“Defensive wounds?”
“None apparent.”
“How long was he in the lake?”
“No more than a week.” Tucker’s eyes met Elliot’s. “We’re handing it off to Tacoma PD. This isn’t a federal case.”
“You sound pretty sure about that.”
“Regardless of what the Lyle kid’s aunt believes, I don’t see a connection between Baker’s death and her nephew’s disappearance. Can you give me any reason to think otherwise?”
Tucker was right. There wasn’t enough to justify involvement by the feds, yet Elliot heard himself say stubbornly, “I think this kid would have left a note.”
“I don’t. He went to lengths to make sure his body wasn’t discovered. Most people don’t leave notes, you know that.” Tucker seemed to be studying the titles on the bookshelf behind Elliot.
True. Men were more likely to leave notes than women, but less than a quarter of suicides left notes at all.
“Point. But that’s another thing. The whole chaining himself to an anvil business. Who does that? It’s stagy. It’s…fake.”
Tucker hadn’t stopped looking around since he sat down. What clues did he imagine he was going to find in this ordinary academic cubbyhole? Or was he just doing his best to avoid Elliot’s gaze?
“Look, we’ve both seen enough weird shit to know that disturbed people do bizarre things.”
“Yeah, but this is…This doesn’t make sense. There are simpler ways to get the same results. And where was the kid for three weeks? That strikes me as taking a long time to make up your mind to kill yourself. Do we have any intel on that? Where did he go when he left campus that night? Where did he find an anvil? For that matter, where did he get a gun?”
Tucker eyed him dispassionately.
“We both know Daddy-o is correct. It’s not that hard to get hold of a gun if you know where to look. The rest of it…that’s for the Tacoma PD to determine.”
“I think you’re wrong, Tucker.”
“So what’s new there?”
Elliot blinked, sat back in his chair. “So that’s it? Case closed?”
Tucker’s face could have been carved from rock. “That’s it.”
“Then I guess I’ll…see you around.”
Tucker gave a tight smile. “Yeah?” His big hands closed on the arm of the chair and he rose in a quick, lithe move. “See you around then.”
* * *
It should have made his day. No more Tucker Lance to piss him off with autocratic orders to butt out of his investigation. Instead, annoyingly, Elliot felt almost…disappointed. Of course part of that was the simple fact that without Tucker, Elliot no longer had instant access to law enforcement files and resources. He was a college professor, not a PI. What was his justification for asking to see police files? General nosiness? A genetically programmed streak of do-gooder? He wasn’t use to having to go through the same channels as civilians.
But there was another part of him that felt let down. Kind of like declaring war and nobody showing up. He’d been all psyched up to do battle with Tucker and now Tucker had retreated from the field. It took the fun out of victory.
Charlotte Oppenheimer phoned to indicate her thanks for his help and her relief that the investigation could be laid to rest.
“Gordie Lyle is still missing,” Elliot pointed out.
“There can’t be any connection. Gordie will show up when he’s ready.” Charlotte sounded like her old self, confident and relaxed. “Will we see you Thursday at the opening of the annual Art Students Show?”
“Not this Thursday.” Thursdays were his night to dine with his dad. These little rituals provided the glue that held his new life together.
“Not to worry. It runs through the end of the semester.” As Charlotte continued in that light, social vein, Elliot began to understand why Zahra Lyle felt that her concerns were being blown off. Not that Charlotte wasn’t in the right, merely that she was determined not to consider any other possibility.
There were always other possibilities. Elliot didn’t particularly like Zahra. She was abrasive and rude and a not-so-borderline racist. Her nephew, talented or not, read like an arrogant, egotistical prick. And yet, Elliot couldn’t let it go. He felt sure that Zahra’s instinct was correct—something had happened to Gordie—and Gordie, prick or not, was as deserving of concern and care as Terry had been. Maybe Roland’s views had rubbed off on him more than Elliot liked to admit, but Elliot couldn’t leave it alone.
He made a note of Andrew Corian’s office hours and stopped by to see him when his own afternoon lecture was concluded. As usual, Corian was holding court. Two girls lounged in his office, hanging on his every word. One wore a red velvet jacket and looked like a Victorian consumptive: long dark curls, pale skin, hollow-eyes. The other looked like a cheerful human pincushion. Elliot had never seen so many rings and ornamental safety pins in one face.
“Mills,” Corian greeted him cheerfully. “The way the suits have been circling, I expected the IRS to have towed you away for tax evasion by now.”
