Fair Play (All's Fair Book 2) (8 page)

Chapter Eleven

“Do you know any hackers?” Elliot asked Kyle on Monday, after the last of his Film and History seminar filed out, the sound of flip-flops and ringing cell phones dying out down the corridor.

Kyle stared at him doubtfully. “You mean...like a—a computer hacker?” he questioned at last, as though the concept was completely foreign.

“Yes.”

“Professor Mills...I mean, you used to work for the FBI, don’t
you
know any computer hackers?”

“This is not FBI business. This is not police business.”

“Oh.” Kyle tugged absently on one of his lip rings, eyeing Elliot thoughtfully.

“It’s a paid gig.” Elliot snapped shut his briefcase. “But I need someone reliable. And discreet.”

Kyle continued to eye him in that considering way, and Elliot wondered if he had seriously misjudged the kid. Maybe he
had
been out of the field too long.

“I might know someone.” Kyle seemed to come to a decision. “I’d have to check with...this person first.”

“Okay. It’s kind of an urgent matter, so the sooner the better.”

Kyle nodded gravely.

Back in the cubbyhole of his office, Elliot started packing the books and materials he would need during his summer break. He dodged phone calls from newspapers—including
The Trace
, Puget Sound University’s own student paper—and he apologized to University President Charlotte Oppenheimer for failing to personally inform her of the fire that had destroyed Roland’s home.

Charlotte thought the school should organize some kind of benefit or fundraiser for Roland, and Elliot promised to talk to Roland about it.

Which he would do—assuming his father ever showed up again.

Shortly after, Detective Pine called asking if Elliot knew where Roland was, and that was, by any definition, an awkward conversation.

No sooner had Elliot managed to get rid of Pine—after no doubt confirming the detective’s worst opinions of both Roland and himself—than Donna, the department secretary, buzzed him sounding unusually flustered. “Professor Mills? Will MacAuley is asking to speak to you. I—I think it really
is
him. It’s his voice.”

“Thanks. Put him through.” Elliot wasn’t sure what was more startling. Will MacAuley contacting him or the realization that the always pleasant and eminently sane Donna was apparently a regular MacAuley listener.

A moment later Elliot’s office phone rang and he picked up.

“Mills here,” he said as curtly as though he were back working for the Bureau.

“Professor Mills, this is Will MacAuley.” The voice was deep and warm and undeniably melodious. It was the kind of voice that inspired trust. Elliot had never seen MacAuley but he had an instant mental image of someone larger than life, kingly: masculine and commanding, but caring and wise too. Of course the truth was that MacAuley was probably just another one of these roly-poly middle-aged white guys who had learned facts didn’t matter so long as you never gave your opponent a chance to talk.

He said, “What can I do for you, Mr. MacAuley?”

“It’s what I can do for
you
, Professor Mills. I’m sure you’re aware Seattle PD has been to see me, and I wanted to assure you that I and my staff will cooperate with law enforcement in every way possible during this crisis.”

The situation
had
reached crisis point, so there was no logical reason for Elliot to resent MacAuley pointing out the obvious.

“I appreciate that.”

“I also want to give you my word of honor that I am not in any way involved in any plot or threat against your father’s life. I believe your father was and is a misguided zealot, but we still live in a free country, the greatest country on earth, thank God, and I will defend the senior Professor Mills’s right to spout his baloney as energetically as I would defend any of my supporters.”

“Good to know,” Elliot said, deadpan.

“It should be. In fact, I’d like to invite you to come on the show and be interviewed.”

“
Me?
Why?” Elliot couldn’t hide his surprise.

“Honestly? Your father isn’t here to ask, so you’re the next best thing.” MacAuley laughed. It had a warm, friendly ring to it. “I’m joking. I think you have a unique perspective to share as a former FBI agent—and the victim of extremist violence—as well as the son of a leftist political outlaw. I, for one, am wondering how you’ve managed to pull off that balancing act.”

