Текст книги "Fair Game "
Автор книги: Josh lanyon
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 16 страниц)
Chapter Eighteen
It took a couple of vital, disbelieving seconds for Elliot to process—clearly he’d been in the private sector too long—before he threw himself behind a clump of rushes. Not nearly a large enough clump. He automatically reached for his holster before he recalled he wasn’t wearing one.
There was a pistol locked in the glove compartment of the 350Z. He had been paranoid enough to stow a gun in the car that morning, but had automatically rejected the idea of packing heat on campus. The idea of someone actually opening fire on him in broad daylight had not seriously registered.
The tips of the rushes whispered and snapped as another bullet shaved the spiny tops of the stems and ploughed into the mud near his left little finger. He clenched his fist and, heart in overdrive, scrambled back, crawling into the water, flattening himself to the slimy slope, half-in and half-out of the lake. He barely noticed the shocking chill of the water. The cold merely served to numb the pain of his bad knee scraping onto rock.
Where the fuck was this shooter?
Elliot raised his head a fraction, then flattened as the rushes whispered again followed by the inevitable crack of sound reverberating off the water. He was doing his best to keep low behind the ragged vegetation ringing the lake, but there wasn’t much of it. He was effectively pinned down. Even if he could rely on his knee to carry him in a sprint up the muddy slope and across the few feet to his car, he wasn’t sure that this sniper wasn’t positioned to pick him off the minute he cleared the top of the slope.
In fact, he wasn’t sure this sniper wasn’t positioned to pick him off where he was hunkered down right this minute. Given how close the shots were, he—or she—seemed to have a damn good idea where Elliot was hiding.
He felt around for his cell phone and remembered that he’d left it lying in the passenger seat.
He heard the wet whine of a ricochet off the water and swore. The guy was using a rifle. Probably a .22. Most effective under five hundred feet, but still powerful enough to maim or kill within four hundred yards if the shooter was very lucky—or Elliot was unlucky.
In his entire life he had never feel quite so powerless. Not even lying in Pioneer Courthouse Square with a bullet in his leg and an automatic-weapon-bearing political extremist headed straight for him.
Unless he could think of something, any minute now this sniper was going to get lucky and Elliot was going to be dead or dying.
He spared a quick look back at the lake. As a last resort could he try swimming? Maybe not the length of the lake, but he could make for that small floating island of reeds to his left. He had to do something, get himself into some kind of strategic position. If this shooter came to the conclusion that Elliot was helpless, he was liable to simply walk across the meadow and pop him.
That alarming thought manifested itself at the same time he heard the swift approach of an engine. He rolled, splashing down into the frigid water and swimming to the thick stand of reeds a few feet away. The bullets continued to stipple the water around him, so whoever was headed his way was not—and then, instinctively, he knew who was headed his way.
Tucker.
It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be. They had agreed to meet at the Black Bull.
Elliot risked a look. His heart leapt. Yes. He knew that blue Nissan Xterra.
Maybe Tucker hadn’t trusted his precious former crime scene to Elliot. Maybe Tucker decided to give him the personal tour. Whatever the reason, Tucker was coming in fast, riding to the rescue—whether he knew it or not.
Elliot sank back, treading water. Over the lap of water, the rustle of reeds, he heard the engine whine of the Nissan Xterra, gears grinding, tires churning mud and stones.
Pushing the wall of reeds aside, he saw Tucker spin out in a forward 180, a bootleg turn. The vehicle rocked to a stop and Tucker scrambled out to return fire using the engine block for cover.
The familiar reassuring bang of a standard issue Glock 22 resounded through the clear afternoon air.
The cavalry had most definitely arrived.
There was no return fire. Either the sniper was reloading or he was getting the hell out of Dodge.
Three shots and the Glock’s final blast dissipated into sunlight and wind, the sound of the shot bounced off the faraway walls of the campus buildings. In the distance Elliot heard a car engine retreating fast, and overhead, the lazy raucous jeers of a crow winging past.
