“Heavy. Very heavy,” Roland said solemnly, as Elliot finished sharing what he knew of Todd Rice’s disappearance. “If you want us to go up there with you and look around, say the word.”
He was chopping mushrooms, carrots and red bell peppers for their vegetarian shepherd’s pie dinner in Oscar Nobb’s freshly painted and organized kitchen. Nobb sat at the end of the table drinking Krombacher alcohol-free beer and listening in heavy silence to Elliot and Roland talk.
Elliot had brought Sheba along with the vague idea that she and Nobb ought to get to know each other, just in case Sheba needed a permanent new home and Nobb needed regular company that was not Elliot’s father, but Sheba had not taken to Nobb. She was currently beneath the table, leaning heavily against Elliot’s leg. He scratched her head absently. She particularly liked to be tickled in the little dip behind her ears.
“I’ll let you know if I decide to go out there again,” Elliot said on the tail end of a yawn. “Pretty much everyone from the park rangers to the sheriff department are looking for Rice, so I don’t think there’s much more I can do out there.”
But trying to find out what had happened to Todd helped keep him from going crazy over Tucker.
Roland tossed the veggies into an old-fashioned blender, pulverized them and said thoughtfully, “Andrew—Corian is still in a coma?”
“Yes.”
“That investigation is over?”
Elliot sipped his drink. The fake beer tasted pleasantly of bread and green apple. “It wasn’t so much an investigation as tying up any loose ends before trial. Now the trial is postponed indefinitely.”
“But this other accomplice is still out there?” Roland asked.
Elliot said slowly, “It seems like it.”
“You don’t think so?”
Elliot shook his head. Not in negation, because the truth was...he didn’t know. The whole situation was strange.
He recalled Pine’s tone in one conversation. “Barro was Corian’s accomplice?”
He had sounded as dubious as Elliot felt. Why? What had they been expecting? Someone who, like Corian, was larger than life?
Someone with a personality as powerful as Corian would be unlikely to accept a subordinate role in their murderous pastime.
From everything Elliot had been able to discover, Barro, aimless and unambitious, was exactly the kind of nebulous personality that might fall sway to Corian’s influence.
Except...
Barro was almost too feckless to be a useful henchman.
From what Elliot had been able to discern—benefit of Facebook once again—Barro’s interests seemed to revolve around Tolkien and participation in some kind of hit man role-play community. According to his sister, he wouldn’t have hurt a fly and had fallen victim to police brutality.
Well, she could think whatever she liked, but Barro had pulled a gun and fired at Elliot.
There had been two shooters at MacAuley’s. And it would take more than one person to grab Tucker—assuming Tucker’s abduction was part of Corian’s plan and not a completely separate case. So that meant two accomplices.
Yes, someone else was still out there.
“Maybe he was following you,” Nobb said suddenly from the end of the table.
Elliot and Roland looked at each other and then at Nobb.
“Following me?” Elliot repeated. “What makes you think so?”
“That’s what it sounds like to me.”
Okay, that was cryptic. But, given Oscar Nobb’s particular branch of military service, maybe relevant.
“How so?” Elliot asked.
There was a rare spark of animation in Nobb’s faded green eyes. “Why would he be skulking in the bushes outside? Why would he run? Doesn’t seem like he was working with the shooter inside the house. If he wasn’t working with the shooter, how did he get there at all? Probably followed you.”
Elliot felt a prickling sensation between his shoulder blades.
“But then why did he run?” he asked. “Why did he pull his weapon?”
Nobb said simply, “He was afraid of you.”
Elliot looked at Roland, who shrugged.
Elliot said, “That would be one hell of a coincidence.”
“No,” Roland said. “Not if he was following you, it wouldn’t. It would be logical.”
Logical? “But why would he be following me?” Elliot objected. “I didn’t know him. I’d never seen him before he vandalized my car.”
“He was hired,” Nobb pronounced, oracle-like.
Elliot rubbed his face. The not-sleeping thing was starting to catch up with him, and this new theory seemed mostly baffling.
“Who would hire him? Why?”
Roland and Nobb both stared back at him. Roland’s expression was bleak. Nobb was smiling, but it was an unsettling sort of smile.
“That’s a question,” he said.
* * *
Elliot had not planned on spending the night at Oscar Nobb’s. But the heavy meal—heavy compared to the almost nothing he’d eaten over the past few days—and lack of rest unexpectedly caught up with him as Roland was finishing up the dishes.
Or maybe not so unexpectedly.
“This is not fake beer, is it?” Elliot held up his glass to Roland. The lamplight winked through the amber contents.
“No,” Roland said.
“You switched beers on me?”
“Yes.”
At some point during the evening, Nobb had disappeared and Sheba had fallen asleep. She was snoring comfortably from under the table as though she too had had one too many.