“I appreciate the offer, but no, thanks.”

“Any reason why not?”

“Several. The most important being that this isn’t about me.”

MacAuley laughed again. “Now, now. You’re not afraid to come on the air and answer a few questions, surely? I promise to go easy on you.”

“No, I’m not afraid,” Elliot said dryly. “And I’m also not susceptible to playground taunts or double dog dares.”

“Spoken like a true tough guy.” MacAuley sounded amused.

Elliot sighed. Still, you couldn’t fault the guy’s easygoing temper.

“Is there anything I can say to change your mind? You’re about to miss an opportunity to bring attention to your father’s situation.”

Elliot couldn’t help retorting, “I hope so.”

“The offer remains open. Here’s my direct number, in case you should change your mind.”

Elliot thanked MacAuley and after a few—very few—more words they politely disconnected.

He was staring numbly at the 49,000 search results for “Roland Mills”—he’d never quite had the nerve to do a Google search of his father before, and now he knew why—when someone tapped on the door frame of his office.

Elliot looked up. Tucker stood in the doorway, and Elliot’s first reaction was pleasure—and appreciation. Nobody wore the suit better than Tucker. From the Oakleys to those custom tailored jackets, he was everyone’s favorite fantasy of what an FBI agent ought to look like.

Tucker’s face was grim. “I have to talk to you,” he said, and shut the office door behind him.

Elliot’s heart froze. He rose. He managed to say with some degree of steadiness, “Is it my father?”

Tucker’s face changed. “No. Jesus, no. Sorry.” He crossed the floor to Elliot’s desk and gripped Elliot’s shoulders. “It’s nothing to do with your dad.”

Elliot leaned forward, knuckles pressing hard into the desk blotter. He felt weak with relief and embarrassed that he hadn’t been able to hide his fear. “Okay. Well. I don’t think I need any more caffeine today.”

But something was wrong because after that first flash of remorseful awareness, Tucker released him, sat down in one of the chairs in front of the desk, and leaned forward, resting his forehead in his hands.

It was such an un-Tucker-like act, such an un-Tucker-like posture, that Elliot forgot his own scare.

“What’s wrong?”

Tucker ran his hands over the smooth coppery shock of his hair and raised his head. His expression was guilty, unhappy. “I’ve got to tell you something. It’s...difficult.”

Elliot sat down behind the desk again. “You’re married.”

Tucker looked offended. He started to speak.

“You’re sick,” Elliot guessed. But no. That couldn’t be it. Tucker was healthy as a horse.

Tucker glowered. “Seriously, Mills? Do I look sick?”

“You’ve gambled our life savings away.” That was a laugh. Tucker was the most money-savvy person Elliot had ever known. He had insisted on reinvesting Elliot’s retirement fund and had nearly doubled it already.

“What? No!”

Elliot was getting exasperated. “Then what the hell’s the problem? I know.” He took a deep breath. “You don’t want to go steady anymore?”

“The hell.” Tucker glared. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy. This isn’t about
us
.” His expression twisted and he looked guilty again. “Except the part that is.”

“Tucker, you’re killing me here. Will you just tell me?”

Tucker nodded. Swallowed.

“
Tucker.
For Christ’s sake!
Say
something.”

“I found my mother.”

Elliot’s lips parted, but now he was the one out of words.

“Actually she found me.”

“Is that good?” Elliot asked cautiously. “Are you glad about it?”

Tucker was gazing at him solemnly. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t? Well, what wouldn’t be good about it? Does she want to meet with you?”

“I have met with her,” Tucker said. “I had dinner with her Friday night.”

“You—? Why didn’t you tell me?” There was no pretending that this news wasn’t a shock. And it hurt. To keep something like this secret? Not just for a few hours. For
days.
Days they had spent together.

In the space of two sentences Tucker had become a stranger.