Elliot became aware that the icy water was sapping his strength. His teeth chattered, his whole body shaking, but despite the cold, his knee felt charred to the bone with a deep, sick pain. His ear throbbed where the bullet had nicked it. Even so, he’d got off lightly.
There was a shower of pebbles scattering down the muddy berm and Tucker appeared, taking the slope at a slithery run.
“Elliot?”
“Here.” Elliot struck out for the shore, half swimming, half wading as his feet touched mushy ground. When he tried to stand, his knee wouldn’t support him, and he would have collapsed if Tucker hadn’t sloshed out to meet him, hauling him to his feet.
“Are you hurt? Are you okay?”
Elliot croaked, “Groovy.”
Tucker gave a funny laugh. “The hell.” He wrapped an arm around his waist, offering needed support. “Your neck’s bleeding.”
“Ear.” Either way, he’d very nearly got his head blown off.
“Jesus, Elliot.” Tucker’s voice shook. He put his other arm around Elliot and pulled him close.
A million questions were chasing around Elliot’s fogged brain, but none of them seemed important compared to the astonished delight of finding himself alive, mostly unhurt and in Tucker’s arms.
Tucker embraced him with something close to ferocity. Elliot went with it. He hugged Tucker back, resting his face in the damp curve of Tucker’s neck and collar. Tucker was muttering something, but Elliot couldn’t make out the words as he breathed in a combination of scents that seemed to connect with all his memories: leather, faded aftershave, gun smoke. Tucker’s hard, muscular arms were wrapped so tight around him he could barely catch his breath. He could feel Tucker’s heart slamming against his chest—or maybe that was his own heartbeat. Either way, they both sounded winded, stricken.
After a few seconds he realized that the deep muttering sound Tucker was making was wordless, inarticulate fury. Elliot started to laugh.
Tucker was growling.
“What the hell is funny?” Tucker asked with a kind of pained outrage. “What am I missing?”
Elliot shook his head, lifted his face. Tucker’s blue eyes blazed with an intensity of emotion. Elliot couldn’t look away. Their mouths met. It seemed natural, inevitable. Tucker’s lips felt exactly the way Elliot remembered, tasted exactly as he remembered. For such a hard man, Tucker had a sweet, lush mouth. The kiss started out gentle, but in those seconds of shared breath the pressure increased, grew urgent, frantic.
“Elliot,” Tucker moaned, and it sounded like protest, although Elliot would have had to head butt him to break the liplock as their mouths turned rough, biting, bruising. Elliot’s skin tingled as Tucker’s lips traveled to the sensitive skin beneath his jaw, delivering a sharp nip that set Elliot’s already overloaded nervous system clamoring.
Suddenly he wanted—craved—Tucker like he’d wanted nothing in his life before. His hands slid into the softness of Tucker’s hair and he tried to drag his head up to taste his mouth again, he felt famished for the taste of him, like he could never again get enough of him. The hot velvet of Tucker’s lips had fastened on Elliot’s throat and he was sucking him, marking him. His hands fumbled over Elliot’s back, pulling at his wet clothes.
Elliot wrenched Tucker’s leather jacket open as he ground his hips against Tucker’s. In some unlit corner of his brain he knew this was crazy. His knee was killing him, was not going to support him for much longer, but of far greater importance seemed the erection shoving against the constriction of his jeans. Biological imperative. That’s what you called that. He needed Tucker. Needed to fuck and be fucked. Something to do with surviving a very close call, with almost dying, but that didn’t change the fact that it was Tucker finally here in the right place at the right time.
And if that enormous straining hardness thrusting back at him was any indication, Elliot was not alone in this extremity of need.
He groaned. Tucker echoed that groan. “Jesus, Elliot…”
Tucker’s large hands slid down, settling on Elliot’s ass, kneading him through the soft wet denim, encouraging that feverish rubbing motion, gathering Elliot closer still—yielding to Elliot’s own ruthless manhandling.
