Fair Game

“The unity of art is actualized in a functioning world-attitude—And speaking of a world-attitude lit by ignis fatuus. Mills.”
Asshole.
Elliot nodded in greeting. “Corian.”
Andrew Corian was in his late fifties. A big, handsome man, starting to soften at the edges, but still fit. He was bald, having ruthlessly dealt with prematurely thinning hair by shaving his head, but it looked good on him. His eyes were a striking whisky color. He sported a meticulously trimmed black Vandyke and wore a gold earring in one ear, but it was artistic affectation. He was not gay. Not remotely. Thank you, Jesus.
“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. Memoirs of a Militant was kind of a PSU legend. Roland had, in theory, been working on it for the last ten years, but he had an agent now, so Elliot suspected the thing might actually become a reality in the not too distant future.
“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 shot last year.”
He could hear the shock in her voice at the idea. Even with her child missing, the idea of violence was still far removed from this well-to-do zip code.
“In the line of duty. Seventeen months ago.” But who was counting, right? Elliot said patiently, “How are Terry’s grades?”
“Fine. He’s on the honor roll.”
“What’s he studying?”
“He’s pre-law. He’s following in his father’s footsteps.” She swallowed on the last word.
“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. Fine.”
Riiiiiight.
“And Terry disappeared on the first of October?”
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 life.” Her gaze met Elliot’s and he could see how close to tears she was. “He wouldn’t do that. He knows what that would do to me. How worried I—his father and I—would be. He’s not cruel like that.”
“I believe you.” Funny how powerful those three little words were. He’d seen them work their magic again and again, and they worked now. Pauline calmed almost instantly. “So no ransom note and no—”
“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?