Fair Chance

by Josh Lanyon

There was a strange silence, and listening to it, Elliot’s heart sped up in instinctive alarm.

  “Is there something wrong?” he demanded. “Tova?”

  “Tucker wasn’t here this weekend,” Tova said. “We waited dinner for him on Friday night. He never arrived.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  He did not sleep that night.

  Elliot had been involved in enough missing persons cases to know that however puzzling and alarming the circumstances might seem, 99 percent of the time the missing person arrived home perfectly fine and with what in hindsight was a reasonable—at least to them—explanation.

  There was no reason to panic. In fact, if his first response was panic, then Tucker was right, Elliot had been out of the field too long.

  But what could be the reasonable explanation here?

  That Tucker was an irresponsible and selfish asshole who cut out on his responsibilities and left the people who cared about him worried and confused.

  Not likely.

  Elliot did not want to overreact but he did not want to under-react. He tried phoning the airlines, but that was an exercise in futility.

  “I just want to know if he ever boarded the plane,” he’d reiterated each time he was transferred to another useless link in the chain of communication.

  “I’m sorry, sir, we can’t give out that information.”

  This is a recording! Or might as well have been.

  After hitting wall after wall on both the Seattle and Casper ends, he phoned SAC Montgomery at home.

  Montgomery sounded a little surprised to hear from him and then greatly surprised when he explained that Tucker had not returned home.

  “Was he flying back tonight? My understanding was he didn’t plan on returning until Monday evening. He’s not due to be back at work until Tuesday.”

  “Tuesday,” Elliot repeated.

  He must have sounded dumfounded because Montgomery said crisply, “Let me verify.” And then a moment later, “That’s correct. Lance is not due back on the clock until Tuesday.”

  Not that FBI agents punched a time card, and if Tucker needed a little more time, Montgomery would—but he wasn’t requesting additional time. He had asked for these dates in advance. He had known in advance he would not be back Sunday afternoon. He had not planned on returning Sunday afternoon, although he had told Elliot he would be.

  That made zero sense.

  And yet the bottom line was Tucker, the most straightforward person Elliot had ever known, had either lied to Montgomery or lied to Elliot.

  Or maybe he’d lied to both of them.

  Either way it was un-fucking-believable and Elliot could not think of a way to cover his bewilderment.

  “I see,” he said. “We must have got our wires crossed.”

  “I suppose so,” Montgomery said awkwardly.

  “Thanks for your help.” Elliot hung up.

  He had stared out the window at the outline of trees melting into the deepening twilight.

  “I don’t understand...”

  Understatement of the year. But there had to be some explanation.

  Sheba yipped at whatever she heard in his tone. Elliot glanced her way and the dog was sitting on her haunches, delicately pawing the air.

  He thought, Mueller is correct. Someone spent a lot of time and attention on you.

  He thought, He wouldn’t do this to me.

  “Let’s give Todd another call,” he told the dog, because he felt like his brain was going to explode.

  Todd’s cheerful voice reminded Elliot that he knew what to do.

  And he did. He reminded Todd that he needed to hear from him, fed the dog and went to bed, where he spent the next six hours staring up at the ceiling and watching the knotholes grow lighter and lighter in the dawn.

  * * *

  Monday morning he put on a suit and tie, fed Sheba her pills, smoothed salve over her stitches and locked her in the basement with food, water and, optimistically, a spread of newspapers, before catching the ferry to Steilacoom.

  When the boat landed, he drove straight to the car park where Tucker usually left his Xterra, and received yet another painful shock.

  Tucker’s car was parked right where it had been Friday morning when Elliot had let him off.

  Elliot got out and circled the blue SUV. He studied the Xterra’s tires. No flat. No apparent reason for Tucker not to take his own vehicle.

  Hands cupped to his face, he peered through the tinted windows. As far as he could tell there was no sign of Tucker’s belongings; certainly there was no sign of Tucker. Which was good news, of course.

  The bad news was it did not look like Tucker had even unlocked his car.

  Elliot climbed back into his own car parked in the slot next to the Xterra, and numbly tried to make sense of this.

  If Tucker had not taken his Xterra, what had he done? Called for a cab? Or had someone picked him up?

  Why would Tucker lie?

  Elliot couldn’t believe it. He tried to remember every moment of Friday morning. Tried to remember everything Tucker had said and done.

  Had he seen Tucker unlock his car?

  No. They had been running slightly late. Tucker had started to walk away but had turned back to kiss him one final time and remind him to be careful.

  “Tonight, sure, but I mean...all the time.”

  Looking back, had there been some underlying message when Tucker had pressed him to be careful? Had Tucker been hinting that he wasn’t coming back?

  No. Elliot impatiently rejected the thought. There had been nothing out of the ordinary in Tucker’s behavior in the days, hours, minutes leading up to his departure.

  Yes, Tucker had seemed a little tired, a little preoccupied, a little doubtful about the wisdom of his trip to Wyoming. Elliot would have sworn it was all genuine.

  But...

  He rubbed his forehead.

