by Josh Lanyon
“Elliot,” Anne said as he reached them. “I just wanted to say how glad I am you’re all right. That must have been terrifying yesterday.”
“Thank you.” Funny that the possibility of dying in a shootout did not terrify him nearly as much as the idea of losing Tucker.
“I didn’t know you and Will MacAuley were friends.”
Roland made a harrumphing sound, and Elliot said, “We were friendly-ish. Me being over there yesterday was just bad luck.”
Her smile was skeptical. “You do have a lot of that, don’t you?”
“Yeah, well.” If she only knew.
Anne kissed Roland’s cheek and bade him an affectionate farewell, patted Elliot’s arm and said, “You Mills boys stay out of trouble!”
No sooner had she stepped inside her classroom than Roland’s hand fastened on Elliot’s shoulder in a move straight out of Elliot’s boyhood, guiding him into his office.
“All right,” Roland said as the door to Elliot’s office swung shut behind them. “I appreciate the phone message letting me know you weren’t hurt yesterday, but what the hell is going on? How would you end up in a gunfight at Will MacAuley’s house, of all places? At first, the news reports sounded like you’d been arrested.”
Elliot’s sigh probably sounded more like a groan. “It’s under control, Dad. I’m okay. Everything is o—”
“No, it’s not,” Roland interrupted. “It is obviously not under control and you are obviously not okay. I could tell the minute you walked into the courthouse yesterday.” An expression of something like pain crossed his face. “Talk to me, Elliot.”
“You know how I know this, Professor Mills? Because it’s how I feel about you.”
It was the worried kindness, the sincere concern that got to him, made him feel about seven years old again, when there was pretty much nothing his father couldn’t set right for him, and for one awful moment Elliot feared he was going to break down.
But he managed to get out a steady “It’s a long story. The gist of it is Tucker’s...missing.”
Roland’s eyes narrowed as though he thought he hadn’t heard correctly, and then went wide. He hauled Elliot into a bear hug—had there ever been a crisis that Roland had not tackled head-on?—and Elliot really did nearly lose it that time.
“Tell me, son,” Roland commanded, his own voice terse and tight.
This was all for Elliot. Roland didn’t even like Tucker, really. Somehow that only served to choke Elliot up more.
He pulled back, wiping hastily at his eyes. “Not much to tell. He was supposed to fly out to Wyoming on Friday to see Tova and Ed, but he never arrived.”
“Are you sure he never arrived? Could they be lying?”
That was Roland’s instinctive distrust of the Christian right. He was probably imagining Tucker kidnapped and subjected to conversion “therapy.”
“I’m pretty sure,” Elliot said. “Tova sounded angry and hurt when I spoke to her on the phone. And I found his car right where it was Friday morning when I let him off. As of this morning, the police are treating it as a crime scene.”
He went through the entire story. By the end of it, his voice was level again and Roland looked about as bleak as Elliot had ever seen.
“The theory is Tucker was taken by this Barro character, who was a confederate of Corian’s, and who you shot to death yesterday. Is that correct?”
“That’s one theory. It’s also possible that one of Tucker’s other cases came back to bite him.”
“But you don’t think so?”
“There’s an awful lot of circumstantial evidence heading in one direction.”
Roland thought it over. He said grimly, “One cat trying to take down Tucker on his own would not go well.”
“No.”
The comforting thing about his dad was he had never been one for false reassurances. He did not make promises he could not keep or assurances he could not guarantee.
“You weren’t arrested—you’re not—?”
“No. At least—there’ll be some kind of official review and the DA might decide to press charges, but it’s unlikely. Everyone seemed to think it was unlikely.” He honestly didn’t care. Of all the things keeping him up at night, the fear of imprisonment was the least important to him.
And probably the most unlikely to happen.
Roland stared out the rain-speckled window at students beneath umbrellas and coats held high, hurrying to classes. Watching him, Elliot said, “Another theory is I knocked Tucker off for his life insurance.”
It was almost worth it to see Roland’s instant and complete outrage. “Who the hell said that?”
Anne probably heard that bellow all the way down the hall, and Elliot gave a tired laugh.
“Don’t worry, Dad. It’s not really a theory. Just a test balloon of an idea briefly floated by one of the detectives handling Tucker’s disappearance. There are other viable possibilities, that’s all. The Sculptor was only one of the cases Tucker was handling. It’s not even really an ongoing investigation at this point—or wasn’t. The focus was on making sure the prosecution had a watertight case before going to trial. Tying up all the loose ends. It was largely housekeeping.”
“Is it possible someone involved in one of Tucker’s other cases might have tried to get him out of the way?”
Elliot had been up at three o’clock that morning, going over every note in every file in Tucker’s home office in an effort to narrow the field of inquiry. Not that there was a lot to go over. Tucker had followed protocol regarding the handling of case paperwork. He rarely brought files home. One exception was the file on the 2001 murder of Assistant United States Attorney Robert Dice Thompson, and that was because he knew Elliot had a vested interest in the case.
It was hard to believe anyone who had gotten away with murder for over a decade had suddenly decided their only course was to remove the investigating agent.
