Rain ticked against the bulletproof window.
“It was a mistake to bring you in,” SAC Montgomery was saying. “I take full responsibility for it. But I was wrong. Clearly I was wrong.”
Elliot had arrived at the Seattle office five minutes earlier—heading straight over to the building on Third Street after Tacoma PD had finally released him. It was now six o’clock on Monday evening and he was officially MIA for his Civil War in Film class. That was the second course he’d failed to show up for today—it was also the least of his problems.
“In addition to a dead celebrity, I could have had a dead former agent on my hands,” Montgomery said. “Wouldn’t that look great? The director would love that. A Shield of Bravery recipient shot to death after I brought him in as a consultant.”
“I responded with the appropriate use of force,” Elliot said in answer to the real question. “I didn’t have a choice.”
He had already been the beneficiary of a jurisdiction squabble between Tacoma PD and Seattle PD. The only reason he was not still sitting in an interrogation room at Seattle PD—or maybe even a holding cell—was because Detective Pine had reacted fast to his phone call requesting help. Pine had commandeered the MacAuley homicide by claiming it was part of Tacoma’s ongoing investigation in the Sculptor case.
“Are you out of your head, Mills? Why the fuck didn’t you tell someone that MacAuley believed he knew the identity of Corian’s accomplice?” Pine had yelled once he and Elliot were in private.
Elliot told Montgomery the same thing he’d told Pine.
“I told Lance. Neither of us believed MacAuley, but we agreed that I would attend a party at his house on Friday night. Which I did. There were about thirty people there, including Deputy Sheriff Dannon and—though I didn’t run into him—Police Chief Woll. The shooter was not there.”
“How sure are you of that? Did you stay the entire evening?”
“No. I was there for a good part of it though.”
“Maybe you missed him.”
“If he left before I arrived, yes. That’s possible.”
“Maybe you were having such a good time hanging out with the rich and famous, you didn’t notice him.”
“I didn’t go there for my own amusement. I was looking for someone who might fit the bill of this possible accomplice.”
“Who, according to MacAuley, left before you arrived.”
“Yes.”
“You should never have gone to that party,” Montgomery said now—which was the same thing Pine had said. “Lance should have...” She didn’t finish it, pressing her lips tight. But the next moment she burst out, “And as for this lunch invitation. What the hell were you thinking? Why would you not let someone know MacAuley possessed that information? Why, why would you go there on your own?”
They had already been through it once, but Montgomery had not been listening to his answers. Probably because she didn’t believe there was an answer.
“Because I didn’t believe him,” Elliot answered. “Because I figured it was just an excuse to get me over there.”
“But you went. You did go. Why did you go if you didn’t believe him?”
Elliot yelled, “Because I can’t just fucking sit around waiting to hear something.”
The stark silence that followed his cry was more painful than the outburst. He got control of himself. She didn’t understand, of course. She thought Tucker was still on vacation and Elliot had let his consultant role on the task force go to his head.
A muscle jumped beside Montgomery’s eye. She said, “Did MacAuley—”
“No,” Elliot said tersely.
“He gave you no hint, no clue—?”
“No.”
“Did he say who his source was?”
“No. I’m not sure there was an actual source. He said the unsub had left before I arrived at the party, which sounded all the more bogus, frankly. He did not otherwise indicate who he thought this accomplice of Corian’s might be and, as I said, I thought he might be using the rumor Corian had an accomplice as a ruse.”
“A ruse for what?”
Elliot said flatly, “For getting me over to his house. It wasn’t the first time he’d invited me over. MacAuley is—was—gay, and he’d indicated that being conservative and homosexual presented some challenges for him.”
“Challenges?” Comprehension dawned on Montgomery’s face. “Are you trying to say he was hitting on you?”
“He did hit on me, although I think his interest in me was more about his fascination with law enforcement. He seemed obsessed with the details of my shootout with Ira Kane. Among other things.”
“Great,” Montgomery said bitterly. “A groupie. A dead groupie.”
“Because of his personal interest and the—” Elliot fumbled wearily for the word “—playful aspect of some of his communications, I didn’t put undue weight on his claim to know who this accomplice of Corian’s might be. Nor did I see anything Friday night that led me to believe there was any such unsub in attendance. I didn’t see MacAuley’s killer at the party.”
“But you told Pine you did believe you recognized him.”
It was not pleasant being on this side of an interrogation. Having his every decision second-guessed? His every statement questioned? Elliot had to struggle with his resentment and impatience, had to remind himself that he was no longer an agent and, truthfully, he had not behaved like an agent. It was reasonable that everyone from the cops to SAC Montgomery would require answers.
