Fair Play (All's Fair Book 2) (9 page)

Tova glanced at Tucker and Elliot. “Of course, you’re grown men, you’ll do as you like.” She smiled a pained sort of smile.

Elliot and Tucker ordered iced tea.

“Are you here sightseeing?” Elliot asked.

The minute the words left his mouth he realized that was a stupid question, but Tova smiled at Tucker, and said, “No. I’ve been hoping to have a reason to come out to Seattle. So when the chance to speak at the Woman Up conference arose, I grabbed it.”

She couldn’t come to Seattle just to see Tucker? But Elliot stifled that thought. He had no idea what her situation was. He asked instead, “The Woman Up conference?”

“It’s an annual event for the empowerment and education of women.”

Woman Up
. Right. Now he remembered. Mischa had been wearing a T-shirt with that slogan.

Ed said with gruff, unmistakable pride, “These girls always want Tova to talk at their shows. Because Tova has real life experience. It’s not just a lot of theory and pie in the sky optimism.”

Tova smiled at Ed.

“Do you know Mischa Weinstein?”

Elliot felt Tucker’s gaze. Tova’s expression took on that pained look again. “I know
of
her,” she said. “She’s sometimes invited to speak as well.”

“One of those Hanoi Jane types,” Ed said. “Should have packed them all up in the sixties and sent ’em to the Soviet Union. They’d have seen how much they liked communism then.”

“So my father’s family background was Irish?” Tucker asked. “Are any of them still alive?”

Elliot nearly choked on his iced tea. Ed frowned out the window.

“English and Irish stock,” Tova said. “No. They’re not around anymore.” Her tone implied this was the first thing they had got right.

The waitress returned. They ordered, they talked about neutral subjects, and thankfully their food arrived before Elliot and Tucker ran out of local landmarks to recommend.

“Boys, I’d like to say grace before our meal,” Ed said. He put his hands out. Tova took his left hand and Elliot took his right. Elliot offered his hand to Tucker who encompassed it in a viselike grip. Elliot gave him a reassuring squeeze. He guessed that Tucker was mortified at dragging Elliot into this, but Elliot didn’t have a problem with grace. He’d sat through many a blessing at his parents’ and friends of his parents’ tables—everything from Unitarian to Wiccan thanksgivings. He had no objection to prayer. He’d even said a few in his time.

“Dear Heavenly Father,” Ed began. “Thank you for this delicious-looking meal, we are always grateful for your bounty. Thank you for the pleasure and privilege of spending each day by the side of Tova, my beautiful bride in Christ. Thank you for allowing us to share this evening with these two fine young men who have dedicated their lives to serving this great country of ours. In particular thank you for bringing Tucker, Tova’s son to us. We hope this is the first of many shared meals. Heavenly Father, accept our praise and bless our food. Through Jesus Christ, our blessed Lord. Amen.”

“Amen,” said Tova.

“Amen,” said Elliot.

Tucker made a strangled sound as they all released hands. But it wasn’t over yet.

“Are you saved, Elliot?” Tova asked politely.

“Well, I...was sort of raised Episcopalian.” Why was she asking him and not Tucker? Maybe it was a roundabout way of trying to ask Tucker.

Tucker said firmly, “In our job we make it a rule never to discuss religion.”

“But you’re not at your job now,” Tova said, smiling. “And you’re not both in the same job.”

Elliot could almost feel Tucker wrestling with his self-imposed restraint. He said, “But we don’t discuss religion. Or politics.”

“Politics?” Ed said. “Surely there could be no disagreement there?”

Tucker opened his mouth.

“Surely not,” Elliot said, nudging Tucker’s foot. “This looks great.” He determinedly turned his attention to his meal. The food
was
excellent. Elliot had ordered the wild Alaskan halibut flavored with saffron and chorizo. Tucker had gone with the cedar plank seafood trio, so there was plenty to keep their mouths busy and out of trouble.

Over dinner they heard about Tova’s and Ed’s good works and church activities. Elliot could feel Tucker’s tension and frustration like a tangible presence between them.

“Tova, you mentioned your father had two brothers. Are they still living? Do I have any cousins or any other aunts or uncles?”

Tova winced. She shook her head. “We don’t associate with that side of the family, Tucker. Take my word, you don’t want to know anything about those people.”

Elliot knew that expression of Tucker’s and gave his foot another nudge. Didn’t Tucker see this was an exercise in futility? It was already clear Tova had closed—and barred—the door on her past. The fact that she had even made contact with Tucker amazed Elliot. It was the one thing he genuinely liked about her. He pictured some future family holiday with Roland and Tova and Ed all breaking bread at the same table, and sent up a celestial SOS of his own.

