Текст книги "Fair Game "
Автор книги: Josh lanyon
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Chapter Twenty-Two
Terry Baker’s funeral was a small, private affair—though not so small or so private that Jim Feder was not allowed inside the chapel.
He took his place in the pew next to Elliot and offered a troubled smile.
Elliot nodded back in greeting.
Jim looked young and handsome in his dark suit. Observing him unobtrusively, Elliot decided that Jim’s quiet distress was genuine.
Of course that didn’t mean he wasn’t off his rocker and feeling bad about a murderous compulsion he was unable to control, but Elliot didn’t think so. For one thing, the fact that their “organized” serial killer Unsub had been active for at least five years put twenty-five-year-old Jim beneath the usual cut-off age range of 25 to 45. Not that there couldn’t be exceptions to the rule. Ray and Faye Copeland had been in their seventies. Robert Dale Segee had been nine.
When the service was over, Roland went to speak to Pauline and Tom, and Elliot followed Jim outside. The younger man lit a cigarette and puffed broodingly as he stared out over the white rose garden.
“It isn’t fair,” he said. “It just isn’t fair.”
“Nobody ever said life was fair.” Though Elliot’s leg was greatly improved since Friday, it was still stiff and achy, and that always made him impatient with such sentiments.
Jim gazed at him with sad eyes. “Terry deserved to be loved.”
Didn’t everybody? At the risk of sounding like Roland talking through a psychedelic haze, wouldn’t more love in the world solve a lot of problems right out of the gate? Elliot merely nodded politely. He understood that Jim felt guilty for not loving Terry more.
“Do you think they’ll ever catch who did this?”
“I think so,” Elliot replied. “I think the police have narrowed a number of possibilities.”
“They questioned me.”
“Did they?”
“After Kyle was attacked.” Jim added shortly, “But I guess you knew that. I guess you’re the one who gave them my name.”
Elliot kept his tone neutral. “Your name came up. I didn’t see any reason to withhold it.”
Jim looked away. “Nothing personal, right?”
“I didn’t think you had anything to hide.”
“Everyone has things they’d prefer to hide.”
That was true, and one of the factors that inevitably complicated any investigation.
“Are the police giving you a hard time?”
“No. Of course not. I didn’t have anything to do with the attack on Kyle or with Terry’s death.”
“There you go then.”
Roland came up to them at that juncture and asked Elliot back to the house.
“You’re not going over to the Bakers?”
Roland shook his head. “Come over. I’ll make you supper.”
Elliot was only too glad to accept this olive branch. He said goodbye to Jim, who nodded sulkily and went back to tipping ashes in the roses.
* * *
“How do potato and bean enchiladas sound?”
Elliot opened his mouth. “Oh, that’s too easy,” he said instead.
Roland snorted, opening the drawer and hunting for his potato peeler. “Boys will be boys.”
“How’s the book coming?” Elliot studied Roland’s strong profile. He wondered how his father would view Elliot starting up again with Tucker, especially given the fact that Tucker’s political views were, with one exception, decidedly to the right of the Mills clan.
“I’ve finished the rough draft.” Roland was smiling, a private smile that Elliot didn’t trust. “There’s a lot of good stuff in there, if I do say so myself. One or two revelations are really going to stir a few people up.”
Elliot nodded, deciding it would be wiser to let that go.
For a few minutes neither spoke. Roland moved around the kitchen preparing the vegetables, heating water, preheating the oven. Elliot watched him and listened to the chimes in the backyard tinkling in the afternoon breeze. Sitting here like this brought back many comfortable and pleasant memories.
Feeling his father’s gaze, he glanced up and sure enough Roland was scrutinizing him with a tolerant affection that surprised him into speech.
“Dad?”
Roland smiled faintly. “Elliot?”
“I wanted to apologize. And explain. For the other night, I mean.”
“I see.”
Roland wasn’t giving anything away, but he seemed long past his anger.
Elliot took a deep breath. It had been a long time since he’d felt this…young. This in the wrong. It was not a feeling he liked.
“I don’t know why it matters—mattered—so much to me whether you had a relationship with Pauline Baker. I know it’s not my business. I do know that.”
Roland continued to study him in that thoughtful way. “It’s working in law enforcement for so long. You’re jaded. You expect the worst from people.”
“Come on, Dad.”
“I’m serious. It’s one reason I never wanted you to go into something like the FBI. It’s soul-killing.”
Not this again. Wasn’t it enough that Elliot was no longer with the Bureau? “Dad.”