But Elliot instantly rejected that thought, that reaction. Tucker was right. This wasn’t about Elliot. It wasn’t even about them. It was about Tucker. He made himself focus on Tucker once more, on what Tucker was telling him. Or not telling him.

Tucker seemed to be picking his words with a care worthy of someone walking barefoot across sharp rocks. “I didn’t want to drag you into it until I understood the situation myself. You already have enough to deal with right now with your dad. I wasn’t even sure she really was my mother.”

“But you are now?”

“Oh yeah.” Tucker brushed that aside. “She’s my mother. The thing is...”

When he didn’t continue, Elliot said slowly, thinking aloud, “So that’s why you turned your phone off. And that’s why you didn’t want to come home Friday night?” He was still finding Tucker’s secrecy—no, reticence—confusing.

“I don’t know how to explain this, but I wasn’t ready to talk about it. I had a lot of thinking to do.”

“You didn’t think you could talk to me?”

Tucker expelled a long breath. “Yes. I knew I could talk to you. But I didn’t want to risk dragging you into something—”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that. I’m not even sure what it means.”

“I didn’t know what to expect. This is a woman who walked away from all her responsibilities, dumped her baby and took off to spend her life getting high and getting laid.”

Elliot said, “You thought you needed to protect me from your mother?”

“Maybe. I didn’t want to involve you in a domestic shitstorm. I wasn’t sure
I
wanted to get involved. And after Friday I’m still not sure.”

“I guess I understand that. Sort of.” What he understood was that maybe Tucker had needed to work through what he was feeling without dealing with anyone else’s thoughts and reactions. He didn’t like it, but he did understand it.

“Tova—my mother—has cleaned up her act. She’s married now and a born-again Christian.”

“Ah.” This must be the part that was about
them.

“I’m proud of her for pulling herself out of the wreckage.” Tucker frowned, unseeing, at the box Elliot had been packing with books and papers.

“That’s good,” Elliot encouraged.

“Yes. It is. But as far as I can tell, I don’t have anything in common with her. I’m not even sure I like her.”

“Oh.”

“All the same...”

“She’s your mother.”

“They’re leaving Seattle tomorrow. She wants to have dinner tonight. She and her husband. I want you to come along. It would mean a lot to me.”

“Okay.”

“But I haven’t explained to her the full extent of our relationship.”

“What are we supposed to be?” Elliot asked acerbically. “Blood brothers?”

Tucker’s gaze was dark and serious. “If you don’t want to go to dinner with them, I understand. I don’t know that I’ll ever see her again after tonight. I don’t know that I’ll
want
to see her, so if you’re not comfortable, it’s okay.”

Once again Elliot reminded himself that what Tucker needed was the important thing here. God knew, Tucker did his best to be there for Elliot. He said, “If you want me there, of course I’ll be there.”

“I do want you there,” Tucker said.

“Time and place,” Elliot said. He smiled.

After a moment Tucker smiled too, looking almost alight with relief.

Just like that he was back to his normal cocky self. He rose, kissed Elliot with suave deliberation, told him the time and place, waited for him to type the info into his phone, and then departed.

Elliot stared after him, listening to the firm fall of Tucker’s Ecco dress shoes fade away down the hall.

The desk phone rang. He reached for it absently.

“Elliot?” Roland’s voice said clearly.

Chapter Twelve

“
Dad?
”

“Yes, it’s me.” It certainly sounded like Roland in one of his more irascible moods. “What’s this about you calling around, asking a lot of questions, and telling people I’ve gone underground?”

Elliot grabbed for paper and pen. “Where are you?”

“It has to stop, Elliot. Now. I’m not in any danger. I’m not even in the country right now. So cease and desist. You understand?”

“Do you think the phone is bugged? Why won’t you just say where you are?”

“Son, you’re not listening to me.” Roland was clearly straining for patience. “It doesn’t matter where I am. I’m fine. Everything is cool. Do you hear me? I don’t want you looking for me.”

