Fair Play (All's Fair Book 2) (2 page)

Chapter Two

“But I
like Dances with Wolves
,” Mrachek, Leslie protested from the front row of Elliot’s Bryant Hall seminar on Film and History: The American West. “It was the first movie to show Indians sympathetically or as something besides stereotypes.”

Elliot said mildly, “Well, I think its sympathetic portrayal of Lakota tribal culture did surprise and maybe even enlighten moviegoers. But it was not by any means the first movie, not even the first blockbuster, to show Native Americans in a positive light.”

Come to think of it, Mrachek, Leslie had been two semesters ago. This was Miller, Liane. Another cute little blonde with pert breasts and long legs. They really did all run together after a while. Although every so often a kid surprised you with an original thought or a rare insight.

But that wouldn’t be Miller, Liane or anyone who thought
Dances with Wolves
was a realistic depiction of the American West. The hair styles alone! As for smashing stereotypes? More like exchanging one outdated set of stereotypes for a new and fashionable one. But she was a nice kid and young enough to consider
DWW
a classic film.

Yeah, he was more than ready for his vacation to start. This was the last time he would sign up to teach a summer session.

“I mean, history is just a story too,” Eagan, Mira put in.

No. Oh no. The ex-law enforcement officer in Elliot couldn’t take that one. “Not really,” he told Eagan, Mira. “Facts are facts. The Indian Removal Act was in 1830. That is a measurable and quantifiable fact. By 1863, which is when our film takes place, the Sioux had plenty of experience with the white man. Facts may be open to interpretation, but the facts themselves are not subjective.”

Eagan, Mira turned pink with embarrassment and offense. She exchanged knowing looks with Miller, Liane. He sighed inwardly. He could guess how he sounded to them. And he wasn’t being completely fair. Define history. Was it the sequence of factual past events, the stories about the factual sequence of past events, or the interpretation of the stories about past events?

These kids did not like having their opinions challenged. But that was one thing that didn’t change from generation to generation. Maybe the only thing. When Elliot had been in college, his attitudes and beliefs had confounded his father. Probably because when Roland had been the age of these kids, he’d been one of the most prominent leaders of the antiwar movement at the University of Washington.

Which was maybe why he’d taken the idea of arson so calmly this morning.

“I was afraid of that,” he’d said to Fire Chief Burris.

And then, while Elliot was still spluttering, Roland had coolly explained that he’d received a letter a while back warning him not to go ahead with publishing the memoirs of his radical youth. “I guess maybe someone saw the excerpt in
Mother Jones
,” he had concluded thoughtfully.

It had been all Elliot could do to contain himself. “You didn’t think maybe you should mention this?” he had got out finally. “It never occurred to you to tell me someone was threatening you?”

“That’s a federal offense,” Tucker had put in, and he didn’t mean Roland’s failure to communicate with Elliot.

That of course had triggered a speech from Roland on the topic of his long-seated contempt for the federal government’s various and assorted intrusive practices regarding Freedom of Speech. Which, for Tucker, was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. Oh yeah, it was going to be a fun, fun-in-the-sun few months having Roland living with them on Goose Island while his house was rebuilt. Elliot was really looking forward to Tucker and Roland exchanging salutations over their morning coffee.

Granted, most mornings he and Tucker didn’t have time for coffee.

Determinedly, he dragged his attention back to the classroom. “Most of you are too young to remember the films
Soldier Blue
or
Little Big Man
or
Tell Them Willie Boy Is Here
, but these were all revisionist Western films of the late sixties/early seventies.”

On he went, talking about film and the old west and cowboy cinema while all the time he wondered who was trying to kill his father and why.

Roland couldn’t be as blasé as he’d seemed. That had to be shock. Elliot was still shaken, so it made sense that Roland would not be reacting normally. Or even less normally than usual.

The clock at the back of the room finally inched forward to the hour. With relief, Elliot dismissed the class, and the great migration began. He nodded politely to the kids filing past and answered a couple of questions about the final exam the following week.

The initial summer term officially ended next Friday. After that, Elliot was on vacation till the fall. He was looking forward to it—counting the days, in fact, to the first real vacation he’d had in four years—if you didn’t count his lengthy recovery time after getting shot.

He returned to his desk where Kyle, his undergrad TA, was collecting the last batch of student film reviews.

Kyle glanced up. “Everything cool, Professor?” He was an attractive kid with almond eyes, honey-colored skin, assorted piercings and a green mop of hair.

Elliot smiled briefly. “Just short on sleep.” He hadn’t told anyone about the fire at Roland’s yet. That was going to bother people after the fact—Roland was something of an institution at PSU.

“Oh yeah?” Kyle smirked. He was the one person who had been sincerely delighted when Elliot had gotten together with Tucker, and he seemed to be under the delusion that Elliot and Tucker were, in Roland’s vernacular, out there doing “the wild thang” every night.