Roland shrugged. “I know, I know. I’m not forgetting that I brought you into this tragic mess. I know what you’re like once you get something into your head, so I have only myself to blame.”
“That’s not exactly fair.”
“Yes, it is. Once you made up your mind to find out what happened to Terry, you committed to following every possible lead down every possible trail. I know you, son. It’s not a bad trait—not in the fuzz and not in a scholar—but I wasn’t happy to have you looking at me like a suspect.”
“Never.” Elliot was adamant. “Not for one second did I consider you a suspect.”
“Sure you did,” Roland said easily. “Oh, not a murder suspect, but you suspected me of betraying my best friend—and my wife. Your mother.”
Elliot couldn’t meet his father’s eyes. He heard rather than saw Roland’s sigh.
“Elliot. The fact is, I do care for Pauline. I’ve come to care about her a great deal over the years since your mother died. And if she wasn’t married to my oldest friend, maybe things would be different. But she is married to Tom, and things are what they are. Does that answer your question?”
“Yeah.” Elliot grimaced. “To be honest, we’re pretty sure now we’re dealing with a serial killer.”
“A serial killer?”
Elliot nodded.
“Then why isn’t that on the news?”
“Because it’s still not definite. There’ll be a formal press release as soon as it’s certain. Right now there’s behavioral evidence but not much in the way of forensic to support the theory.”
“People need to know about this. They need to be able to warn themselves.”
“I agree. Everyone involved agrees. But up until now the majority of victims appear to have been high risk. The kind of person who can disappear for a lot of reasons without anyone noticing or caring. Right this minute the various investigative agencies are trying to figure out their strategy. If the determination is made that this really is a serial murder series, it looks like the FBI will lead the task force.”
“And you’re having trouble with that?”
“No.” Elliot stared at him, startled. “Why do you say that?”
“It’s obvious.”
“It’s not true. I think the Bureau is the best agency to handle this.”
Roland nodded noncommittally. “Friday night. Where did you call me from?”
“From, er, Tucker’s place.”
“Tucker?”
“Tucker Lance. The agent…guy I was…uh…”
“I remember Tucker.” Right. Roland would have been one of the people enforcing Elliot’s wishes not to see Tucker. “So you’ve started seeing him again?”
“Yeah, but it’s not—”
Roland brushed this aside. “You obviously still have feelings for the cat. I’ve known that for a long time. What I’m getting at is, this is the first time you’re facing being on the outside of one of his cases. Am I right? A case that you were actively involved in.”
“Yeah.”
“So of course you’re having a problem with it. I’d be surprised if you weren’t.”
Elliot absorbed this. Reluctantly, he conceded, “Yeah. Okay. Maybe you’re right. It’s hard being on the outside looking in. That used to be my world.”
“You’ll work through it.”
“You sound pretty sure.”
“Sure I’m sure. Father knows best.” Roland reached out to ruffle Elliot’s hair with rough affection. “And don’t you forget it.”
It was a good evening and a relief to have things back to normal in this part of his life at least. When at last Elliot said goodnight and walked out to his car, he was still mulling over his father’s assertion that he was resentful of Tucker’s possible role in the upcoming investigation into Baker’s death and Lyle’s disappearance. He didn’t like sitting on the sidelines, that was true. He had always been a better driver than a passenger.
If he and Tucker were going to try and make some kind of relationship work, he was going to have to get used to his new role as innocent bystander. That was not going to be easy. On the other hand, he suspected that his feelings for Tucker ran deep enough that it was worth working through his issues.
In fact, he was taken aback by how much he missed Tucker. He’d spent most of Saturday at Tucker’s apartment, but it was only one day, after all, so why was he feeling like his other half was missing? When had he become so emotionally needy?
Or was it needy to admit that you liked being with someone?
The fact was, Elliot didn’t have enough experience at relationships to know. Before he’d been shot, his focus had been on building his career. No question he had been ambitious. The Bureau had fast-tracked him for promotion. After he’d resigned, his focus had been on putting his life back together. He was new at this romance thing.
“Oh what the hell,” he muttered, reaching for his cell phone.
Tucker picked up immediately. First ring. He must have been staring at his phone, willing it to ring.
“Hey, you.” The warm affection was not what Elliot was expecting. Once again he felt off balance.
He replied cautiously, “Hey.”
“Guess what? It’s confirmed. A multi-agency task force is being put together. The Bureau is taking point and I’m lead investigator. We’re going to get this sonofabitch.”
“That’s great,” Elliot said hollowly.
“I’ve got to drive into Tacoma this evening to meet with Detective Anderson. He’s co-investigator on this.”