“Yes. But not from the party. Someone jabbed a penknife in the tire of my car Thursday night. I didn’t get a good look at him, but MacAuley’s killer matches the general physical type—and he seemed to be wearing the same or a similar sweatshirt.”
“Did you report the incident?”
“Of course. To campus security and to Tacoma PD.”
There was no possibility Tacoma PD would have retrieved the fingerprints from the penknife used on his tire, let alone received the lab results. That was liable to take months. But the fact that he’d reported the vandalism was a point in his favor.
Montgomery took him through the details of the shooting yet again. Elliot answered carefully and accurately.
No, he had not actually seen MacAuley get shot.
No, he had not identified himself as, or claimed to be, law enforcement.
No, he had not fired first.
Yes, he had ignored the 911 operator’s instructions to wait for law enforcement to arrive.
Yes, he had believed MacAuley’s life was in imminent danger.
Yes, he had fired in self-defense.
Montgomery’s intercom buzzed. A male voice said, “Special Agent Lance is still not answering his phone, ma’am.”
“That is just fantastic,” Montgomery muttered. She glared at Elliot.
Elliot stared stonily back.
“Am I supposed to believe you have no idea where Lance is?”
“I don’t know where he is.”
“He wouldn’t turn off his phone. He certainly wouldn’t go dark in the middle of waiting to hear whether Corian is going to live long enough to go to trial.”
“No.”
“That phone call yesterday evening—you honestly think something’s happened to him?”
“Yes,” Elliot said. “I know something has happened to him.”
That was the emotional distance he’d traveled since that morning. He’d started the day shocked and confused, believing against his will that Tucker had deliberately deceived him. But not only did that go against his instincts, it didn’t jibe with the man he knew. The man he loved. Tucker would never do this to him, would never hurt him like this.
Tucker knew better than most that not having an answer was the worst answer of all.
“But you can’t be sure. He wasn’t due back here until tomorrow.”
Elliot said, “True.”
“We both know that people can surprise you. Even people like Special Agent Lance.”
“Yes.” In fact, he had wrestled for hours with his fear that he believed something had happened to Tucker because that was less painful than accepting Tucker had lied to him.
He was past all that now. The doubts were history.
The terrifying truth was anyone could become a victim. Even a man as tough and capable as Tucker Lance could wind up a victim, given the right set of circumstances.
Sometimes it just came down to being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Elliot’s acknowledgment seemed to defuse some of Montgomery’s anger.
She said, “We can’t investigate his disappearance until he’s actually, officially missing. It’s not against the law for someone to change his travel plans or neglect to call home or fail to keep in touch with his workplace. It’s not against the law for someone to disappear, provided the disappearance is voluntary.”
Elliot said wearily, “I know. I know all of that. I don’t—can’t—believe Tucker is deliberately, voluntarily ignoring my phone calls or that he would fail to return home when he promised, but I also know nobody’s going to help me with this until he doesn’t show up tomorrow.”
“Ouch,” Montgomery murmured, sounding suddenly human.
Elliot shrugged. He was too tired, too emotionally wrung out to pretend courtesy he didn’t feel.
“Mills, I sympathize. Sincerely. But I can’t violate Lance’s right to privacy without more to go on. If he doesn’t show up tomorrow, I promise you, you’ll have the full resources of the Bureau behind you. If he wants to be found, we’ll find him.”
“Thank you.”
If she heard the flatness of his tone, she gave no sign. She opened a file. “In the meantime, here’s what Tacoma PD could give us on MacAuley’s killer.”
It was not a lot. Torin Barro had a police record, but it was all minor stuff. Misdemeanors. Vandalism. Trespassing. Discharging a firearm in city limits. He was twenty-six years old and lived with an older married sister in Ravensdale. He worked as a full-time creamologist for Freeze Frame in Maple Valley.
“What’s a creamologist?” Elliot asked.
“I’m not sure. I think it has something to do with using liquid nitrogen to make ice cream.”
“You mean he worked in an ice cream shop?”
“That appears to be the case.”
“Does it say anything about working as a gardener or for a landscaping company?”
Montgomery read over the file. She shook her head. “No. He did attend PSU for a time, but that was five years ago and he was studying psychology, not art. We still don’t know what his connection might be to Andrew Corian. Or William MacAuley, for that matter.”
“He may not have had any connection to Corian,” Elliot said. “MacAuley’s hobby of collecting murderers was a dangerous one. Regardless of whether one of his so-called collection figured out what made him—or her—attractive to MacAuley, he was choosing to associate with a high-risk crowd.”