Not so much, really. Not with the hours Tucker was keeping. He was still involved in the final wrap-up of the remaining loose ends on the Sculptor case as well as working the attempt to contract over the internet the murder of local politician George Clifton Blewe.

Although last night they
had
actually managed to put in some quality together time...so yeah, no wonder Elliot was feeling tired. He’d had about two hours’ sleep before the phone had rung this morning.

Kyle finished collecting the reviews, Elliot thanked him, shoved the papers in his briefcase and headed for his office in Hanby Hall on the other side of the quad. He walked briskly. Even six months ago his knee had given him a lot more trouble than it did now, and he was grateful for the steady improvement. Being mostly pain free was no small thing.

The air was warm and scented with flowers. The spreading beech trees were in blossom. Tiny yellow-green flowers clustered on the silver-gray boughs. The roses were blooming too, in every possible shade of red and pink and coral. It was a pretty campus. Orderly lawns and stately brick buildings covered in ivy. It looked very conservative, but in fact it was one of the most liberal colleges on the West Coast.

Relatively few students littered—er, populated the campus during these summer months. A few kids sprawled on the grass reading or talking. A handful of others straggled to their next class. Elliot sympathized. This was not weather to be indoors and studying abstract theories. Or any theories. Or concepts or paradigms.

He passed through the “wandering glen” of the arboretum, which in the June afternoon was like strolling through a leafy aromatherapy shop. The tent of tree tops cast green shade. Spicy scents of Japanese lilac and pine mingled with the usual campus fragrance of mown grass. Golden motes of pollen floated and sparkled in the air. Elliot drew in a lungful. He had been smelling smoke all morning.

His phone rang. Elliot checked the number.

Tucker.

Elliot answered. “Hey.”

“How’s your dad?”

“Radio silent for the last couple of hours. Last check-in he was still dealing with the insurance company and the arson inspector and reporters.”

“Reporters. Great.”

“Yeah, my thought. Listen, thanks for asking him to stay at the cabin. It meant something more coming from you.”

Tucker brushed that aside. “Of course. Where else would he stay? Anyway, he’s better where we can keep an eye on him.”

“No kidding.”

“How are you holding up?”

It always caught him off guard, this unexpected streak of solicitousness from Tucker. It warmed Elliot and embarrassed him at the same time. Maybe because it was such a contradiction to his original assumption of who Tucker was.

“Me? Fine. Although I’d kill for a nap.”

Tucker laughed. “You’re getting old.”

“Younger than you, old man.”

“Not by much. Two years.” Tucker laughed again. “Maybe you can lock your office door and snooze for an hour.”

“It’s tempting.” He said carefully, “I want to get hold of that preliminary arson investigation report.”

There was a pause. “You mean you want me to get hold of it.”

“You’ll have better luck, I think.”

“Please tell me you’re not buying into your father’s paranoia that the federal government—”

“This is me, remember? One conspiracy theorist per family.”

Tucker sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.”

Tucker spoke away from the phone. His voice returned. “Okay. Gotta go. I’ll talk to you tonight. Take care.”

Take care
was Tucker’s on-the-job code for
I
love you
.

“You too. Tonight.” Elliot clicked off, smiling faintly.

He reached Hanby Hall and went up the long narrow steps, pushing through the heavy, bullet-shaped wooden door into the quiet building. The corridor smelled vaguely of carpet cleaner, disinfectant, and perhaps a very faint whiff of marijuana. It was unnaturally quiet, but then the summer sessions always had a kept-after-school vibe.

The door to Anne Gold’s empty classroom stood open. Anne stood by her desk, rolling up blueprints. She nodded to him as he passed by. Elliot nodded back.

Anne, like the rest of his colleagues, had treated him with cautious and distant courtesy ever since the events of the previous autumn. It wasn’t that anyone faulted him for catching a serial killer on campus, but that reminder of his FBI past had not put him in the running for Most Popular Instructor. Cops, even ex-cops, made people feel uncomfortable.

Elliot continued down the hall to his office. He juggled keys and briefcase, unlocked the door and stepped inside. His cell rang again. This time it was Roland with another update.

Elliot heard him out, mostly in silence. Roland had declined to speak to reporters, which was, in Elliot’s opinion, good news. If that article in
Mother Jones
had triggered arson, keeping a low profile in the media could only be good.

The house could and would be replaced, but the souvenirs of a lifetime—books, photos, paintings—that was all gone forever. At least important papers like birth certificates, marriage certificates, and licenses had been preserved in that little safe, so maybe Roland had made the right call in retrieving it, but it still made Elliot’s heart stutter with alarm when he thought of the risk of those precious minutes.