And then suddenly the world gave a great heave and turned upside down.
Or maybe it was Elliot who turned upside down because all at once he was sitting in the mud and Tucker had his arm around him. His breath was warm against Elliot’s face, and he was saying, “You’re okay. Are you okay? Take deep breaths.”
“What the… What happened?” He felt foggy, disconnected. He was grateful for Tucker’s arm around him.
“Take it easy. Take it slowly.”
“That was…some kiss. I think the earth moved.”
“I think you went weak in the knees.”
“Mechanical f-failure,” Elliot said through chattering teeth. He sincerely wished he could manage a good old-fashioned faint because if the pain in his knee didn’t stop soon he was going to be sick. Possibly on the wide, comfortable shoulder Tucker was gallantly offering.
Tucker said, “Let’s get out of here. Let’s go someplace warm.”
Elliot nodded. “How did you know?”
“How’d I know what?”
“That I was under fire?”
“I saw the ducks in a panic, but I couldn’t see you anywhere. Then I thought I saw muzzle flash in the trees.” A shudder rippled through Tucker’s large frame. “For a minute I thought…”
“Me too.” He needed Tucker’s help to stand, to hobble out of the mud and slimy grass. The escalating pain eroded his previous sexual excitement and energy. In fact, he was willing to attribute that astonishing surge of lust to shock. His leg wouldn’t respond properly and his knee felt like someone had jammed a blade under the cartilage and was twisting it. He was terrified he might have damaged the reconstructed joint, set his recovery back. He couldn’t go through that again. Couldn’t go through being helpless and dependent. The fear made it almost impossible to concentrate on anything else.
He remembered the dream where Tucker had ordered him to stop crying, and he bit down on the distress threatening to tear from his throat.
“I didn’t get a look at the guy. Did you?”
Elliot shook his head.
“I only had a glimpse of his vehicle. Black or maybe navy. It could have been a truck or an SUV. I couldn’t tell through the trees.”
“Why are you here?” he gasped. “I thought we were meeting at the Black Bull?”
“I don’t know why. I thought I ought to…walk the crime scene with you.”
Elliot lifted his head to give Tucker a look of disbelief.
“Are you complaining?”
Elliot shook his head.
They reached Tucker’s Xterra. Tucker helped him inside and Elliot collapsed in the seat, hands gripping his thigh, jaw gritted against giving voice to pain and shock.
He was vaguely aware that Tucker was calling it in, summoning aid.
“Ask them if there have been other disappearances. Disappearances not related to the school. Prostitutes. Immigrants. Ask them to check.”
Tucker threw him a keen look. He was back on the phone, talking again, but Elliot tuned it out, taking physical stock, telling himself it wasn’t as bad as it felt. His knee wasn’t bleeding that much. Hardly at all. His ear was bleeding a lot more, and that was from a tiny scratch.
Tucker finished his call, hung up and turned to Elliot. “We’re not sitting around here waiting for them. What do you need? An emergency room or your own doctor?”
What he wanted was the pain in his knee to stop—followed by a good, strong drink and bed. With or without company. He’d prefer company although he wasn’t going to be up to much till he got the pain under control. Tucker’s concern felt good, though. So had Tucker’s arms about him. Very good.
Elliot put his head back against the seat. Squinched his eyes closed. “The health clinic at the college,” he mumbled. “They should be able to fix me up.”
“We’ll have to come back for your car.”
He nodded. Made himself say, “I need my cell. And my backup piece is in the glove compartment.”
Tucker swore. “Hang on.” He got out of the car and Elliot hastily wiped his eyes. He was not about to let Tucker see him in tears because he had a boo-boo.
Tucker was back in seconds. “Anything else is going to have to wait.”
Fine. Elliot didn’t care. Tucker could roll his car in the lake for all it mattered right now. Just get him someplace where they could make the pain stop.
Tucker turned on the engine, switched on the heater. It blasted out in an arctic gust.
“Shit. Hold on.”