It felt like the longest meal on earth, but in fact, including coffee and dessert, they only spent about two hours at the table. When Tova finished the last bite of her spiced banana ice cream sundae, Ed motioned briskly for the bill.

Outside on the walk, Ed shook hands, Tova pecked Elliot’s cheek politely, gave Tucker a hug that involved no body contact and smiled a tight little smile.

“It was very nice meeting you, Elliot. But Tucker, next time I hope you’ll bring your girlfriend so we can meet her.”

“Well, Tova, that’s not very likely.” Tucker’s tone was almost aggressively cheerful, and Elliot knew he’d reached his breaking point. “I should have made this clear earlier, but I’m gay. Elliot is not only my closest friend, he’s my partner.”

“What?” Ed said. He meant that literally though. He turned to Tova. “What did he say?” He turned to Elliot. “What did he say?”

Tova’s eyelashes fluttered as though her eyes were rolling up in her head. She said confusedly, “Well, that’s...we’re not...a lot of people seem to think there’s nothing wrong with that, really.”

“Yes, and we’re two of those people.” Tucker offered his hand to Ed. “Have a good trip back, sir.”

“Good night,” Elliot told Tova, who was blinking at him as though he’d suddenly materialized in a cloud of purple smoke.

She made some faint and distracted reply.

Tucker followed Elliot across the parking lot to his car. He said grimly, “Sorry. That was my fault. I should have told her the first time we spoke. I sure as hell should have told her when we had dinner the other night.”

“Really? You think heterosexual people talk about sex with their parents? Especially their parents that they only met five minutes ago? I’m thinking no.”

Tucker acknowledged that with a sound of not-quite amusement. As Elliot unlocked the door to the Nissan, Tucker said wearily, “Did she really say
not that there’s anything wrong with that?
Or was that my imagination?”

“It never occurred to her,” Elliot said. “About us, I mean. She thinks all gay men talk with a lisp and swish. But she didn’t say ‘Get thee behind me, Satan,’ either. So that’s something.”

“Yeah.” Tucker’s smile was weary. “Something else.”

“Hey. You did kind of spring it on her.”

“I know. Are we going to try and catch the ferry or stay at the apartment tonight?”

Elliot thought about it. They were both tired. It had been a long, long day. “Let’s stay in Seattle tonight.”

Tucker nodded. Elliot turned to open his car door. Tucker caught his arm and turned Elliot to face him. “I don’t think I made it clear enough. Thank you. I mean it.”

“No thanks necessary.”

“You’re wrong about that.” Tucker kissed Elliot.

The high beams of a passing car highlighted them for a moment, and then passed on over the black, glittering water.

Chapter Thirteen

“Jesus, I’m glad that’s over.” Tucker shrugged out of his suit jacket. It was about the only thing he’d said since they’d walked into his apartment.

He was still wearing his shoulder holster harness, and Elliot almost made a joke about the advisability of wearing his weapon to dinner, but maybe Tucker wouldn’t think it was that funny. The truth was Elliot didn’t find gun violence jokes all that funny these days.

Tucker glanced at Elliot. “You want a drink?”

Elliot smiled faintly. “If you’re having one.”

He hadn’t been in this apartment much since Tucker had started moving his things to Goose Island. The place had a strip-mined look. Tucker’s books, DVDs, CDs had all been relocated. His favorite chair sat in the sun porch at home. The Franz Schensky carbon seascape now hung in their bedroom.

“Yeah, I’m having one.” Tucker went to the cabinet in the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of whisky. He said over his shoulder, “Thanks again for tonight.”

He brought Elliot his drink. They touched glasses lightly.

Elliot said, “If you can put up with my dad trying to overthrow the government, I can put up with Tova trying to save us from eternal damnation.” One thing that had come out of dinner. He knew Mischa had not been lying about being in town for the Woman Up conference. It was a small point, but helpful.

Tucker nodded, his mind obviously elsewhere. Elliot said, “You okay?”

Tucker swallowed a mouthful of whisky. He put his glass down. “Sure. Of course.” Then his gaze met Elliot’s. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “All at once I feel kind of...let down.”

Elliot put his drink aside and pulled Tucker into his arms, holding him tightly. How many times had Tucker done the same for him? Just...been there for him? After a surprised instant, Tucker’s arms locked around Elliot.

For a time they stood there.

“You want to tell me?” Elliot asked finally.

Tucker shook his head. He admitted, “It doesn’t make any sense.”

It made sense to Elliot though. Sometimes the dream was better than the reality. Sometimes you needed the dreams.

“Do you wish she hadn’t contacted you?”