Sunday night. They were moving fast. That was good. Elliot was glad, but he was still disappointed he wasn’t going to see Tucker tonight. He knew better than to ask. He’d been through one of these serial murder investigations early in his career, though not as lead investigator. Tucker was in for a grueling night as he and his team assessed and reassessed all the evidence collected so far. It would be Tucker’s job to put together a team of investigators and support personnel and assign them as the investigation dictated. He and Anderson would be responsible for all the crime scene activities including making sure that relevant information was distributed to the entire task force.
It was a promotion for Tucker—a big one—and as far as their relationship went, it couldn’t have come at a worse time. Tucker’s dance card was going to be filled for the foreseeable future.
And Elliot was a total shit to begrudge Tucker this opportunity merely because it meant they wouldn’t be seeing much of each other. He made himself say sturdily, “That’s good news.” Adding more naturally, “I feel safer already.”
Tucker laughed. “Sarcastic bastard. But I do feel vested in this case because of your own involvement.”
Christ. In a second Tucker was going to thank him for being a concerned citizen.
“Well, look, I’ve got a ferry to catch. I’ll give you a call later.”
“Where are you?”
“Tacoma. I went to the Baker kid’s funeral.”
“Right.” Tucker sounded distracted. “How was it?”
“No one confessed, if that’s what you mean.”
There was a pause. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know. Sorry. Listen, I’ve got to get going.”
“Wait a minute, Elliot. Is something wrong?”
“What?” Not that Elliot hadn’t heard, just that he couldn’t believe Tucker would ask. Ask in that stubborn, serious tone. In broad daylight. Or, in this case, broad twilight. He heard the echo of his thoughts and nearly laughed. Ironically, it appeared that Tucker was going to be better at this relationship thing than he was. “No,” he answered. “Funerals get me down, that’s all.”
“Is that all it is? You haven’t had any more text messages or anything?”
Oh. That was a relief. For a terrible moment Elliot had feared Tucker was worried about his feelings. Thank God, he was still thinking in terms of crime and killing.
“Nothing. Maybe running into you yesterday scared him off.” It came out with an edge he hadn’t intended.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” By his tone Tucker knew it hadn’t been intended that way. “I’ll try and give you a call tomorrow, okay? Maybe we can grab some dinner.”
They both knew the chances of that were slim. Not this early into the case. Tucker would be working 24/7 for the foreseeable future.
“I’ve got physical therapy tomorrow. Maybe later in the week.”
“Right. Okay.”
“Later.”
A hesitation and then Tucker replied, “Later.”
Elliot disconnected before he said something he would regret. That something being just about anything.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Elliot was still brooding—and increasingly annoyed with himself for doing so—as his car topped the pine-tree-lined drive and his headlights illuminated the dark cabin.
The porch light was out again.
Maybe there was a short in the wiring on the front of the house. The cabin wasn’t new. Or maybe he’d forgotten to turn the light on when he’d left that morning. He couldn’t specifically recall doing so, but leaving the light on was automatic by now.
There was nothing concrete, but he felt uneasy.
He pulled into the garage, turned off the engine and removed his pistol and flashlight from the glove compartment. He racked the Glock’s slide and slipped out of the car, leaving the door open.
The garage was nearly pitch-black and Elliot spared a grateful thought that he hadn’t lived in the cabin long enough to accumulate much junk. He edged past the cabinets and tool bench, crossed behind the Nissan, and made his way as noiselessly as possible to the side door. He unlocked it, eased it open and stepped out into the crisp, cold night.
Above the serrated silhouettes of the pines he could see the moon sailing serenely through the silver edged clouds. The spicy scent of pine mingled with the faint tang of the sound.
The rough wooden logs caught at his jacket as he inched down the length of the cabin. He held his pistol at low ready. When he came to the sunroom, he craned his head and stole a quick look. The room was in darkness. He could make out the shape of furniture in the gloom. Nothing moved.
The only sound was the wind soughing through the tree tops.
Moving across that wall of windows would be a mistake if someone was waiting for him inside, and though his knee was better than it had been on Saturday, the days when he could crawl along the ground commando style were gone.
He thought it over and then went back the other way along the side of the house, pausing by the side door to the garage and listening intently.
Nothing.
He peered inside. No light shone from under the kitchen door. Not the faintest glimmer.
Continuing along the wall of the cabin, Elliot climbed with some difficulty onto the side of the shadowy porch, and ducked past the nearest window. He pushed gently against the front door. It didn’t budge.
He touched the handle.
Locked.