The lank-haired beauty snorted, exchanging looks with the pierced acolyte.
“I was hoping for a word in private,” Elliot said.
“Of course.” Corian said to the students, “Off to class, my lovelies.”
The girls unfolded and departed. Elliot closed the door behind them.
“I wanted to ask you about a student of yours. Gordie Lyle.”
“Sit down, Mills. I don’t like to be towered over.”
Since Corian had a few inches on just about everyone, that was almost amusing. Elliot took the chair across from Corian’s desk. It put him on eye level with the nude torso of a woman. He tried to avoid staring at the nipple pointing his way.
“Why are you asking about Gordie?” Corian frowned, his expression for once completely serious.
“He’s been missing since last Monday. One week. His aunt is naturally worried.”
Corian grimaced. “Has it occurred to you that Gordie has good reason to disappear?”
“What do you mean?”
Corian shrugged. “If you’ve met Zahra Lyle, I’m sure you’ve observed that she’s the classic domineering female. Living at home was not conducive to Gordie’s creative spirit.”
“You’re suggesting Gordie left home for the sake of his art?”
Corian shrugged. “If he took my advice, he did.”
“You advised the boy to run away?”
“The
“I have no idea. I don’t know that that’s the case. I’m suggesting Zahra might not have all the facts.”
“Zahra? You know Gordie’s aunt well?”
“I know Gordie well. He’s one of my most gifted, most promising students. Zahra is part of the package. In my opinion, and it’s a knowledgeable one where the gentle sex is concerned, the woman is a harridan.”
“How did he seem?”
“Like always. Energetic. Enthusiastic. Alive. He was looking forward to the art show.” At Elliot’s inquiring look, Corian said dryly, “The annual students’ art show. It starts on Thursday.”
“Oh. Right.”
Corian was still thinking it over. “He said nothing about leaving. In fact, nothing in his behavior struck me at the time, but looking back, maybe Gordie was…preoccupied? Distracted? Nothing definite. Nothing I can put my finger on and say, Ah ha, Watson!”
Elliot ignored the mockery. “If Gordie was in trouble of some kind, would he come to you?”
“I’m his faculty advisor, not his father confessor.” Corian shrugged, admitted, “I suppose I’ve filled the role of mentor since Gordie came to PSU. At the least, I’d like to think we were friends.”
“He’s had a troubled background. At least before he attended PSU.”
“Gordie was more sinned against than sinning.”
“You sound pretty sure of that.”
“I am. Talent of that magnitude breeds envy.” Corian spoke with the sweeping certainty of one who has suffered the same slings and arrows. Elliot managed not to snort. Corian added, “Can I ask why exactly you’re questioning me about Gordie?”
“Zahra Lyle asked for my help.”
“Is Gordie flunking history?”
Elliot met Corian’s bland gaze. “I wouldn’t know. She was afraid that Gordie’s disappearance might have been connected to Terry Baker’s.”
“Baker? The boy who killed himself? That’s a bizarre idea even for Zahra.”
“I don’t know if it’s so bizarre. The Baker kid was missing for four weeks before his body was found.”
Corian’s devilish eyebrows arched. “You seem to know a lot about it. I thought you gave up being a superhero for teaching?”
Elliot kept his response neutral. “Isn’t it the same thing?”
This was how it had been since nearly the first day Elliot showed up at PSU. Something about him rubbed Corian the wrong way. Well, some people instinctively disliked law enforcement. Maybe it was a political thing or the fact that Elliot had formerly worked for a “fascist” organization. Or maybe it was because Corian believed Elliot had obtained his teaching position through Roland’s influence. Whatever it was, Corian didn’t try to hide his dislike.
Corian laughed a genuine laugh. “Touche. You’re Roland’s boy after all.”
Elliot smiled, but his thoughts circled round once more to Gordie Lyle. Given the problems he’d had at Cornish, was it likely he’d endanger this second chance by skipping classes for a week without a damn good reason? His aunt didn’t believe so.
“Do you have any idea where Gordie would go if he did want to get away for a while?”
“No. To be honest, if I did, I wouldn’t be comfortable telling you, knowing that you’d report back to Zahra. But if I do hear from Gordie, I’ll ask him to get in touch with his aunt. More than that I can’t promise.”
“You’re not at all worried about him?”
“No,” Corian said with convincing certainty, “I have no doubt Gordie’ll turn up eventually.”
