Fair Game

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 know.”
If she only knew how many times he had heard that. Maybe it was better she didn’t know yet. With each passing day the chances of Terry coming home safe and sound dwindled, but it was three weeks, not three years. He had never known any parent who gave up hope in three weeks.
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 Terry’s side. I realize that you’re not with the FBI anymore, Roland told me what happened, but you have insider experience with this kind of thing. Tom and I will pay you to help us. We can call it a consulting fee. We can call it anything you like.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I want to. We want to.”
Did she mean her and Tom or her and Terry? Did it matter? He didn’t want money from them. The idea made him queasy.
“I will help you,” Elliot reassured her, “but you have to understand that I can’t promise anything. And the other thing you have to realize is, I don’t have the resources of the police or the FBI. I know how hard it is when you’re watching from the sidelines, but they really are doing their best for you and Terry—and they’re very good at what they do.”
“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.
 Tick. 
 Tock. 
 Tick. 
 Tock. 
Good thing something was keeping time. His heart seemed to have stopped. He asked carefully, “Tucker Lance?”
“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.
 Chapter Three 
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.
“There you are,” he exclaimed as Elliot pulled open the door.
“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?”