But...
“Yes. This early in an investigation, anything is possible, really.” He took a deep breath. “If we—they—could have questioned Barro... But I took care of that.”
He hadn’t intended to sound so bitter.
Roland said after a moment, “I can tell you right now the choice Tucker would have wanted you to make.”
Elliot nodded. Yes. Tucker would want him to stay alive. And vice versa. In fact, it had gone through Elliot’s mind at the instant of firing to aim for Barro’s shoulder. He had failed. He was out of practice and was probably lucky to have hit his target at all.
Anyway, he could not talk about this part of it any longer. Not even to his dad.
He tried to sound brisk. “The Bureau—Yamiguchi—has promised to keep me updated on whatever progress is made. The cops have shut me out of the investigation.”
“Of course they have,” Roland said. “You can’t be impartial or objective where Tucker is concerned. Anyone would do the same. You’d do the same.”
Elliot’s cell phone rang and Elliot jumped as though his chair was electrified. He felt over his pockets and then leaped for his coat behind the door. It seemed to take forever before he located the damned thing. He pressed Accept, not even noticing who the caller was. “Mills. Yes?”
“It’s Pine. There’s been a development,” Detective Pine said.
His heart went into overdrive. God. God. God. Don’t let him be dead. Not that. He got out, “Go on.”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with Lance.”
The relief left him feeling shaky, almost sick. “I’m listening.”
“We just got ballistics back on Barro’s weapon.”
Elliot’s heart fell back into its normal beat. “And?”
“The shot that killed MacAuley did not come from Barro’s gun.”
Into Elliot’s silenc
e Pine added, “I’m relieved to say it didn’t come from your gun either.”
“My gun?” Elliot echoed automatically. But yes. Of course they had run ballistics on his weapon and checked the results against Barro and MacAuley both. They hadn’t taken possession of his Glock merely for form’s sake.
“You think we weren’t going to check?” Pine sounded grimly amused. “MacAuley was killed by a .22. One shot at nearly point-blank range. The bullet penetrated his heart and then bounced off his spine and ricocheted around his rib cage. It was recovered during the autopsy. Barro was using a Hi-Point semiautomatic.”
“A .45 caliber,” Elliot said.
“Correct. Just like you. Well, not just like you because you’re carrying a goddamned Glock and he was carrying a weapon that costs less than two hundred bucks and can be purchased at your local Walmart.”
An exaggeration, but the Hi-Points were affordable and readily available, for sure.
Elliot asked, “You’re sure Barro wasn’t carrying a backup piece?” Elliot sure as hell was.
“Gee, maybe we should have checked for that,” Pine said sarcastically. “Yes. We’re sure. There’s a slim possibility he threw the murder weapon away, but he was pretty busy trying to blow your head off at the time, so why bother?”
Why indeed?
Pine said, “So here’s my question for you. Was there anyone else in the house?”
Chapter Nineteen
Elliot said unwillingly, “It’s possible.”
Pine swore. “Tell me you’re kidding.”
Elliot would have liked nothing more. But there had been that uneasy sense of not being alone when he had entered MacAuley’s residence. That feeling that he was missing something. A second intruder was a big-ass thing to have missed, and he hated to admit it was even a possibility.
He said, “I didn’t complete a search of the premises because I spotted Barro outside and gave pursuit. So yes, there’s a possibility that someone else was there.”
“For the love of...” Pine didn’t finish it. “There were two of them working together!”
“Someone needs to show a photo of Barro to Connie Foster, Corian’s neighbor.”
That, of course, led to a lengthy explanation of why Elliot had been visiting Corian’s property and chatting with his neighbors. Elliot glanced apologetically at his father, but Roland was flipping through the latest copy of CHARGE! and pretending not to listen.
“Lance thought the Foster woman’s story was credible?” Pine asked.
Had he? Elliot was not 100 percent sure he believed Foster was credible. She seemed credible, but she had been wrong about Greene Garden Landscaping.
“Not sure.”
A second unsub would explain a couple of things. But if there had been a second unsub, why had he not gone after Elliot when Elliot went after Barro?
Pine seemed to have the same thought. “You’re lucky this second bad actor didn’t cap you while your back was turned. He must have bugged out while you were chasing down Barro.”
Elliot said, “If Foster can ID Barro as Corian’s gardener or handyman, it gives us a little more of a foothold. But you’ve got to be careful not to lead her in any way. I’ve got a feeling she’s the type of witness who tries to deliver what she identifies as the hoped-for outcome.”
“Great.”
“She’s the best chance we’ve got.” Elliot cleared his throat. “Is there any update on Lance?”
“No. Tacoma PD is interviewing everyone connected with the car park. You know how it works. Process the vehicle, round up potential witnesses, interview friends and family.”
Yes. Elliot knew how that worked. As he’d told Roland, he had been interviewed first thing that morning by the detective in charge. Detective Fallis was probably competent—otherwise he wouldn’t have been assigned to such a high-profile case—but Elliot had not been impressed. And not merely because of the suggestion he might have offed Tucker in order to collect on his insurance policy.