“Then tell me where you are.”

“I’m not going to tell you where I am because I don’t want you digging into things that are not your business.”

“You’re the one who thought the shooter was after me.”

“No one’s going to come after you now.” Roland’s voice sharpened. “
Has
something happened?”

“No. But you’re not making sense. Why isn’t anyone go—”

“Isn’t that clear enough? So leave it alone. And most of all, I do not want you bringing your pals at the FBI in.”

“How do you know I’m digging into anything? Who’ve you been in contact with? Pauline? Nobby?”

“Elliot.”

“
Dad
, you can’t just walk away from two ongoing investigations and expect everyone to forget what happened. Seattle PD is starting to wonder what
you’re
hiding.”

“What do I have to do to get you to listen to me?” Roland snapped. “This isn’t what you think it is.”

“What the hell does that mean? Then what is it?”

“I’ll let you know when the time is right. In the meantime, I expect you to respect my wishes.”

Elliot’s voice rose despite his effort to keep his tone reasonable. It was not a reasonable situation. “It’s not that simple, Dad. Other people are already involved. And even if they weren’t...you can’t leave a note like the one you left me, and expect—”

“Elliot, it
needs
to be that simple. For all our sakes.”

And with that, Roland hung up.

Pretty much what you’d call a
Terrible
,
Horrible
,
No Good
,
Very Bad Day
. A reference which triggered Elliot’s memories of Roland reading that book to him when Elliot had been a kid, which reminded Elliot of everything that had been lost in the house fire, which restarted the whole cycle of worry and doubt.

As Tucker would have said, Elliot’s inner control freak was flipping out. Well, he wouldn’t have said “flipping out,” that would be Roland’s term.

Either way, when Kyle called to say he had found someone to help Elliot out with his “computer problems,” Elliot shoved aside his discomfort at the realization he was about to perpetrate a federal crime and gave Kyle the go-ahead. What bothered him even more was the recognition that he was violating his father’s privacy in a way his father would never have considered when Elliot lived under his roof.

But he couldn’t see a way around it. Roland was in serious trouble and Elliot couldn’t help him without having all the facts. At this point, even a few facts would help.

At three-thirty, with the endearing punctuality that made him a good TA, Kyle showed up with another youngster in tow.

“This is Zee,” Kyle said. Or maybe what he said was Z. Elliot wouldn’t have blamed the kid for using an alias.

Elliot nodded hello to Zee. He—she?—was a small, slight blond with a genderless haircut, white cat costume contact lenses, and
maybe
the faintest suggestion of five o’clock shadow.

“Hi, Zee.”

The white cat eyes measured him expressionlessly. Could the kid really see through those things?

“I told Zee you were cool,” Kyle said, looking and sounding like he was trying to convince himself.

“Payment in advance,” Zee said in a husky, sexless voice.

Elliot nodded and pulled out the wad of cash he’d withdrawn from the nearest ATM after Kyle had called him earlier that afternoon. He handed it over.

Zee counted the money meticulously, crammed it in the front pocket of his yellow skinny jeans. He gave Kyle a meaningful look, and Kyle went out into the hall, closing the door behind him. Standing watch?

Zee pulled a silver laptop out of his backpack. Declining the invitation to use Elliot’s desk, he settled on the floor, leaning against the wooden filing cabinet, and unhurriedly began to click and tap keys. His hands were square and blunt-tipped, nails bitten to the quick.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked, all his attention on his laptop screen.

Elliot explained what he wanted and Zee raised his head and stared at him with those unnerving white eyes. Then he uttered a high, girlish laugh.

“Your dad is going to be
so
mad at you.”

“He’s going to ground me for the rest of my life,” Elliot said.

Zee laughed again and went back to clicking and tapping on his keyboard.

“Oh, you got yourself locked out,” he said after a time.

“Yes. Too many bad tries. Can you get past their security protocol?”

