Fair Game

And a mutually weird sense of humor.
And a love of Nissan cars and pizza.
And the sex.
Which…yeah. Here he was full circle back to remembering the very thing he didn’t want the think about.
“Tom’s an okay cat. He’s one of the good guys,” Roland was saying as he whipped the mascarpone cheese. They were having lentil salad with the rigatoni. Elliot had inherited his love of cooking from his old man. Roland was good enough in the kitchen to make vegetarianism palatable, not that Elliot was converting anytime soon. In his opinion, all that was keeping the evening’s dinner from perfection was the absence of pork or lamb chops.
He met his father’s light gaze as Roland added, “He has a temper. I won’t argue that.”
“How much of a temper?”
“He didn’t kill his son.”
Elliot considered a couple of replies. He settled on, “I want to remind you who got me involved in this.”
“I’m not forgetting, but if you’re considering Tom as a suspect you’re wasting everyone’s time.”
“Because Tom’s an okay cat?”
“Because Tom wouldn’t kill his own child.”
Elliot studied his father for a moment. The differences between them were more than physical, and physically no one would pick them for father and son. Roland was medium height and built like a small bull. His brown hair and beard were finally going silver, but only in the last few years. Elliot was tall and slender like his mother had been. He possessed the same dark hair and gray eyes. Also her tempered idealism—which Roland referred to as “dismaying cynicism.”
“The thing is,” Elliot said neutrally, “people lose their temper and strike out, and human beings are pretty fragile when you get down to it.”
Case in point: his knee was aching at the swift approach of rain. He resisted the desire to massage it. He didn’t want to bring attention to it; nothing made Roland angrier than the recollection of his only child lamed in the service of a government he’d spent most of his own adult life battling.
“You pull your punches with your children.”
Roland truly believed that, and Elliot found himself without the energy or heart to dredge up all the sad, sordid exceptions to the rule he could think of. He said instead, “The kid, Terry, was gay. Did you know that?”
“Did I know that? No. I haven’t seen Terry since he was…hell. Fourteen or fifteen. I’m not surprised to hear it, though.” Roland met Elliot’s eyes and he smiled.
Elliot had been determinedly in the closet until he started graduate school. It had been disconcerting to finally come out to his parents only to learn they’d believed he was gay from the time he turned fourteen.
“Pauline seems to think that was a major problem for Tom.”
“It would be, sure,” Roland said calmly, “We’ve all got our hang ups. Tom’s unfortunately have to do with sexuality. He was always uptight when it came to the wild thang.”
“The wild…” Elliot decided to let that pass. “Right. So Tom wasn’t okay with his son’s sexual orientation. What kind of family dynamic do you think that would create?”
Roland dumped the sliced cremini, shiitake and button mushrooms into the pan with the shallots and garlic. He reached for the large milk-glass salt and pepper shakers. “I think it would make for some awkward family get-togethers.”
“I think it’s possible the kid might have killed himself.”
“I hope not.” But Roland didn’t sound entirely surprised at the idea.
“I hope not too, but…from what I’ve picked up so far he was a high achiever and a perfectionist. I don’t think it would be easy for him to disappoint his parents. I mean, it’s too early to speculate, but it is a possibility.”
Roland nodded. “I know. Neither Pauline nor Tom will accept the possibility, but…I saw enough of the damage loving parents can do when I was teaching.”
“This temper of Tom’s…I thought he was another bleeding heart liberal?”
Roland grinned. “Sure, but this was back in the day when we made the other side’s hearts—and ulcers—bleed too.”
“What about Pauline?” He happened to be looking directly at his father, which was how he noticed the sudden, slightly self-conscious blankness of Roland’s features, the hint of color on his cheekbones. Elliot just managed not to do a double take.
“What about her?”
“What’s she like?”
“She’s…sensitive, bright, a bit fragile.”
He wasn’t imagining things. His father liked Pauline. A lot. His good friend’s wife. Which seemed bizarre given how Pauline was totally unlike his own direct and even-tempered mother.
“She’s sort of young for him, isn’t she?” he asked shortly.
Roland’s gaze met his. “She was a clerk in his law office. They fell in love after he divorced Patricia. Pauline was pregnant with Terry when they married.”
“Great.”
Roland threw him an irritated look, and Elliot knew his attitude was showing. Really, what did it matter to him? Even if his father chose to remarry at some point, was it his business? Ten years was a long time to grieve, even for the love of your life.
Roland had been married twice before Jesse. He liked women. He liked marriage.
Elliot said, “Tom Baker isn’t the one concerned with Terry’s absence, is he? Consulting me was Pauline’s idea.”
“It was my idea, if you’ll recall. I’m sure Tom is very concerned, but he’s not a cat who shows his emotions. He and Terry have never been as close as he’d have liked.” Roland studied Elliot’s face. “Does Pauline have grounds to be concerned or is Tom right to downplay Terry’s disappearance?”
Elliot said reluctantly, “I think she’s right to be concerned.”
*  *  *
It wasn’t until much later that evening, when Elliot was home and crawling wearily into the comfortable double bed in the upstairs bedroom of his Goose Island cabin, that he allowed himself to dwell on the details of his meeting with Tucker.
Jesus, but it felt good to stretch out. The flannel sheets were soft and smelled comfortingly of cedar, but it was unsettling the way they brought back unwanted memories of that overnight sailing trip on Tucker’s boat. All at once everything was reminding him of Tucker.
He dropped the files on the striped brown-and-white duvet, powered on his laptop and leaned back into the stack of pillows, folding his arms behind his head and staring up at the knotholes of the open pine beams.
On the one hand, it could have gone worse. Tucker could have refused to work with him at all. Not that that was very likely given that he’d received direct orders from SAC Montgomery to cooperate. But, once he’d got over the unpleasant shock of Elliot, he’d been professional and straightforward. So that was great news. Why did Elliot feel more depressed than he’d felt in months?
He gazed out the line of rain-starred windows at the black silhouette of the tall pines surrounding the cabin. What the hell more did he want? Tucker had handed over a copy of his file, he’d briefed him and he’d promised—grudgingly—to keep Elliot informed of any developments.
Maybe it had less to do with Tucker and the way things had ended between them and more to do with Elliot’s own feelings of uselessness, futility, because practically from the minute he’d heard Terry Baker was missing he’d had a bad feeling. That old gut instinct that this thing wasn’t going to end well.
In the old days he’d comforted himself with the knowledge that you couldn’t win them all. You did what you could and saved the ones you could save. But the Terry Baker case already felt too personal.
It didn’t help that Elliot had his own set of parental expectations to try and come to terms with. This was the only time he could remember his father asking for his help, but he was very much afraid the outcome here was not going to make anyone happy.
He shook off the feeling, sat up and reached for his laptop.