  Why would Tucker pretend he was taking his car when he clearly wasn’t? Why would he pretend he had arrived safely in Wyoming when he hadn’t flown there in the first place? Why would he tell Elliot he was returning on Sunday afternoon and tell his boss he would not be back to work until Tuesday?

  It was the last one that seemed to put the nail in the coffin. Elliot could come up with several different scenarios for Tucker not taking his own car—maybe there was something wrong with the Xterra that was not visible from the outside—but he could not come up with any reason Tucker would tell him one thing and Montgomery another. It wasn’t like Tucker was absentminded or forgetful.

  But it wasn’t like Tucker was dishonest either.

  So...what the hell?

  What the hell was going on?

  Elliot continued to sit in the lot while cars came and went, commuters picking up and dropping off. A typical busy Monday morning and no one seemed to have noticed that over the course of the weekend the world had been knocked clean out of orbit.

  While the wind off the water shook the Nissan, he analyzed every minute, every fucking second of the last twenty-four hours he and Tucker had spent together.

  He would have sworn—but that was the problem with working in law enforcement. He knew only too well, had worked too many cases, where some previously steadfast and upright citizen suddenly and bafflingly went completely off the rails to the pained disbelief of friends and family.

  It happened.

  Nobody ever saw it coming.

  But Tucker?

  He tried Tucker’s cell phone and this time there was nothing. Not even voice mail.

  * * *

  He arrived at the courthouse a little before eight-thirty.

  Roland—pink shirt, navy suit and his usual ponytail—was standing with Tom Baker and a tall, tanned woman, also in a
navy-blue suit. He spotted Elliot as he stepped out of the elevator, and came to greet him. He did not smile, but his eyes were alight with relief. “Elliot. You’re here.”

  “Hey, Dad.”

  Roland hugged him as though harsh words had never been spoken and Elliot’s cooperation had never been in doubt. Elliot stiffly hugged him in return.

  Roland leaned back to study him. “You’re doing the right thing, son.”

  Elliot could feel his smile twisting. “Okay. I hope so.”

  Roland drew him into the waiting circle of Nobb’s supporters, who were all speaking in the hushed tones of people waiting for the funeral to start.

  “You know everyone,” Roland said, and Elliot thought he could place most of the people gathered from lunches, brunches and dinners held at his parents’ home through the years.

  There were a lot of flushed cheeks and shining eyes as Roland’s allies gathered to stick it to the man one last time.

  Tom Baker nodded politely to him and Elliot nodded curtly back. Supplied with information from Roland, Tom had done his very best to take Elliot apart on the stand during Nobby’s trial. As Nobby’s defense lawyer, that was Tom’s job, of course, but Elliot had not appreciated the attempts to discredit him—or the fact his own father had aided and abetted Tom.

  “Elliot,” the woman in navy said, offering her hand. He was surprised to recognize Detective Upson, Pine’s partner at Tacoma PD.

  Elliot shook hands with her. “So he convinced you too?”

  Upson chuckled. “Rollie can be very persuasive.” She exchanged a look with Rollie that made Elliot blink. Rollie beamed back at her.

  Detective Upson and his dad?

  Add that to the list of things he hadn’t seen coming.

  He could feel Roland watching him and he offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

  Maybe it wasn’t as reassuring as he hoped, because Roland’s brows drew together. “All right, son?” He rested a hand on Elliot’s shoulder.

  Elliot said with grim cheer, “Yep. Of course.”

  It was the first time he could remember lying to his father. Granted, this wasn’t the time or the place to bring up—Once again his brain seemed to blank. He still couldn’t quite take it in.

  Roland opened his mouth, no doubt to once again reassure Elliot that he was doing the right thing, and Elliot cut him off with a quick “Don’t worry, Dad. It’s going to be fine. You’ve put together a very impressive...coalition.”

  Roland studied him, still frowning, unconvinced, but the bailiff appeared and there was no further time for conversation. They filed into the courtroom.

  And Elliot was right. Roland really had done a good job of organizing an impressive cadre of character witnesses. As one of the primary victims, Roland’s own plea for leniency carried weight, and that was reinforced by Detective Upson’s testimony as the arresting officer.

  Nobb, a frail figure in his prison jumpsuit, listened and occasionally brushed away tears from his lined cheeks.

  Considering the long procession of people willing to get up and speak on Nobb’s behalf, Elliot had to wonder why his father had been so insistent he make an appearance. Was it supposed to be some kind of filial penance? Or was Roland relying on the ancillary clout of a former FBI agent?

  When Elliot’s turn came, he kept his own remarks brief and added his request for clemency to all the others. Roland nodded approvingly when he sat down.

  It was not much of a surprise when the judge sentenced Oscar Nobbs to probation, reduced by time already served, and psychiatric counseling, although given the cheer that went up, the Peace and Freedom Party seemed to believe they’d scored a major victory.

  Elliot couldn’t wait to get out of there, although in fairness that was more about what was happening in his own life than his father’s.

  “Thank you,” Roland said, catching him up in the hall outside the courtroom. “I know you’re conflicted about this, but it was the right thing.”

  “I hope so.” Elliot summoned a smile. “Anyway, Upson’s right. You’re pretty persuasive when you want to be. You believe in Nobby and I believe in you, so... I’m glad it worked out.”