“I would agree with that except for the fact that you said yourself you believe Barro was responsible for disabling your vehicle. I think if we keep looking we’re going to find his path intersects with Corian’s.”
“What’s the status on Corian?”
“No change in his condition. He’s still critical. Still unconscious.”
Elliot nodded.
Montgomery said suddenly, impatiently, “We don’t even know that Corian had an accomplice. He didn’t come right out and say it. He hinted. He implied. And even if he had come out and said it, it doesn’t automatically make it true.”
Until that moment, Elliot had forgotten about the letter from Corian. So much else had happened over the past twenty-four hours.
“I think Corian was threatening me. I think it’s possible Tucker’s disappearance is tied to those threats.”
He shared everything he could remember about the letter with Montgomery, and then listened to her shout at him some more.
“How could you not think that letter was relevant?”
“Relevant to what? He’s been writing me all summer. It’s not news. There’s no specific threat. It’s just more of the same...let-the-games-begin bullshit. I would have handed it over to Tucker when he got home. He was due home within the next couple of hours.”
He had to stop then or he’d have been shouting too. And what was the point of that? Despite appearances, he had been trying to follow protocol given the extremely unusual circumstances.
“That wasn’t your call to make!” Montgomery replied.
Elliot took a breath and said as calmly as he could, “It’s only in hindsight that I think this last threat of Corian’s was specific. That he actually had something in mind. A plan. He set the wheels in motion when he dropped his hint to me about a possible accomplice. After our meeting, he mailed the letter. I believe he expected something to happen either before or shortly after I received his message. His expectation was that I’d know what he was talking about. I didn’t.”
Montgomery closed her eyes, pressed both hands to her temples and slowly inhaled and exhaled. Three times. Elliot watched in silence. Montgomery opened her eyes.
“All right, Mills. I’m not going to second-guess myself. It’s water under the bridge. You’ll turn that letter over to Special Agent Yamiguchi tomorrow. As of this moment, you will have no further involvement in the Sculptor case. Is that perfectly clear?”
“Perfectly.”
She continued to frown at him.
Elliot asked, “Am I free to go?”
“Yes.”
Elliot rose.
“I hate to say it,” Montgomery said, “because I know you didn’t have a choice. But if Barro was Corian’s accomplice, and Lance’s disappearance is linked to Corian, there’s a good chance we just lost the only person who could tell us what happened to Lance.”
“I know,” Elliot said. “I’ve had all afternoon to think about that.”
* * *
He would have spent the night at Tucker’s apartment, but at the last minute remembered he had a dog locked in his basement. He did not recall racing back to Steilacoom in time to catch the last ferry to Goose Island or the boat trip itself, but when he walked into his kitchen and saw the red light on the answering machine blinking, his heart jumped in sudden hope.
Despite the whining and howling from the basement, he played the messages—or rather fast-forwarded through them.
There was a call from Tova asking if he’d heard from Tucker, there were several increasingly alarmed messages from Roland, who had heard about the shooting on the news, requests for an interview from the press, and two awkward voice mails from Donna, the history department secretary, asking if he planned on showing up to teach his evening seminar.
There was no word from Tucker.
He had not really expected that there would be, but it still felt like he was slowly bleeding out, like all faith and hope were draining from him.
If any further proof was needed that Tucker had not voluntarily walked away, this was it.
Even if Tucker had inexplicably, unbelievably decided they were through, he would have called the minute he learned of the shooting. It was just the way he was built. He had called his ex, Adam, when Adam had come under administrative fire for botching a kidnapping case. He would certainly call Elliot to make sure he was okay.
Not that Elliot needed further proof. No, you could never completely know another person, but he believed he knew Tucker as well as any human being could. Tucker had not willingly, deliberately walked away from what they were building together. He had not flipped out, suffered some emotional breakdown and decided to fade out of Elliot’s life.
Which was both the good news and the bad news. Because if Tucker had not chosen to disappear, he had been taken.
He might—this had to be faced—already be dead.
Elliot did not believe it. Did not want to believe it. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t true.
When he unlocked the basement door Sheba greeted him as though he’d been gone a lifetime, actually jumping into his arms and frantically licking his face. She had somehow managed to remove her plastic head cone, and had knocked over her water dish and a shelf of canned goods in an apparent attempt to get out through one of the windows.
Otherwise both she and the basement seemed unhurt.