“No.” Tucker raised his head. “No, I don’t wish that. It does mean something—a lot, really—that she made the effort to find me. And I’m glad to know that she’s pulled herself together, that she’s a strong person.” His smile was more of a grimace. “I don’t know why I feel like this because I never gave a damn about my parents. Either of them, but especially her. She gave me up and that was enough for me.”

He leaned his forehead against Elliot’s. Elliot stroked his back, listening. Listening for what Tucker wasn’t saying as well as what he was.

“I must be getting soft in my old age,” Tucker muttered. “But...you said something at dinner the other night. About you and your dad being the only two people left who shared the same memories. I’m not explaining this well. But I guess I see your relationship with your dad, and I can’t help wishing that I had that. That I had family. That it wasn’t just me.”

“It isn’t just you.” Elliot raised his head. “I’m here. Family isn’t just about who gives birth or who sends you ugly ties for Christmas. I’m your family. You’re my family.”

Tucker’s arms clamped so tight, Elliot wondered if his ribs would crack. Then Tucker released him. “Yeah.” His eyes were too bright and he wiped his forearm across them. “You’re right.”

The sex that night was slow and sweet. Elliot took the lead, all his focus on pleasuring Tucker, letting him know he was loved, appreciated, that he belonged to Elliot—just as Elliot belonged to him.

Power.
This is the most powerful nation on earth.
There is power in the White House
,
the Congress and the Pentagon.
We have the biggest and most well-funded military on the planet.
But there’s also power on the street
,
in the community
,
sitting in every row in the classroom and manning every station in the factory.
That’s real power.
And that was the power we called upon.
That was our power.

Elliot’s Tuesday lecture was not until late in the afternoon. He spent the morning reading
Power to the People
and learning about the stranger who was his father.

He knew the basics, of course. Knew his father had grown up in rural Washington, that Roland’s father, grandfather and great-grandfather had all served proudly in the military. The Mills were salt of the earth folks. Steady, rock solid, mostly conservative. Elliot knew his father had been interested in radical politics from an early age, and he understood now what a shock that must have been to the people who loved him. The antiwar movement had quickly become Roland’s focus. As it was the focus for so many of the best and brightest of that generation.

Roland, always precocious, had only been a junior in high school when college freshman girlfriend Mischa Weinstein introduced him to the Students for a Democratic Society’s Revolutionary Youth Movement. The rest, as they say, was history.

Despite his age, Roland had quickly become a driving force and then a fixture within the movement in Washington state. And as factions with the SDS’s Revolutionary Youth Movement grew frustrated and then bitter about their lack of progress through lawful, peaceful means—as more and more young men died or came home maimed and broken, as the local, state and federal government moved to crush dissent through harsh and sometimes flagrantly illegal methods—Roland had broken away to form the splinter group known as the Collective.

This was the part that was hard to read. Elliot loved and respected his father. Roland was the smartest, kindest, most conscientious citizen of Planet Earth he knew. So to read about his father planning to sabotage and blow up military installations, rob banks and other financial institutions, and generally work to undermine and unseat the government Elliot had nearly died trying to serve, was frankly painful.

But it was equally painful—and depressing—to read about cops brutalizing nonviolent protestors, city and state governments blithely ignoring the civil rights of their citizens, and a war machine that had remorselessly ground on, chewing up and spitting out over 200,000 people, mostly boys, in the States alone. And, according to most historians, all for nothing.

Not that Elliot didn’t already know about the Vietnam War. Aside from growing up with Roland’s perspective on it, he’d studied it at school. Hell, one of his colleagues taught a course on it at PSU. But reading
Power to the People
, suddenly the war and the reaction against it became real in a way they never had been before. For perhaps the first time he understood how really divisive to the nation the war had been. Granted, not as divisive as the Civil War, his own area of study and expertise, but just as much of a world changer in many ways.

He studied the pages of photo proofs. There were several images of protests and confrontations between the SDS and the forces of Establishment. All those enraged faces, young and old. Easy to understand why so many people simply assumed that Roland’s old enemies on the right were still gunning for him. That was the most logical and obvious conclusion. Even so, Elliot felt he had to at least entertain the theory that someone else had an ax to grind. Both attacks had been too...well, what? Personal? Focused? If the reason for quashing Roland’s book was politically motivated, why was no one taking credit or claim? Where were the position papers and letters of indictment and incoherent political rants that, in his experience working civil rights cases and hate crimes for the FBI, typically accompanied these kinds of attacks?

Again, he considered Roland’s almost frantic insistence that Elliot had been the true target of Friday’s attack. At the time he had dismissed it as what Roland feared versus what had really occurred. But now...it was true that the arrows had come closest to Elliot. But wasn’t that due to Elliot trying to stay between his father and the shooter?

Probably. He couldn’t be completely sure.