Zee was licking his lips. He didn’t seem to hear at first. Then he said absently, “Sure. I gotta hack tool for them.”

More clicking, more tapping, more licking of lips.

Elliot glanced at the time on the desk set phone display. It was already five past four, and it would take him at least an hour to get to the Elliott Bay Marina in Seattle. Probably longer given the traffic at this time of day. He and Tucker were supposed to meet Tova and her husband at six.

Cutting it close. Closer than he liked. Granted, he didn’t want to get there before Tucker, and Tucker would probably only stroll in about four minutes before the appointed time.

Zee’s fingers were silent. He was scowling into space, seeming to consult a higher power. He said finally, “We’ll start with Hydra. It’s basically pattern checking, word list substitution, you know...dictionary attacks. Then if that doesn’t work, we’re going to bruteforce it. But that takes longer. And it’s messy.”

What did
messy
mean? A trail of broken, bloody emails leading from Roland’s sign in to his inbox?

“Uh, wait,” Elliot said. “You’re not going to lose any information, right? His email will all still be there?”

“Oh yeah.”

“All right.”

“Your dad’s old, so it shouldn’t be much of a fight,” Zee reassured him. He tap, tap, tapped and then leaned back on his hands, studying Elliot.

“So you got shot?”

Was that his big claim to fame on campus? “A couple of years ago.”

“What was that like?”

“It hurt. A lot. It almost took my lower leg off.”

Zee nodded approvingly, though whether approving the injury or the fact that Elliot had recovered from it was uncertain.

“So then they kicked you out of the FBI?”

Elliot gave a half laugh. “I could have had an administrative position, but I didn’t want that. So I decided to go back to teaching.”

“Brave. You teach that class on cowboy movies.”

“Among other things.”

“I might take that class.”

“Sure.”

Zee turned back to his laptop and raised his pencil-thin eyebrows. “Huh. Your dad’s smarter than a lot of old dudes. My grandpa wouldn’t even know how to turn on a computer. Can you tell me some stuff your dad likes or thinks is cool?”

Elliot talked, Zee clicked, the clock ticked on toward four-thirty.

“Power2thePeople,” Zee said suddenly. “He used the number two in it. We’re in!” He laughed as though Roland had done something delightful. He studied the monitor, clicked, studied the monitor again. Then his face fell. “Holy shit. He has a folder with all his passwords in his
mail
.”

“Okay,” Elliot said quickly, rising. “That’s fine. You can stop now. Thanks for your help. Can I get into his email from my computer now?”

“Yeah, it’s all reset. Power2thePeople. Unless you want me to change it.”

“No. Don’t change it.”

“Try it.”

Elliot tried it, and this time he was able to open Roland’s email without a hitch. He studied a long line of neatly organized folders including, yes, one marked PASSWORDS.

“Perfect.”

“Anything else?”

“Nope. That’ll do it.” He rose, shepherding Zee to the door.

“Keep me in mind, Professor. Next time you need help with your computer, let me know.”

“Will do.”

Elliot opened the door, let Zee out, gave Kyle a thumbs-up and closed the door on them. Hastily, he returned to his desk, studying Roland’s sent mail. Roland emailed
a
lot
of people and a lot of organizations. Some guys retired to play golf and spend time with the grandkids. Roland was still trying to change the world.

Elliot searched “Midwestern Foundation Press,” and then scanned the subject headings.

PowertothePeople:
Post FLE2 round of edits.

“Bingo.” Elliot opened the file and pressed Print.

The aged printer on the credenza behind Elliot’s desk began to spit out pages of Roland’s manuscript.

And pages.

And pages.

What the hell was his father writing? The sequel to
War and Peace
?

He picked up a sheet and began to read.