Elliot took the dog upstairs and fed her—her bowl of dry food had been scattered across the basement as though, like a surly inmate, she’d hurled her bowl at the wall—and left a message on his father’s cell, knowing it was the best way of avoiding having to speak to Roland directly.
When Sheba finished wolfing down her late supper, Elliot grabbed his jacket and her retractable leash and took the dog for a walk.
The rain had slowed to a misty drizzle, but it could have been a downpour. He wouldn’t have noticed or cared. He followed the dog into the woods, which smelled rich and pungent and somehow ancient after the rain.
All the lights were on at Steven Roche’s old place—the new owners just moving in.
Elliot’s thoughts were stuck on a loop. He kept going over and over the shooting—over and over what could have happened to Tucker.
Yes, anyone could be a victim, but how the hell could Tucker have become a victim in those few seconds between Elliot letting him off and climbing into his own vehicle?
It didn’t make sense. None of this made sense.
Why hadn’t anyone seen anything? Reported something?
And MacAuley... Why had he believed Elliot should have “guessed” who Corian’s accomplice was by Monday?
In fact...had he seemed to think Elliot’s continued ignorance was funny?
Or was Elliot now shading MacAuley’s words and tone with emotions that hadn’t been there? Compared to everything else, that lunchtime conversation felt like part of the ancient past. He could barely remember it.
Okay, but try. Try to remember.
As far as shades of emotion went, MacAuley had not appeared to make that call under duress. He had not seemed in fear for his life. Far from it. He’d seemed his usual, slightly obnoxious self.
Forget MacAuley. Had there been anything in Tucker’s behavior over that last day or two that might give a tip as to what had befallen him? He had seemed sort of down, but Elliot had attributed it to his increasing nervousness over the trip to Wyoming.
Had there been something else?
Would Tucker tell him if he was worried about something, fearful?
No, Tucker hadn’t seemed fearful. In fact, fear and Tucker were two alien concepts. But he had seemed...down.
A little down. Not actively depressed. Not suicidal.
No. He had not thrown himself into the sound after Elliot drove off.
Where was his suitcase?
Presumably wherever Tucker was. Wherever his cell phone was. Cell phone. He needed to talk to Montgomery about tracking Tucker’s cell.
As if Montgomery wouldn’t think of that on her own?
On and on and on Elliot walked, his thoughts circling round and round. Overhead, the moon looked gray and fuzzy around the edges, like old soap, like it was starting to melt.
They crossed Old Road’s small wooden bridge—the thump of Elliot’s boots unexpectedly loud in the quiet night—and then Big Bridge. Invisible water rushed over the rocks below.
Something had not been right at MacAuley’s.
Well, yes. Obviously. Starting with murder. But when Elliot had been going through the house, he had felt...
Something.
Awareness that he wasn’t alone.
But he hadn’t been alone. Barro had been in the house.
Right?
The escalation didn’t make sense...
From a flat tire to homicide with nothing in between? Or was whatever had happened to Tucker the connection between the flat tire and the murder?
The timing was weird too. It was like movie timing. MacAuley had been killed right before he could give Elliot the name of Corian’s accomplice. The killer is... BOOM!
It just didn’t happen like that.
Except...it had. So did that mean—
Sheba’s leash pulled, yanking Elliot back to awareness. He glanced back and the dog was sitting in the middle of the road.
“Come on, girl.”
He gave the leash a gentle tug, but she resisted.
“Come here, Sheba.”
She tilted her head like she didn’t speak the language.
“Come.”
Sheba drew back against the draw of the leash.
He was partly amused, partly exasperated. “What’s this? A sit-in?”
It did seem to be a revolt of some kind. Sheba resisted another more determined attempt to draw her forward by bracing her front paws, extending her neck like a boa constrictor, and wriggling backward in a clearly much-practiced move so that the collar slipped right over her head.
“Hey!” Elliot started back to retrieve collar and dog.
The dog, however, was already on the move, trotting unhurriedly down the road, the way they’d come.
She wasn’t running away, however, because she had the nerve to stop and yip at him. Like Lassie’s smart-ass sister.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Elliot called.
It was pretty obvious what she was doing. She was going home—with or without him.
Elliot glanced at the luminous dial of his watch and saw with disbelief it was after two in the morning. They had been walking for hours.
Sheba continued up the road, her tags jingling musically in the night.
All at once Elliot was cold and wet and very tired.
He couldn’t put it off any longer. He had to face the empty house, the empty bedroom, the empty bed. He had to face the memories—and the fears.
He turned to follow the dog back through the moonlight and shadows.