Elliot couldn’t stop shivering, but that wasn’t the cold—though, granted, it was cold. Where did people get the idea Tacoma wasn’t cold? He jerked out, “It’s okay. Just…please. Drive.” He didn’t want to plead, but even he could hear the pain in his voice.
“Right. Are you—”
There was a note in Tucker’s voice that Elliot had never heard before. He pried open his eyes to stare at Tucker, and saw his jaw clenching and unclenching. He looked like he was in as much pain as Elliot. He looked like he didn’t know what to do. That had to be a first for Tucker.
Witnessing that stripped bare emotion helped. Elliot reached over and gripped Tucker’s thigh. “Hey. I’m okay.”
Tucker threw him a startled look.
Elliot managed a twitch of facial muscles intended as a smile. “Get me to the clinic. I’m a lot better company when I’m heavily medicated.”
Tucker made a sound between a drawn breath and a laugh. He nodded and reached for the clutch.
Elliot closed his eyes again. “I was standing there thinking how stupid it would be to shoot someone in that field, and next thing I know, I’m being shot at.” He caught his breath as the Xterra bounced over rocky ground. “He had to be watching me. Tailing me.”
Tucker’s voice sounded a long way off as he replied, “Sure looks that way to me, Professor. First round goes to the Unsub.”
Chapter Nineteen
Sunlight through clouds, the white sparkle of foam, the swell of deep ocean waves… He could hear the pound of the surf, the cries of gulls, feel the salty sting of spray…
Elliot blinked at the photograph of the ocean on the opposite wall, drifting slowly, peacefully from exhausted, drugged sleep to the gradual, dreamy realization that he was awake. Awake and safe in a warm, comfortable bed that was not his own. And if he could hear the pound of the ocean surf, he was still tripping because this Seattle apartment was nowhere near the water. That soothing roar was actually the sound of traffic outside.
He smiled faintly.
He recognized the picture. A haunting blue-gray carbon print photograph of crashing waves. Welle auf der Nordsee by Franz Schensky. Next to it was another print of sailboats on silver water. Schensky was a famous German photographer. Not at all well known in the States, but Tucker had picked up one of his photographs at an auction while working overseas and he’d developed a passion for Schensky’s work. He even had a book somewhere. Das alte Helgoland. As far as Elliot knew, Tucker couldn’t read a word of German.
He rolled onto his back and widened his eyes, trying to focus. He felt mildly stoned. Kind of nice, actually. Normally he resented having to give in to chemical comfort, but this had been a special occasion. He’d nearly died out there this afternoon. Was it still Friday?
It already seemed a long time ago.
He sighed, took a quick physical inventory of his aches and pains. His knee felt numb and oddly stiff. He raised the quilt. He was in his shorts though he didn’t remember undressing. His knee was taped in bulky white.
That he did remember—limping with Tucker’s help into the university health clinic. Elliot’s knee had been cleaned, sterilized and bandaged. He’d been given a shot. Steroids? Painkillers? It was vague. He remembered making a police report.
Yes, that was the last thing he clearly remembered, thanking a uniformed officer who looked young enough to be in one of his classes and climbing back into Tucker’s SUV. He had the vague impression of Tucker leaning over him, buckling his seatbelt, and then the memories faded to black.
Which didn’t explain what he was doing in Seattle. In Tucker’s apartment.
He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Ten after seven. Judging by the darkness framing the window blinds. Seven at night, so it was still Friday. He rubbed his palms against the corners of his eyes. When he opened his eyes again, Tucker stood in the bedroom doorway looking unfamiliar in jeans and a navy T-shirt that read, During the day I dress up like an FBI agent.
Elliot raised his head. “Hey.”
Tucker seemed to almost imperceptibly relax. “Hey. How are you feeling?”
“Fine I think.” Elliot sat up, ready for his knee to blaze into implacable life. It throbbed with a dull and distant pain—bearable. A bit better than bearable, in fact, and he was almost humbled by how grateful he was for that.
