“The unity of art is actualized in a functioning world-attitude—And speaking of a world-attitude lit by
“How’s your father?” Corian inquired, seeking the one neutral topic they shared.
“He’s good. He’s great. He’s working on his book.”
Corian chuckled.
“Give Rollie my regards.”
“You bet.”
Corian swept away, nubile, grungy handmaidens in tow, and Elliot bit back a sour smile.
He continued out of the building and across the grounds of the arboretum. The glistening canopy of trees sheltered him from the drizzle and muffled the noise from the main campus. An occasional plop of raindrop was the only sound that reached his ears as he cut his way across the soft terrain. The scent of wet earth, cedar and the lemony mint of the gum trees hung in the cold air.
He had parked behind Cambridge Memorial Chapel as he always did, now that his leg was up to the hike over uneven ground. The small lot was usually empty and it saved him the inevitable chitchat with students and colleagues that parking in the faculty lot entailed.
Sure enough, the rain-streaked silver Nissan 350Z was the only car waiting on the shining blacktop. He unlocked it, slipped behind the wheel and sighed. Weary gray eyes met his gaze in the rearview mirror. “What are you doing?” he asked himself. “Why are you getting involved in this?”
Because it was a taste of the life he’d left behind? Or because it was easier than arguing with his dad? Or maybe both.
Elliot shook his head at his reflection, turned the key in the ignition and switched on the stereo. The sweet, mournful strains of “Ashokan Farewell” from Ken Burns’s Civil War series filled the silence as he jetted out of the parking lot.
* * *
“Tell me about Terry,” Elliot asked as Pauline Baker handed him coffee in a gold-rimmed china cup.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think. Would you like a cookie with your coffee?” Mid-motion of sitting on the brocade sofa across from him, Pauline hopped to her feet again. She was a petite forty-something with perfectly made-up porcelain features and gilt hair that coordinated becomingly with the Lennox cups and saucers. She was the second Mrs. Baker, that much Elliot remembered. Tom was his dad’s age, and the kid, Terry, was an only child. Maybe one of those surprise bundles of joy?
“Thanks, no. Tell me about Terry,” Elliot invited again. He was familiar with stall tactics. As long as she was in good hostess mode, Pauline didn’t have to confront reality. Once she sat down and started talking about Terry, she would have to deal with the fact that her son was missing. He didn’t blame her for wanting to postpone that moment, but it wasn’t helping anyone.
Gingerly, Pauline reseated herself—clearly ready to take flight the minute an empty teacup appeared. She nervously combed a perfectly placed strand of hair behind her ear and reluctantly met Elliot’s eyes.
“I don’t care what anyone says. Terry didn’t run away. He wouldn’t.”
Elliot nodded. “I understand. Tell me why the police and the FBI think otherwise.”
Wrong question. She was on her feet again, headed for the kitchen. “You probably haven’t had time to eat all day. I’ll just…”
He missed the rest of it as she vanished behind white saloon-style swinging doors. Elliot sighed and leaned back on the uncomfortable sofa.
Tom Baker was a pal from Roland Mills’s radical years—back in the day when guys were “cats” and women were “chicks.” Now Baker was a respected lawyer, although he still did pro bono work for various, mostly liberal, causes. He’d obviously settled down into comfortable capitalism. The house was located in the hills of Bellevue overlooking the Puget Sound. It had been decorated in a monochromatic minimalist style, bare wood floors and walls of ivory, ochre, and cream. The furniture was modern and uncomfortable. There were a few op art pieces on the wall and a couple of primitive-looking sculptures on the built-in bookshelves. A dramatic marble statue of a female nude stood near the windows. The room looked…cold.
Elliot had learned in his time at the Bureau not to draw conclusions about people based on their interior designers.
The kitchen doors swung open again and Pauline was back with a cheese plate and assorted crackers. She alighted once more across from Elliot, and said, risking a quick look at his face, “Roland said that you were
“In the line of duty. Seventeen months ago.” But who was counting, right? Elliot said patiently, “How are Terry’s grades?”
“
“That must keep him busy. What about friends? What’s his social life like?” He set his coffee cup in its saucer on the table.
Pauline carefully repositioned the cheese plate on the iron and marble coffee table. “Terry is not a partier. He has friends. He gets on well with everyone. But he’s a quiet boy. A serious boy.”
A lonely boy. Elliot asked, “Does he have a girlfriend?”
Pauline shook her head, still trying to get that cheese plate exactly aligned. “No one steady,” she said vaguely.
“Okay, well it would be helpful if you could jot down any names of friends, male or female, you can remember. Has he had any recent run-ins with anyone? Even something minor could be useful.”
“No.” She sounded positive. “Terry doesn’t have run-ins with people.”
“All right. When was the last time you saw him?”
Almost imperceptibly, she relaxed. This was familiar ground, comfortable. “Two and a half weeks ago. On the twenty-seventh. He came by for dinner. He lives on campus but drops by a couple of times a month to have dinner with us.” She smiled ruefully. “And to have his laundry done.”
Elliot nodded encouragingly. “And how did he seem that night?”
“Fine.
A tight bob of her head.
“And there’s been no contact of any kind since?”
“No. That’s why the police and that FBI agent think Terry left voluntarily. They say kidnappers would have made their demands by now.”
“That’s true.” Elliot tried to gentle his tone, but she was shaking her head.
“They might have reasons for waiting. It makes as much sense as the idea that Terry would deliberately walk away from his home and his family—from his
“Suicide note.”
“No suicide note?” Elliot repeated. Not that it wasn’t always a possibility, but Pauline popped out with it as though it had been somebody’s favorite theory. Whose? And why?