It started with my personal outrage that I might be called to fight and die in a war I was constitutionally
,
fundamentally opposed to.
But it quickly became about much more than me or my friends or my fellow students.
It became about the kind of society
,
the kind of country
,
the kind of world we wanted to live in.
Ironically my number never did come up.
I
was never drafted.
And in a strange way
,
I
always felt guilty about that.
They say revolution is a young man’s game
,
and that’s probably true.
If I’d had a child
,
the responsibility of a home and a family
,
I
might not have had the time or energy to try to change the world.
Sometimes that’s what it comes down to.
Then again
,
if I’d had a son of draftable age
,
I’d have moved heaven and earth to prevent his winding up in the charnel house of Vietnam.

At five to five, Elliot turned his computer off, threw the fat Word document into the box of books and other files, and left for dinner with his mother-in-law.

* * *

Tucker, Tova and Tova’s husband were just being led to their table when Elliot arrived at Palisade restaurant.

Palisade was a Seattle landmark. Elliot had been there a few times with friends and family, but never with Tucker. The place was renowned for its food, its service, the ice spheres in its cocktails, and the phenomenal dining view of the marina. It was a good choice, whether made by Tucker or this mysterious mother of his.

Elliot had been feeling a little harassed, but Tucker’s crooked smile made up for the race to get there—and the fact that Elliot had had to shave in his car and didn’t have a tie.

“You made it,” Tucker said.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Elliot returned.

It wasn’t really the shaving and the lack of a tie that bothered him. He had started thinking over Tucker’s choice not to share the news about his mother, and even if it wasn’t rational, it did sort of bother him. He did not like secretiveness, and one thing that made Tucker such a good match for him was Tucker’s sometimes brutal directness. Elliot preferred brutal directness to furtiveness. Not that Tucker could ever be called furtive, and discretion was ingrained in them both, but his silence in this case felt strange. Elliot did not have any secrets from Tucker. Not that he could think of. He hadn’t shared Roland’s suspicion that Friday’s shooter had been aiming for Elliot, but that was because he didn’t believe it was true. He was sure Roland’s fear had biased his observation.

Tucker made the introductions and Elliot shook hands and said his hellos.

Tucker was right. There was no question Tova was his birth mother. It was uncanny. Same red hair, same piercing blue eyes, same shoulders like a linebacker. Beyond the unmistakable physical resemblance she did not look like Elliot expected, and he realized he had been carrying a rather biased mental image. Mommy was a crack whore maybe?

This woman appeared to be in her fifties, trim and attractive in a beige lace sheath. She wore tiny pearl earrings and modest heels. She looked like she spent her afternoons lunching with the Chamber of Commerce.

Her husband, Ed, was less stylish, a few inches shorter, and a lot grayer. He wore a discreet hearing aid and looked like the kind of guy who divorced his first wife to marry successful businesswomen he met at Chamber of Commerce luncheons.

“This is Elliot,” Tucker said. “I said he might be joining us.”

“How do you do, Elliot,” Tova said. Her smile was a little puzzled.

Elliot didn’t blame her for being puzzled. Maybe some day this would be funny. Or maybe not.

They sat down at a round table in the crowded lower dining room. Large picture windows offered an enviable view of the marina and the distant Space Needle. The sun was setting, gilding the silver forest of masts and turning the still water amber.

“Where do you know Tucker from?” Tova briskly shook out a white linen napkin.

Elliot said, “We used to work together.”

“Elliot’s my closest friend,” Tucker said.

“That’s nice,” Tova said. “You don’t work together anymore?”

“No.” That sounded brusque even to Elliot’s ears. He tried to sound less like an ex-FBI agent and more like a regular human. “I was injured in the line of duty. I teach college now. I’m a history professor at PSU.”

Ed said, “I bet you’ve got some real challenges there.”

“A few.”

“I can’t imagine what it would be like trying to teach school now days. Nobody can read or write, nobody wants to speak English or work hard. Half these kids don’t even know what sex they are.”

The waitress came to take their drink orders. “We don’t drink alcoholic beverages,” Ed said, as though she should have known better, and ordered iced tea for Tova and himself.