“I never thanked you for what you did out there.”
That little thing called saving his life.
Tucker nodded curtly. “You need to start carrying again,” he said. “Till this thing gets resolved.”
“Maybe.” He didn’t like the idea of carrying on campus, but he knew Tucker was right.
“There’s no maybe about it. Someone’s watching you. Tracking you. Which is why you shouldn’t have gotten involved in this, and why you need to back off.”
“Thanks for not saying I told you so.”
“What do you want? I did tell you so. You’re like a pit bull once you sink your teeth into something.”
In a second they were going to be arguing. Elliot’s mouth tightened, but he forbore to say the words he dearly wanted to say. He didn’t want to fight with Tucker. Not now. Not when he remembered the look on Tucker’s face when he’d hauled him out of the lake.
Throwing the quilt back, he got cautiously to his feet, grabbing the leather-padded headboard to steady himself. His knee twanged in warning, but the clinic doctor had reassured him he had done no serious damage. He’d been advised to use a crutch or a walking stick for the next couple of days, but no way was he hobbling around with a cane in front of Tucker. If that was a display of fragile male ego, let the show begin.
“Where do you think you’re off to?” Tucker asked. “You’re supposed to rest that leg.”
“The john.” To his discomfort, Tucker moved to offer a supporting arm around his waist. “Thanks,” Elliot muttered, sounding anything but thankful. It wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t so conscious of the warm weight of Tucker’s arm, the hard strength of his torso and flank pressed up against Elliot’s body—if he wasn’t conscious of how much he wanted Tucker’s arm around him.
“We’re running a BI on Feder,” Tucker said as they reached the bathroom. “Tacoma PD is running their own background check.” He hesitated at the door. “You need any help in here?”
Ordinarily he’d have made some lewd joke. And ordinarily Elliot would have rebuffed him in the same spirit. It had been a long time since things were ordinary between them.
“I’ve got it,” Elliot said equally uncharacteristically polite.
Tucker nodded, his hand lingering on Elliot’s bare back before he stepped away. Elliot closed the door with relief. He was remembering those crazy minutes after Tucker had pulled him out of the lake, how close they had come to ripping off their clothes and doing the deed right then and there in the rushes. He’d thought Tucker was crazy for jumping him in the chapel parking lot after they’d left the Bakers the other day. Crazy seemed to be catching.
He relieved himself, washed at the basin, splashing cold water on his face and examining his unshaven, bleary-eyed reflection critically. He tilted his head to inspect the notch in his ear. Not even bad enough to stitch.
He had been very lucky. Next time he might not be so lucky. Tucker was right.
When he stepped out of the bathroom, Tucker had partly remade the bed and was stacking pillows against the headboard.
“Not on my account,” Elliot told him. “I’m not going back to bed.”
Tucker went to meet him, once more lending a needed hand. “You’re supposed to stay off that leg.”
“So I’ll stay off it. Where are my clothes?”
“The washer. You want to borrow a pair of sweats?”
Elliot sat on the foot of the bed while Tucker went to the highboy and pulled out a clean pair of gray sweats. “What am I doing here anyway?”
Tucker handed over the clothing. He looked self-conscious. “You weren’t in any shape to get yourself home. Besides…”
“Besides?” Elliot shrugged into the sweatshirt.
Tucker’s voice sounded muffled through the layers of soft cotton. “I thought it would be a good idea to rest up someplace no one would know to look for you.”
Elliot scoffed at that, but the suggestion that even now the shooter might be hunting him sent a prickle of unease down his spine.
After he dragged on the sweatpants, he limped with Tucker’s help into the living room and lowered himself to the comfortably wide Ikea sofa. “I can’t hide out here.” He didn’t know whether to be touched or irritated by Tucker’s unanticipated protective streak. “I can’t use your place as a safehouse.”
Tucker muttered, “I’m not asking you to move in.”