Was he overreacting? If he really believed there was a threat he needed to get down to Steven’s cabin and summon the Pierce County Sheriff Department.
Stubbornly, he resisted the idea of not being able to deal with this, not being capable of handling his own problems—assuming his problem was anything more than too much imagination.
If someone was in the cabin they would be expecting him to enter through the kitchen door leading onto the garage. Second best guess would be the mud porch entrance which he might use if he had gone around to the back to get firewood or dump something in the trash cans. He used his keys to quietly unlock the front door. He pushed it wide.
It swung open with a yawning sound.
Elliot stayed well to the side to present the smallest possible target and avoid being backlit by the bright moon behind him. A quick scan showed the front room bathed in quicksilver: furniture, rugs, fireplace. All looked perfectly, reassuringly normal.
He pulled the flashlight from his waist belt and advanced into the room, using the hands-apart technique: his gun hand extended, his left holding the flashlight at random heights. He intermittently pressed the tailcap sending short bursts of radiance bouncing across the room. It was a long time since he’d done this and it felt awkward—not to mention silly—but the advantage was it made it difficult for his possible quarry to mark his position. It there was someone waiting for him, the moving light would theoretically draw fire away from his center-of-mass.
The flashlight beam caught and spotlighted the empty rocking chair, the face of the grandfather clock, the painting over the fireplace of the Johnson Farm, the black oblong of the hall entrance.
He proceeded to the hallway. The light illuminated family photos and the staircase at the far end.
Elliot turned the opposite direction and walked toward the kitchen. His empty water glass sat on the counter, a copy of William L. Shea’s Fields of Blood rested on the table where he’d left it that morning before leaving to catch the ferry for the mainland.
No sign of any disturbance. No sign of any intruder.
But Elliot’s unease, his sense of something wrong, was mounting. His scalp crawled with tension, his back and underarms grew damp.
He stepped into the sunroom, still pressing the flashlight button at irregular intervals and alternating the light position.
At first quick glance the sunroom seemed just as he’d left it. But the next instant the flashlight beam highlighted the half-full crystal wineglass balanced on the edge of the diorama.
Elliot’s heart stopped and then his pulse went into overdrive. He flashed the light around the room, finger quivering on the Glock’s trigger.
No one was there, but an open bottle of Lopez Island merlot sat on the fireplace mantle. It gleamed dully in the overbright glare of the flashlight.
Was anything else was out of place? No. Or was it? He stepped forward, shining the flashlight on the diorama. The diminutive hand painted houses and trees, the miniature gardens and roads popped up in the spotlight. Something was wrong…
JEB Stuart’s entire cavalry unit was gone.
Vanished.
He checked the diorama to see if they had been moved. They had not. The flashlight beam finally picked out what was left of the resin and alloy men and horses crushed and broken in the fireplace grate. Stuart’s small plumed hat winked like a jewel in the ashes.
The mudroom door slammed shut, the bang reverberating through the dark cabin. Elliot spun, the incautious move sending pain flashing through the damaged nerves and muscles of his knee. He ignored it and sprinted for the back of the cabin.
The mudroom door swung back and forth in the wind. The breeze sighed. As Elliot checked in the entrance way, the door languidly sailed back and then flew forward again, bouncing off the door frame with a loud bang.
Elliot was across the mud porch in three steps. He stepped out onto the stoop training his weapon on the yard before him.
Nothing moved in the clearing behind the cabin.
Nothing moved along the black wall of trees.
Even the wind seemed to hold its breath and wait.
After a long, long moment, Elliot went back inside, locking the door behind him. He was now sure he was alone within the house but his nervous tension did not ease. The thought of the destroyed miniatures set his heart drumming in mingled fury and outrage. This invasion of his home offended him on every level and—though he refused to admit it—scared him.
He continued to search the cabin for further signs of his intruder.
When he was confident the bottom level was secure, he started slowly up the stairs. Knowing how badly disadvantaged he was on stairs, his disquiet spiked with each careful step.
Midway up, his nostrils twitched and disquiet turned to alarm.
His heart was galloping in the fight or flight response as he reached the last step and advanced toward his bedroom.
His left arm started to shake with the strain of holding the flashlight high, and the circle of light jittered over floorboards and paneling. He flattened himself to the wall outside the bedroom.
His stomach churned with nausea—and not merely because dynamic entries were some of the most dangerous. He knew that particular stink. Once experienced it was never forgotten.
Death.
He shoved the flashlight in his waistband. Using the cover of the doorway, he whipped his pistol around the frame and snatched a quick look.
Nothing.