Anyway, it wasn’t the time for another lecture. Roland sounded exhausted and as close to defeated as Elliot had ever heard. But bad timing or not, one question had been eating at Elliot all morning.

He tried to keep his tone neutral, non-accusatory.
Don’t antagonize the suspect.
“Dad, I don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell me you were being threatened.”

“Let’s not blow this out of proportion, son. It was one letter. You think I’ve never received any hate mail before?”

“Is that what this was? Hate mail?”

Roland’s hesitation was answer enough.

“What exactly did the letter say?”

“I don’t remember the exact wording.”

“
Dad.
”

Roland was too weary to conceal his sigh. “That’s the truth, but the gist of it was: don’t publish the book if you want to keep breathing.”

It took a conscious effort, but Elliot kept his tone even. “Did it arrive through email or through the post office?”

“It came in the regular mail.”

“When exactly did it arrive? Was it typed? Handwritten? Do you remember anything about the envelope? Was there a postmark? What kind of stamp?” For the first time in his life he understood the impulse that made a parent spank a safely returned child.

“Elliot, it was months ago. I don’t remember. I’d pretty much forgotten about it.”

“How the hell could you possibly forget about a letter like that?”

“As I said,” Roland’s tone was terse now, “it’s not the first time I’ve received hate mail.”

“Was it handwritten?” Elliot asked again.

“It was printed in orange crayon on plain white copy paper. The envelope was an ordinary plain white business envelope. There was no return address and the stamp was a Forever Stamp. It was mailed in Seattle. That is the sum total of everything I remember about that damned letter.”

More than he’d initially let on, that was for sure.

“Well, that’s a start anyway. Next question. Who do you think sent it?”

“What kind of a question is that? How would I know who sent it?” Roland snapped. That rare edginess revealed just how tired and stressed he was.

Elliot tried to soften his tone. “Who has reason to not want your memoirs published?”

“I don’t know.”

“Goddamn it, Dad. Someone burned your house down last night. They tried to murder you. Someone doesn’t want that book published. You must have
some
idea of who that would be!”

Roland said shortly, “I’m telling you, I have no idea.”

Elliot’s heart sank. It wasn’t the note of goaded exasperation in his father’s voice that bothered him though. It was the unmistakable sound of a lie.

Chapter Three

“Maybe he wasn’t lying,” Tucker said.

“He was lying. I could hear it in his voice. He’s never lied to me before.” Elliot was in bed reading over the preliminary arson report, but he glanced up, watching with absent appreciation as Tucker undressed to his snowy white T-shirt and red-and-blue-check boxers.

Tucker was a big man. Broad shoulders, powerful chest, muscular arms and legs. Big but not fat. There was not one superfluous ounce of flesh on his large-boned frame. That kind of size could appear hulking, top heavy, but Tucker had learned to carry himself, so he just looked imposing. Or, when he chose, intimidating.

Not that he’d ever intimidated Elliot. Elliot smiled with private affection. With his coppery hair and fair skin, Tucker sunburned easily. The tip of his nose and tops of his shoulders were still pink. They had been swimming the previous weekend at the Ol’ Swimming Hole, a spring-fed lake in one of the island’s public parks.

It had been a very good day. It felt like a million years ago.

Elliot looked down again at the arson report. Mostly notes, sketches and a couple of photos of the likely crime scene at this stage. There was the expected confirmation that the garage had been the site of the fire’s origin, that the garage would have contained enough fuel to explain the extent of damage to the property, and that the rate and direction of fire spread was consistent with the probable types of fuel and ventilation.

There were general observations about the property, the neighborhood and weather conditions. And there was a very short list of possible witnesses. Very short as in
none
. Also no suspects.

But this was just an introduction to the investigation that would follow.

“Have you read your father’s book?” Tucker asked.

“No.” Elliot glanced up again and grimaced. “I forgot all about it, to be honest. After he managed to land that agent, he never really talked much about it. I figured nothing had come of it—until he suddenly had a book deal and the damn thing was going to be published.”

“So you have no idea what’s in it?”

“Zero idea.”

“Any guesses?”

“He’s always talked about stirring people up, rattling a few cages. Christ knows what that means. He might mean cages in general or he might have a few specific cages in mind.”

Tucker considered this. “How much of a badass could he have been? I know he got a certain amount of notoriety from a string of arrests, but he never did any major jail time, right? And he never made our Most Wanted list.”

“I know. I can’t imagine anyone reading the thing, let alone feeling threatened enough to kill him over it.”

“You could ask to read it.”

“I’d have to get a copy from his publisher. He said his notes and the earlier drafts were lost in the fire.”

“He didn’t keep a copy in the safe?”