On Wednesday, as prearranged, Elliot met Anne Gold for dinner at a steakhouse in Tacoma. He arrived a little early and found her already settled in the dining room and picking unhappily at hors d’oeuvres.
“I hope you like calamari,” she said by way of greeting. “They do an incredible marinara sauce here.”
As a matter of fact, Elliot didn’t like calamari. He didn’t like rubbery textures in general. But that wasn’t what made him frown as he slid into the leather-lined booth.
“What’s wrong?” He was startled at the difference in Anne within five days. She looked like she hadn’t slept in a week. There were bags under her eyes and tiny stress lines around her mouth.
“What a way to greet a gal. Are you absolutely positive you’re gay?” Tonight’s glasses were horn-rims. Unusually studious.
“It’s been a while since I checked, but I’m pretty sure.”
“Then why can’t you be like the gay best friend in movies? They always have fabulous fashion tips and advice for the lovelorn.” She was joking, but there was a brittleness there that was new.
Elliot watched her shake the ice in her empty glass. “Do you need fashion advice?” he asked quietly.
Tears filled her eyes and she blinked them hastily away. “Sorry, Elliot. I haven’t been sleeping well.”
“Any reason?”
She shook her head quickly. “Let’s order.”
For the next half hour they talked shop, and Anne slightly relaxed, but Elliot remained conscious of an underlying strain. He observed her while trying not to be obvious about it, mentally cataloging what he knew about her. She lived in Tacoma—had grown up in Washington state. She had two failed marriages and no children. She was tenured and perennially rated as one of PSU’s most popular instructors.
The last time he’d seen her she was being stood up by her date in a bar in Seattle.
Why Seattle? It was well out of her way. Had she been meeting someone she didn’t want to be seen meeting? His impression was it took a lot to discomfit Anne.
He considered all this as they ate their meals. An idea had occurred to him. He didn’t like it, but studying Anne’s strained, pale face, he couldn’t help but recall her reputation for sexual adventuring and her own comments about age being a state of mind. And he couldn’t help remembering Zahra Lyle’s remarks about the college professor who was pursuing Gordie, continuing to call after he disappeared.
In the lull between having their plates removed and waiting for dessert, she unexpectedly offered the perfect opening. “I feel like I haven’t stopped talking since we sat down. What about you? Someone mentioned to me that you were working with the FBI to find poor Terry Baker?”
“That’s true.” He watched her face. “Now I’m looking for a student by the name of Gordie Lyle.”
Her expression went rigid, her spoon clattering against the saucer of her coffee cup.
Into the stricken silence between them, he said, “Do you know him?”
It was painfully, nakedly obvious that she did, yet she made an attempt. “Gordie.” She swallowed. “Lyle?”
And then neither of them said anything.
“How did you know?” she whispered.
Elliot shook his head. “PSU is a small university.”
“How dare—has anyone suggested?” She caught herself. “I don’t know why I’m getting angry. It’s true.” She stared down at her coffee cup. “Yes, I know Gordie. Very well.”
“But you don’t know where he is?”
She moved her head in negation. “I’ve been a wreck ever since Zahra Lyle did that damn TV interview. Wondering when someone was going to put two and two together.” Her eyes met his. “To be honest, until that press conference I wasn’t sure that he wasn’t—that is, I was afraid Gordie was avoiding
“Was he the type to cave under pressure?” That wasn’t the impression Elliot had formed.
“He had a vulnerable side. Not everyone realized that. He took a time-out once or twice when things got too heavy for him.”
“Do you have any idea where he went on those occasions?”
“No.”
“Any idea where he might have gone this time?”
“No.”
“What about friends? Does he have friends in the area that he could stay with?”
Anne said dryly, “I don’t know about his friends. We didn’t socialize much. Anyway, Gordie was sort of a lone wolf.”
“His aunt doesn’t believe he walked away voluntarily.”
“Ugh. That woman.” Anne shook her head dismissively. “What a ridiculous thing to suggest.”
“Have you met Zahra?”
“No. Thank God. I’ve spoken to her on the phone a couple of times. She’s…unpleasant.”
“How did Gordie get along with her?”
“All right, I suppose. He didn’t enjoy being treated like a child, but he was patient with her.”
“When was the last time you saw Gordie?”
“I saw him in passing on Monday afternoon last week.”
“How did he seem?”
“I meant that literally,” Anne said. “Gordie walked past my classroom door. The last time we spoke was the previous Wednesday evening. We had dinner and…every Wednesday.”