That irritated Elliot a lot more than it should have. “I didn’t think you were.” To change the subject, he asked, “What about Anontxt? Were you able to get the ISP of my anonymous caller?”
“Yeah, well that’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.”
Elliot used both hands to lift his injured leg to the sofa. He leaned back with a sigh of relief. “What’s that mean?”
“It means your friend used a public computer to send his text messages.”
“He still must have an account, right?”
“No. This is one of those free, no-registration-required international sites.”
“Damn.” Elliot brooded over this. “There must be some way to track computer usage though. Where was the computer located?”
“Kingman Library.”
“Kingman Library? Well, what does that tell you?”
“Not what you hope it does. The library was packed last night because of the student art show. A lot of people unconnected with the university had good reason to be in that library yesterday evening. And they had access to the computers. We’re working on it, trying to narrow the possibilities, but there are a lot of possibilities.”
That was all too true.
“What about today’s call?”
“They haven’t got back to me on that one yet, but all anyone needs is a public computer and there are plenty of those around.”
Too true. Elliot brooded over this for a couple of minutes.
“What do you want for dinner?” Tucker asked eventually.
Elliot shook off his preoccupation. “I don’t care.”
“Pizza?”
A reluctant smile tugged at Elliot’s mouth. “Sure.”
“You still like it with anchovies and pineapple?”
“Ha ha.”
Tucker grinned briefly and went to call in an order for delivery pizza. When he was finished, he returned to the living room.
“I’ve been thinking,” Elliot said.
“Maybe I should sit down.” Tucker folded into the wide leather armchair, crossing his arms, eying Elliot as though the other man presented a difficult problem. “Okay, Professor. Let’s hear it.”
“Originally I was thinking there was some point to the fact that Terry Baker’s murder is so complicated. Like red herrings or something. Somebody trying too hard to be clever. I mean, tying the anvil around Baker’s waist, for example. Dumping him in the lake behind the school.”
“There was a point. The point was to try to make it look like suicide.”
“I know that figured in, but it was such a lousy attempt. Like shooting Baker in the middle of his forehead. When was the last time you saw someone shoot himself in the middle of the forehead? People shoot themselves in the temple.” Elliot held his hand up mimicking a gun and placed it against his right temple. “Or they put the gun in their mouth.” He illustrated again.
Tucker said, “Do you mind not doing that? I’m starting to feel queasy.”
Elliot removed his finger from his mouth. “I’m merely saying it’s awkward.”
“Yes. I agree. But I’ve seen people shoot themselves in the throat. It’s open to dispute, so where are you going with this? We’re already agreed Baker didn’t kill himself.”
“I think where I’m going with this is Baker’s murder wasn’t thought out. Our Unsub was improvising, and I don’t think he’s good at that.”
“Now you’re a profiler?”
Elliot shrugged. “I’m working my way through this, okay? Bear with me. I don’t think Terry Baker was the first victim, but I think his was the first killing the Unsub tried to make look like something other than what it was—abduction and murder.”
“Is that why you told me to ask Tacoma PD about similar disappearances in the Tacoma vicinity?”
“I did?”
Tucker laughed. “You don’t remember?”
Elliot shook his head. “Not clearly. Did Anderson or Pine get back to you on that?”
“Not yet.”
“If I’m right, our Unsub was flustered into disposing of Baker because of the attention his disappearance garnered. The FBI was brought in. I was brought in. I think he panicked and aborted whatever the usual plan is.”
“What do you think the usual plan is?”
“I have no idea. If we knew that, I think we’d know who and what we’re dealing with.”
Tucker scraped the edge of his thumb absently against his bottom lip. He said finally, “Your theory is the Unsub panicked and tried to make it look like Baker committed suicide. Then why did he snatch Lyle? Why not lay low?”
“He’d already taken Lyle. Lyle disappeared on the previous Monday, remember?”
“Okay. Fair enough. Why did he try and grab your teaching assistant this morning?”