“No.” What the safe had held, in addition to important papers, were original photos his mother had placed there years ago. After dinner, Roland had unlocked the safe and sorted through Kodachrome slides, sepia portraits of great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers, baby and childhood pictures of Elliot—one complete with missing front teeth and wispy, long hair—and wedding photos. Not a lot to show for several generations of a family, but something. Roland had got wet-eyed over them, whether because of the pictures themselves or the thought of Jesse Mills lovingly curating them in case of just such a catastrophe. Afterward, Elliot had poured them each a glass of whisky.

He wanted to fix this for his father. But since that was not possible, he wanted whoever had attacked Roland to pay. Dearly.

“The cops will ask to read it,” Tucker said.

“I wouldn’t bet on it. The prevailing theory is that this is just another right-wing nut outraged at the idea of a high-profile leftist memoir.”

“It’s not a bad theory.”

“No, it’s the obvious theory. Especially after that neocon blogger Will MacAuley wrote his column on ‘Tenured Terrorists’ last year.”

“Will MacAuley? I thought he was a radio commentator.” Tucker set his cell phone on the bedstand.

“He’s both.”

“Does anyone still use the term ‘neocon’?” Tucker took off his watch.

“That blog got about two hundred comments.”

“Not counting your father’s.”

Elliot wryly acknowledged that, before adding, “A lot of those comments were from the fringe element advocating violent payback for old grievances most of them are too young to remember firsthand.”

“You think someone was inspired by that post?”

“I think it’s a possibility. The cops think it’s a possibility. But I can tell that’s not what Dad thinks.”

“But he’s not telling you what he
does
think.”

“No.”

The mattress dipped as Tucker climbed into bed. He slid between the cool, crisp sheets and groaned with relief.

Elliot slid the report in its folder, tossed the folder to the floor and rolled over to gaze down, smiling, at Tucker. “Welcome home, sailor.”

They kissed. It started out affectionate but perfunctory—they were bone tired and both had a lot on their minds—but the softness of Tucker’s lips always disarmed Elliot. The line of Tucker’s mouth was hard, and it was a mouth that had said some harsh things, but his kisses were so sweet. So Elliot took his time, kissed him deeply—and when he started to draw back, Tucker’s big hand fastened on the back of his skull and kept him in place while Tucker’s soft, sweet lips drew on his own.

“What a long-ass voyage,” Tucker muttered at last, letting Elliot breathe again.

Elliot assented. A long and awful day, though he wasn’t forgetting that it could have been a lot longer and a lot more awful. He was deeply grateful that his father was alive and well and safely tucked up in the downstairs guest room.

He snapped out the lamp next to the bed and stretched out once more, feet and hands brushing Tucker’s. They probably needed a bigger bed—queen-sized was a little too cozy for two tall, broad-shouldered men—but since Tucker didn’t mind, Elliot figured he could bear up.

From outside the open window came the night sounds of crickets and frogs and the peevish chirping of a raccoon trying to figure out how to get into the well-secured trash bins behind the house.

Tucker yawned widely.

Elliot asked, “How’s the case against Corian coming?”

“It’s coming.”

“Any progress on finding the location of where he disposed of his victims’ heads?”

“No.”

“Is that crazy bastard still not talking? Does he think he can strike some kind of bargain?”

Tucker reached over, finding Elliot’s hand, bringing it to his mouth and kissing his knuckles. “Can we not talk serial killers before bed?”

“Yeah, sure.” It was a reasonable request, but it bothered him a little that Tucker had suddenly stopped communicating about the Sculptor case. He wasn’t sure why. Tucker still discussed his other cases, still talked openly about the job, so it wasn’t as though he was trying to shut Elliot out. Maybe the case had finally gotten to him. It
was
pretty disturbing. “Sorry,” he said, and squeezed Tucker’s hand in apology.

Tucker squeezed him back, released him, and sighed wearily.

Elliot thought Tucker was drifting off to sleep, but he said suddenly, thoughtfully, “Do you really believe your father has never lied to you?”

“Yes, I believe it. He’s never lied to me. Well, I mean, excluding fostering unquestioning belief in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and John F. Kennedy. Anyway, I think the first two were mostly my mother.”

Tucker made an amused sound, but he said, “Your father is a guy who probably has more than his share of secrets.”

“Probably. But my parents always stressed honesty and open communication. It was okay to say you didn’t want to talk about something, or you weren’t ready to, anyway, but no lying. Ever.”

Tucker was silent. He didn’t talk about his childhood. Elliot knew that he’d grown up in foster care, so maybe he was trying to weigh what little he knew about families and home life against Elliot’s experience. According to Tucker, his foster parents had been good people and he had been properly cared for, but he’d been fostered with two other teenaged boys and there had never been a pretense at a real family. They had all always been aware that theirs was a legal and temporary arrangement.

“He’d lie to protect you,” Tucker said finally.

Elliot considered. “But what would he have to protect me from?”