  “We’re all going out to celebrate at Café Flora. Why don’t you join us?”

  “Thanks, no.” Elliot shook his head. “I’ve got just enough time to get back in time for class.”

  “Dinner Thursday?”

  “I...” For a strange moment Elliot couldn’t think of the answer. Thursday dinners with his father seemed like another lifetime. The life where the only mystery about Tucker had been how he’d come up with the idea that he was of German ancestry. “I’ll let you know, okay?”

  Roland’s brows drew together. “We can meet somewhere else if you’re not comfortable coming out to the farm—”

  “No. No, Dad. I just... I’ll give you a call later this week.” Elliot turned and walked away.

  He thought Roland called after him, but the discipline that had got him through the sentencing hearing had abruptly drained away, leaving him feeling overwhelmed, sick with the knowledge that Tucker was gone.

  Missing.

  Apparently by his own choice.

  Elliot had no idea what had happened to him—but he had been stricken by the sinking realization that there was a very real possibility he might never hear from Tucker again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Elliot was grading papers in his Hanby Hall office—not permitting himself to think beyond the immediate question of how someone who had made it all the way through her second year of college could honestly argue that slavery was a myth—when Will MacAuley rang.

  “Are you free for lunch?”

  Lunch? Elliot glanced at his watch. How the hell could it be only one o’clock? It felt like months had passed since he’d found Tucker’s Xterra in the car park.

  “Maybe another time.”

  MacAuley didn’t seem to hear him. “I was expecting to hear from you by now,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “About what? About Corian’s accomplice. Don’t tell me you haven’t guessed. You must at least have narrowed down the possibilities.” Amusement laced MacAuley’s rich baritone.

  Elliot was not in the mood. He squeezed his forehead, trying to pinch out the ceaseless throb in his skull, and asked in as level a tone as he could summon, “Why don’t you tell me who you think it is?”

  “I will, if you’ll come to lunch.”

  Elliot sighed and MacAuley laughed, though the laugh had a harsh undertone. “I see. I’m boring you. Very well. Believe it or not, I was trying to help.”

  After a moment’s struggle, Elliot said, “Will, I appreciate the gesture. I think. But if you believe you have information pertinent to the Sculptor case, you need to contact... Special Agent Yamiguchi.”

  “Why should I?” MacAuley fired off. “You’re a member of that task force. And you’re a friend. Why would I have to go through other channels? I have information for you. Do you want it or not?”

  Elliot bit out, “When and where? My next lecture is at four.”

  “My house. One hour,” MacAuley snapped back. Then he laughed. “Don’t be like that, Elliot. We’ll have a nice lunch and I’ll solve your case for you. Then you can think about how you’re going to repay me.”

  “I’m giving it thought right now.”

  MacAuley laughed, his good humor restored. “See you soon.”

  * * *

  The less time he had to think, the better, Elliot told himself on the drive over to Laurelhurst. He should welcome this distraction. Any distraction.

  Until Tucker arrived home—or didn’t—that evening, he was merely speculating, and that was a waste of energy. Tucker would either have a reasonable explanation or he wouldn’t. And if he didn
’t, Elliot would kill him. That was all.

  And if Tucker didn’t arrive home...

  That was where Elliot’s thoughts broke off each time. Beyond that point was barren wasteland, for now the forbidden zone.

  He parked in the curving drive in front of MacAuley’s place. There was a red Cadillac SRX in front of the garage, but no other cars around.

  He got out, pressed the key fob to lock the Nissan, and started up the walk. Despite the patchy sunlight, it was still raining. No longer a full-on rain, but scattered drops, spangling the grass and splattering against the shrubbery. The air smelled wet and clean and earthy.

  The flat, hard bang of a gunshot echoing from inside the house stopped him in his tracks—and then he raced the rest of the way up the slick path.

  Reaching the boxed overhang of the front entrance without harm, he ducked down behind a short brick planter. Though he didn’t recall pulling his weapon, he was holding his Glock as he watched the front door, waiting.

  The door was half-open, but no one stepped outside.

  There was no further sound from inside the house.

  A couple of very long seconds passed.

  What was this? Not an accident, or the front door would not be standing open. Not a firefight, or there would be shots in return.

  Suicide? Not with the front door standing wide-open. Or at least...unlikely.

  Homicide?

  Attempted homicide at least. MacAuley might be fighting for his life, might be injured, might be in a hostage situation. This could be anything. A burglary gone bad, home invasion, attempted kidnapping. But unless that single shot had been a warning shot, things were not looking good for somebody in that house.

  Elliot found his phone, thumbed in 911, still observing the front door.

  Emergency dispatch came on the line and Elliot gave him the details for a Code 2. No lights or sirens. Urgent. The address, the number of shots, a possible active shooter, his name and the name of the likely victim.

  Dispatch was still requesting additional information when Elliot clicked off, put his phone on vibrate, and started for the front door.

  Active shooter situations were always unpredictable. They evolved—and ended—quickly, generally with the arrival of law enforcement. Ten to fifteen minutes. Which was fine—except, depending on where you were hit, you could bleed out in a lot less than ten minutes.