“The security cameras—”
“The existing footage is re-recorded over every seventy-two hours.”
Elliot couldn’t find his voice to respond.
“Sorry,” Pine said awkwardly. “But the fact is by the time you knew for sure there was a problem, we’d already lost that opportunity.”
They talked a couple of minutes more, but that was Pine in the unfamiliar and uncomfortable role of trying to be sympathetic. He’d gotten the information he needed from Elliot and he did not have time to chitchat, and Elliot understood that, but as he disconnected, he felt like he was cutting his lifeline.
It was unbearable being on the outside, not knowing what was happening.
Roland’s voice cut into his thoughts. “What do you plan to do?”
Elliot had nearly forgotten Roland was still there. He raised his head, stared at his father. “What do you mean?”
Roland’s brows rose. He tilted his head. “I mean, what do you plan to do? And what can I do to help you?”
“I’m taking a few days to...” He didn’t bother to complete the sentence because the plan itself was not complete. He was going to try everything he could think of. As strategies went, that wasn’t much.
But Roland nodded as though that made perfect sense, was the obvious direction to move in. “Would you like me to talk to Charlotte about covering your classes?”
Elliot stared. “My classes? How would you do that? You’re retired. Could you do that?”
Roland grinned and pointed a thumb to his chest. “I’m a much-in-demand guest lecturer, I’ll have you know. Having your old man cover your classes is the coup of the academic year, kid.”
He wasn’t sure if what he felt was laughter or something else. “That would be great, Dad. That would be a lifesaver.”
“Then I’ll go have a chat with Charlotte. What else do you need?”
Elliot thought of Sheba, locked once more in the cellar and clawing at the door like a werewolf at full moon, when he’d left that morning.
“Do you want a dog?”
Roland’s brows rose. “What dog?”
Elliot explained briefly about rescuing Sheba, and Roland sighed.
“This sounds very familiar. You do know you’re too old to be dragging home stray dogs?”
“That’s why I’m offering her to you. Assuming I can’t find her owner.”
“How hard are you looking?” Roland asked drily.
Maybe he had a point. When Roland did finally depart to have his “chat” with Charlotte Oppenheimer, Elliot opened his laptop and started searching. He matched the phone number to the name “Todd Rice” and then searched for Todd Rice in Bellingham.
He started with Facebook and found his quarry without difficulty, despite the number of Todd Rices with social media accounts, because Todd was using Sheba as his avatar.
Further indication he ought to be returning Elliot’s phone messages.
Elliot studied Todd’s very helpful profile page.
Worked at BP Cherry Point Refinery
Studied at Bellingham Technical College
Went to East High School
Available
Lives in Bellingham, Washington
From Salt Lake City, Utah
DO YOU KNOW TODD? inquired Facebook. To see what he shares with friends, send him a friend request.
Elliot considered sending a message, but it looked like Todd had not been active on Facebook for the past two weeks. That raised some flags. Todd appeared to be a pleasant enough guy, although the real star of his profile page was Sheba—there were several frankly adorable photos of her.
Todd’s social life seemed to solely revolve around hiking and his dog. He had twelve Facebook friends and they all lived in Utah.
P
resumably someone at BP Cherry Point Refinery would notice if Todd went missing, but it didn’t look like he had a support network of local friends and family to raise the alarm if he didn’t come home from a hiking trip.
Elliot plugged Todd’s phone number into a couple of search engines and confirmed a Sudden Valley address that looked as good a place to start as any.
When his final class of the day was done, he grabbed the books and papers he might conceivably need over the next week and headed to Bellingham.
Todd lived on Lost Lake Lane. The house was a small redwood-colored structure surrounded by heavily shedding trees. A wraparound deck overlooked a tumbling creek.
Elliot parked in the leaf-scattered driveway, got out and walked up to the front door. He knocked and rang the doorbell.
No one came to the door.
Rain dropped mournfully from the eaves in slow and steady drops.
The blinds were up, so he walked down the narrow deck and peered in through one of the windows. The stove light was on, but there was no other sign of life. From where Elliot stood, it seemed to be a perfectly ordinary kitchen. There was a covered frying pan on the stove and a pot of dead basil in front of the window over the sink.
He continued to the back of the residence, where sliding glass doors offered a clear view of a dining and living room combo. The TV was off. He could see a newspaper lying on the coffee table next to a coffee cup and an Xbox controller. Again, all pretty normal.
Glancing around the deck, he spotted a covered barbecue, a wooden bench and two stainless-steel pet bowls. The bowls both held what appeared to be rainwater.
Once again, Elliot tried tapping on the glass door, but it seemed obvious that no one was home. That no one had been home for some time.
He left the deck and headed through the trees to the neighbors on the left, veering off course when he spied a row of old-fashioned mailboxes along the road.
Todd’s mailbox was stuffed with circulars and catalogs. There were also a couple of utility bills. That was it—and it was too much. Wherever Todd had disappeared to, it had not been a planned getaway. The overflowing mailbox along with the newspapers starting to stack up against the garage door underlined that fact.