Destroying Roland’s home, killing his child...essentially taking away everything that mattered to him would be a terrible retribution. But wouldn’t someone delivering that kind of retribution want the victim to know and understand why this was happening?

That certainly didn’t jibe with Roland’s latest insistence that he was not in danger and that Elliot did not understand the situation. At some point between writing his farewell note and talking to Elliot on the phone, Roland seemed to have changed his thinking.

But the fire—and those arrows—had been for real. Someone had been willing to, at the very least, risk killing Roland. So what the hell was Roland talking about? It didn’t make sense.

More likely he was just telling Elliot what he thought Elliot needed to hear.

If the attacks were not the result of political outrage at the publication of yet another former sixties radical memoir, then what? Former friends and colleagues from the left, characters involved in the events described within the four hundred pages of this manuscript, had to be viewed as potential suspects.

That was a
lot
of events and, initially at least, what appeared to be a hopelessly large cast. Even if he focused his attention on the core members of the Collective, only a few names were familiar to him: Tom Baker, Mischa Weinstein, and Oscar Nobb. The name Frank Blue was familiar because his parents had owned a few of Blue’s records. But some of Roland’s closest collaborators were names completely unknown to Elliot. J.Z. McGavin, Ruth Margolies, Suzy D., Star.
Star?
A lot of women in this so-called “Collective” but that had always been the case with Roland’s devotees. Roland had always been the personification of Chick Magnet.

There was no way around it, he’d have to tackle them one by one. Elliot made notes, copious notes, and continued reading until it was time to go to class.

* * *

Tucker phoned while he was walking to his lecture.

“Any further word from Daddy-O?”

“No.”

“Seattle PD has started processing the list of names they got from MacAuley’s webmaster.”

“And?”

“This town has a lot of angry guys living in their parents’ basements.”

Elliot gave a short laugh. “Any of them play
Field Archer
?”

“What’s
Field Archer
?”

“A video game for practicing live bow-hunting.” Even law enforcement agencies considered aptitude for video games in their hiring practices nowadays. The ability to shoot accurately and appropriately was increasingly relevant in modern policing. And gaming helped hone that skill.

Tucker sounded interested. “That sounds like fun. Do we have that game?”

“Not so far. The day is young. Are any of these names looking good for our unsub?”

“Too soon to say. It’s still early.”

Elliot realized that with everything else going on yesterday, he’d neglected to mention MacAuley’s phone call to Tucker. He filled him in, finishing, “I should have said yes. I’d like a chance to interview MacAuley.”

“Uh, I think you made the right choice. No way would you get to control an on-air interview, and off air is not going to happen.”

“I don’t know. I get the feeling he likes believing he’s the smartest guy in the room. He’s overconfident. I know his type.”

“Maybe so, but he’s not stupid,” Tucker said. “Besides which, Seattle PD would have something to say about you butting into their investigation, and it wouldn’t be pleasant. Or unreasonable, frankly.”

“You mean Detective Pine would have something to say about it.”

“Let’s not bring personalities into it.”

“Well, that’s kind of hard not to do given that Pine—”

“Okay, back up,” Tucker cut in. “As far as Pine or Seattle PD knows or cares, you’re just another emotionally involved private citizen who isn’t satisfied with how fast the police are working their—
their
—case.”

“So far, so good.”

“
That
attitude is not helpful,” Tucker said shortly, which was true.

Elliot tried for a more conciliatory approach. “Look, I’m not just another private citizen. I’m—”

“Even taking your background and your qualifications into consideration,” Tucker interrupted again, “what grounds do we have for re-interviewing MacAuley at this juncture? He’s been completely cooperative with the police and, beyond writing a few critical opinion pieces—of
numerous
local leftist activists, by the way—doesn’t appear to have any connection to your father.”

Into Elliot’s silence, Tucker pressed, “Are you aware of some connection no one else is? Has your dad ever mentioned MacAuley except in reference to not liking his politics, his blog or his editorials?”

“No.”

“Then what is it you want?”

Stubbornly, knowing he was out-argued, Elliot said, “I want to talk to MacAuley myself. You could arrange it.”

Tucker sighed. “Come on, Elliot. Play fair. You know I’ll do whatever I can to help you, but you’ve got to give me something I can work with. I can’t just throw the weight of the federal government around because my boyfriend is suspicious by nature.”

Elliot was unwillingly amused by that “my boyfriend” comment. And he knew when he was beat—or at least temporarily obstructed. “It was worth a try, right? Are you going to be home tonight?”

“Yeah.” Tucker sounded relieved that he was giving up so easily. “You want me to bring something for dinner?”

“Pizza?”

“You got it. See you then.” He added as always, “Take care.”