mouth; and the embarrassing noises of Elliot’s own shocked delight as Tucker’s thick cock shoved into his body and made them—for that brief space—one.

Pandora’s Box, all right, but at the bottom there was nothing resembling Hope.

Valiantly, Elliot tried to stuff the memories back in the casket and fasten on the job at hand. One thing for sure: Tucker would not be sitting around tonight remembering old times.

He could hear the harsh
hwronk-hwronking
of the geese down in the cove—a lonely sound—as he reread Tucker’s report on Terry Baker’s actions on the night of his disappearance. Nothing flagged. If the kid had voluntarily walked away from his life, logically he shouldn’t have spent the evening studying in the library for exams he would never take or papers he would never write. He should have been busy packing. And he should have taken his car. Granted, people did occasionally walk away from their lives with only the clothes on their back, but it usually followed some kind of severe emotional shock. There were warning signals, even if they only became clear after the fact. If Terry Baker had suffered some brutal epiphany, no one seemed to be aware of it.

Barring a psychotic break, it took a certain kind of personality to drop out of sight like that, knowing what the people in your life were going to suffer. At the least it required a lack of imagination—and empathy.

The same arguments held for suicide, although to a lesser extent. Besides, it was hard to picture someone planning to off himself by spending the night reading Renaissance philosophy in the school library. And, if it had been suicide, where was the body? Not many people tried to hide the fact that they’d killed themselves. Elliot couldn’t think of a single instance in his years at the Bureau.