Slowly canting his body around the corner, he rapidly scanned the moonlit room, swiftly covering the perimeter with his weapon.
There. A large shadow in the middle of his bed. Someone crouching against the headboard?
Elliot yelled, “Don’t move or I’ll blow your head off.”
The figure didn’t flinch. Didn’t move a muscle. Didn’t take a breath.
Elliot’s ears strained the quiet.
It was too quiet. Nothing alive could be that quiet.
He brought the pistol high and close to his chest, gritted his jaw, and stepped out into ready stance, training his Glock on the unmoving bulk sitting on his bed.
No movement.
No sign of life.
He had known halfway up the staircase what he was going to find. He forced himself to face it, reaching for the wall switch.
Mellow light flooded the room, made visible the tidy bedroom: the Ivan Shishkin prints in rustic frames, the ginger jar lamps with their cheerful yellow-and-gold leaf patterns, the wide double bed with the brown-and-white-striped duvet. Every detail seemed startlingly vivid, as though he were seeing the room and its furnishings for the first time.
But in fact there was only one new addition to his bedroom. Steven Roche sat in the middle of the bed, slumped against the headboard. His half-open eyes were dull and fixed. A corkscrew was jammed in the base of his throat.
* * *
The sheriffs arrived first, red and blue lights flashing eerily through the trees as their SUVs wound up the island road to the cabin. Elliot met them outside the cabin, making his report in the wood-smoke-scented night while the police radios crackled with reports of other emergencies and disasters and the stars twinkled overhead. He had been through the grim routine of crime scenes many times—though never as a victim—and he kept his answers brief and to the point.
Maybe too brief and to the point.
He got the impression, though no one came right out and said so, that there was something suspicious about a homeowner who didn’t have hysterics upon finding a dead neighbor in his bed.
“If you didn’t give Mr. Roche a key to your cabin, how did he get in?” the deputy who took Elliot’s statement asked him twice.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have any idea what Mr. Roche wanted?”
“No. I don’t.”
“Was Mr. Roche in the habit of waiting in your bedroom for you to arrive home?”
“No.” Elliot stared at him coldly and steadily until the deputy’s gaze fell.
It probably didn’t help when he advised them to leave the crime scene for the FBI, but by then he didn’t care.
Tacoma police arrived about an hour after the Sheriff Department. Elliot watched in relief as Tucker unfolded from the backseat of a white-and-gray police vehicle. Tucker looked around the crowded front yard, spotted Elliot and came straight over to him.
It was the first time they had met since Saturday and Elliot was unsure of what their new protocol was. He told himself he was braced for anything, including Tucker grilling him like any suspect.
“Are you okay?” Tucker demanded.
Elliot relaxed infinitesimally. “Yeah.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
They didn’t touch, but that was merely a technicality. Elliot could see from the way the sheriff deputies were eying each other that no one had missed the connection that rippled between them like a live current.
“I’ll be right back.”
Elliot nodded.
Tucker disappeared with the detectives inside the cabin. Fifteen minutes later he was back, crossing the yard to Elliot, who leaned against the paramedic truck. “Bring me up to speed,” he ordered.
Elliot went through his story once again, and Tucker’s face grew darker and more dangerous with each word.
“What the hell was Roche doing in your place to begin with?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t have a key.”
“You didn’t leave a spare with him?” An expression flitted across Tucker’s face that might have been jealousy. It was unexpected. Even more unexpected, and probably unreasonable, was that Elliot found it reassuring. He was having a hard time in his role as victim, and it helped to see that crack in Tucker’s hard professionalism.
“No. The only person with a spare key to the cabin is my dad.”
“All right.” Tucker was scowling and Elliot could read his thoughts as though he’d spoken them aloud.
“No way.”
Tucker’s brows drew together. “Elliot, your safety is the priority now.”
“I’m not going into protective custody.”
“You are if I say you are.”
“Is that so? Somebody assign you executive powers when I wasn’t looking?”
They were attracting an audience. Tucker lowered his voice, but it clearly took effort. “Look, I don’t want to argue with you.”
“Good. I don’t want to argue with you either.”
“But you are in protective custody until this thing is resolved.”
Elliot squared his shoulders. “Not unless you plan on arresting me.”
Tucker forgot himself so far as to grip Elliot’s arm. Hard. “Goddamn it, Elliot. This freak has tried for you twice. You may not be as lucky the third time.”
Elliot freed himself and said with a calmness that was probably more about fatigue than genuine cool, “Well, Special Agent Lance, then I guess you better figure out how you’re going to catch him before he catches me.”