Elliot shifted restlessly and winced. “I think that was personal. I think that was directed specifically at me. He now sees us as competitors in some sick game. And, I want to point out, that he assaulted Kyle before I—your word—baited him. Which is why I think the Unsub is someone I questioned. Someone I’ve talked to.”
“Jim Feder.”
“Maybe.” Elliot made another effort to get comfortable against the cushions. “I’m not quite as convinced as I was this afternoon. It would be pretty stupid to try to grab his own ex-boyfriend. Besides, I think Kyle would have recognized him, ski mask or not.”
“It was dark.”
“I’d know you in the dark, Tucker.”
Tucker’s eyes flashed up to meet Elliot’s. He said curtly. “Yeah. I’d know you too.”
Elliot cleared his throat. “Anyway, it might be Feder. I might—he might—want to get my attention or see some kind of relationship between us. I don’t know. It’s not like I have a shortlist of suspects. If I’m correct and these abductions have been going on for a while, then it cracks the list of possible bad guys wide open.”
Tucker nodded, noncommittal.
“I should call my dad,” Elliot said abruptly. “He’s liable to have heard about the shooting on the news.”
Tucker retrieved Elliot’s cell phone and Elliot called his father.
Expecting Roland’s usual, easy greeting, Elliot was caught off guard by the harsh, “Where in God’s name have you been?”
“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m fine. I took a couple of painkillers and I was out most of the afternoon.”
“What the hell happened out there today? I heard from Charlotte that you’d been shot at by a sniper. When I called the fuzz no one would tell me a goddamned thing.”
Elliot tried to explain while downplaying the danger. While he was answering Roland’s questions, the doorbell rang and he watched Tucker go to answer it. Tucker appeared a few moments later carrying a pizza box. The scent of tomato and garlic and parmesan wafted through the room, and Elliot’s stomach lurched hungrily in response. It occurred to him he’d had nothing to eat since breakfast about a million years earlier.
“Are you going to Terry’s funeral on Sunday?” Roland asked.
“I thought it might be tactless.”
“I think you should go.”
Given the uncomfortable memory of their last argument, Elliot wasn’t about to argue. “All right. If you think the Bakers won’t take my showing up the wrong way.”
They talked a few minutes more, but it was strained. Elliot knew he needed to address their last bitter conversation, but didn’t know how, and he knew this was not the time or place.
Bidding Roland goodbye at last, he disconnected and limped into the kitchen. The pizza box sat open on the table. Tucker was getting plates. Two glass mugs sat gently foaming. The mingled scent of beer and pizza had Elliot salivating.
“I was bringing it out to you.”
“Don’t bother.” Elliot dropped into the nearest chair, reached into the box and pulled out a wedge of pizza, strings of cheese hanging.
Tucker watched him bite into it, eyebrows raised. “Wow.”
“Wow what?” Elliot replied through a mouthful of pizza.
“I’m not sure I want to risk my hand. I’ve seen boa constrictors with better table manners.”
Elliot swallowed, laughed. “Sorry. No breakfast and no lunch.”
“What do you live on? Your high ideals?”
“If you want a piece of this, you’d better shut up and eat.”
Tucker asked innocently, “If I want a piece of what?” He pulled out the chair across from Elliot and picked up his plate.
Elliot ignored that last comment. In three bites he consumed his slice and was reaching for another.
In the end they ate at the kitchen table, devouring one extra large pizza between them. Tucker had two beers but Elliot, mindful of his painkillers, stuck to Coke. He did not want this evening—this unforeseen truce—with Tucker to end. For once both their guards were down. Tomorrow that might not be the case, so he sat there, wired despite his exhaustion, drinking too sweet, fizzy soda and talking about nothing in particular while the small hand on the kitchen clock climbed steadily.
“Maybe the shooting isn’t related to the investigation,” Tucker suggested. “I know it’s a coincidence, but have you had any run-ins with anyone lately?”
“Besides you? No.”
“Have you flunked anyone lately? Dinged anyone’s car door?”