Pauline’s voice shook as she said, “According to the FBI, even if a kidnapping had gone wrong, we should have heard something.”
“Yes.” Elliot met her eyes. He hated this part—always had. “I’m sure you’ve faced the possibility that Terry met with some accident or misadventure and his b—”
“No.” Pauline rose to her feet, instinctively wanting, he knew, to run from what he was suggesting. “He’s not dead. That I know. I would feel it here.” Her hand went to her chest in a tight fist. “I would
He said, still calm, still keeping it low key, “We have to keep in mind all the possibilities, that’s all.”
She shook her head, but she sat again. “I know. But…I’ve heard enough of that from the police and the agent in charge of Terry’s case. We need someone on our side. On
“That’s not necessary.”
“I want to.
“I know,” Pauline said, clearly brushing that aside. “But your help will give us one thing more in our favor. And we need—” Her voice cracked. She stared down at her tightly knotted hands.
It was a mistake to get involved in this. Elliot knew it. He was still trying to glue his own life together. The last thing he needed was to start stumbling through the shattered wreckage of someone else’s. He knew it, and yet he heard himself say, “All right. I’ll do what I can. Who’s the special agent in charge of Terry’s case?”
“Special Agent Lance.”
In the silence that followed Pauline’s words, Elliot could hear the steady, remorseless tick-tock of the clock on the mantel.
“I’m not sure. Big.” Pauline positioned her hands plank-width from her own slender shoulders. “Red hair. Blue eyes?”
“That’s him.” Elliot’s mouth was bone dry. His heart seemed to twist before it started to thud again. One of these days he was going to learn to listen to his instincts. He’d known getting involved in this would be a mistake, and here was the proof right on schedule.
“Is he any good?” Pauline asked anxiously.
Elliot could answer honestly. “He’s very good.”
At his job, anyway. When it came to Tucker’s people skills, well, when he was good, he was very good. When he was bad…he was hell on earth.
Just ask his ex-lover.
The doorbell rang while Elliot was on the phone using up good will points with his former boss at the Seattle Division. He’d always gotten along well with Special Agent in Charge Theresa Montgomery, but respect and regret for the way Elliot’s career had ended aside, he was no longer FBI, and the Bureau did not welcome outside interference. Even from one of its own. Ex-own.
Oddly enough, it was Elliot’s former relationship with Tucker that seemed to sway Montgomery in his favor. Not that Elliot was trading on that. In fact, he was horrified when Montgomery said with uncharacteristic awkwardness, “I suppose, given your prior relationship, Lance will be less resistant to the idea of an investigator liaison to the family if he doesn’t know ahead of time what to expect.”
That was the second bad jolt of Elliot’s day. The first had been the realization he was going to have to face Tucker again. Now he was struggling to absorb the fact that at some point Tucker appeared to have revealed the true extent of their relationship to SAC Montgomery. He couldn’t imagine what the circumstances would have been for that to happen and was literally at a loss for words.
Montgomery didn’t seem to notice. “I suppose it could be worse. At least you understand what we’re up against here. As I’m sure you’re aware, the family has been unhappy with our performance from the beginning. Tom Baker is a high-profile former radical and activist who seems to believe that his history has somehow influenced our commitment to the investigation of his son’s disappearance.”
Translation: Montgomery had been taking heat from above over her team’s lack of results in the Baker case.
“I know we’re fighting the clock on this one,” Elliot said.
Montgomery sighed. “Okay. I’m going to set up a meet between you and Lance at the Tacoma resident agency. I’ll neglect to mention that the experienced investigator the family hired is you.”
“Thanks.”
“Lance is not going to be happy with either of us. You’re going to owe me, Mills.”
“I know. I appreciate this.” Elliot heard the doorbell go again, and automatically glanced over his shoulder. He could tell from the shadow across the large stained glass oval in the center of the front door that someone was still standing on his front porch. Not UPS then.
There was a rare note of amusement in Montgomery’s tone as she said, “We’ll see if you still feel the same after hearing what Special Agent Lance has to say on the matter.”
Yeah, no kidding.
Elliot thanked her again, rang off and went to answer the door. Steven Roche, his nearest neighbor on Goose Island, was blowing on his hands and stamping his feet while he waited.
“
“No need for the rain dance,” Elliot said. “We’ve got all we need.”
“And everyone says you have no sense of humor.” Roche crowded in, and Elliot gave it up and led the way to the kitchen. “It’s freezing out there.”
He was a year or two older than Elliot. Medium height, well-built. He looked like a surfer: tanned and blond, but he was a true crime writer. Currently he was working on a book about the unsolved 1936 kidnapping and murder of ten-year-old Charles Mattson.
“It’s fifty-two degrees,” Elliot pointed out.
“But it’s a wet heat,” Roche said, and Elliot laughed.
Roche was a mooch and a pain in the ass, but he had been a friend to Elliot over the past few months when Elliot needed to talk. He was an interesting guy and he could be good company. He was also a little bit of a cop groupie and, Elliot suspected, a possible closet case, but hey. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. After his shooting, Elliot had deliberately distanced himself from his old friends and colleagues; it had been too painful to be around them. Steven was the closest thing he had to a buddy these days.
“Did you want a glass of wine?” He headed for the latticed wine rack built into the cabinet over the granite counter. The kitchen windows looked out over the tops of pine trees and a couple of cabin roofs down the hillside. The long pine needles seemed to catch and reflect the blue-black dusk.
“Is the Pope Catholic?”
“Depends on the conspiracy theory of the moment.” Elliot selected a bottle of merlot from Lopez Island, a local vineyard and winery. He uncorked it while Roche made himself at home at the old country farmhouse table. “How’s the book coming?”