Elliot said—and he could hear the indignation in his not quite bell-like syllables—”Is not normal for a father to try to get his own son drunk.”
“You’re not drunk,” Roland said. “You’re relaxed. Which is what you need. And by the way, it’s not normal for a kid to join the FBI.”
“‘M not a kid,” Elliot pointed out. “‘M not in the FBI.”
“Tell it to the FBI,” Roland had said darkly.
Elliot had conked out on a lumpy but reasonably comfy sofa in the living room, wrapped warmly in a couple of blankets that smelled of pot. And, although he would never admit it, he’d slept well. Deeply and dreamlessly.
He woke to Sheba panting in his face and the quiet sounds of Roland preparing to leave for another day of guest-lecturing at PSU.
Roland greeted Elliot without repentance and offered him coffee and a toasted slice of homemade bread.
Elliot sheepishly returned the greeting and accepted the coffee.
“There’s still shepherd’s pie, if you and the dog want a real breakfast,” Roland informed him.
“She’s not a vegetarian, Dad.” Elliot added, “Neither am I.”
“I know,” Roland said. “But still I’ve got to try.”
Elliot laughed, surprising himself.
There was the faintest smile in the back of Roland’s eyes. He said, “It’s okay, son. I love you anyway.”
* * *
A decent night’s sleep—and maybe even conversation with two people who had outsider perspective—had reenergized Elliot, and when he left Nobb’s Organic Farm Friday morning, he headed for Seattle and Capitol Hill.
The last ping from Tucker’s phone had been off a cell tower in Capitol Hill. Capitol Hill’s main thoroughfare was Broadway, which was close to Pike and Pine, the city’s gay district where Corian had first hunted his victims. Capitol Hill was also where Corian’s ex-wife, Honoria Sallis, still lived. It was hard to believe that was coincidence, though everyone kept insisting it was.
The house, silver-gray clapboard and Georgian-style white trim, had been designed by Carl Gould in 1912. It was one of the most famous homes on the Hill, noted for its magnificent grounds and sweeping western views of Lake Union.
Elliot had to talk his way through the gated entry before he could gain access to the stately circular drive and porte cochere. He expected to be held at bay by a butler at least, but in fact, the lady of the manor herself opened the front door to him.
Honoria Sallis was not what Elliot was expecting. He’d incorrectly assumed she’d be a dumpy, dowdy woman, quite a bit older than Corian. He’d had a whole scenario of how this desperate, much older female might have fallen for a master manipulator like Andrew Corian.
But in fact, Sallis was probably in her early forties—a good decade younger than Corian—and far from being dumpy and dowdy, turned out to be a sleek and shining blonde, reminding him of Hollywood actresses who built second careers out of selling skin-care products.
“So you’re the one who finally caught him,” she said to Elliot. She was smiling wryly as she offered her hand.
He shook it automatically.
Sallis invited him inside and led him through halls of soaring ceilings, marble pillars and walnut floors to an elegant paneled library filled with books and art objects collected by generations of moneyed Sallises. Elliot recognized Indonesian and African ceremonial masks, Indian statues, Māori Pouwhenuas. Items that probably rightly belonged in museums outside the United States.
“I suppose there’s news about Andrew,” she said, as they settled on brown velvet-covered chairs before the ceiling-high windows overlooking Lake Union. “May I offer you a drink?”
It was eleven o’clock in the morning, so maybe she was thinking OJ.
Elliot declined. “No, I’m afraid I don’t have any additional information on your husband’s condition.”
“Ex-husband.” She smiled. Her teeth were perfectly straight and she had the faintest golden smattering of freckles over her nose. “Then why are you here, Professor Mills?”
He had been asking himself the same question. Partly he had wanted to see the house—and her—for himself. Everyone had seemed so absolutely certain Honoria Sallis could not be involved in any scheme of Corian’s. It was now clear to him that the house, sitting as it did on more than a half acre of tree-lined land, was certainly large enough and secluded enough to conceal a multitude of sins.
The catch was that it was also large enough to require a full regiment of staff to maintain it, and that would present some logistical problems.
Nor did Honoria Sallis strike him as suggestible or weak-willed. She would not be anyone’s dupe. If she was involved, she was a full-fledged partner.
But it was very difficult to imagine her being involved.
At the same time, he didn’t miss that she had recognized him on sight and that she knew enough about him to know he was no longer an agent with the FBI although he was—or had been—a member of the Sculptor task force. She had addressed him as “Professor Mills.”
She might simply be well-informed or she might have a vested interest in keeping up with all the details of Corian’s case.
In fact, she probably did have a vested interest, and it might not be any sinister reason.
“I know you’re aware that the special agent in charge of the task force—”
“Your partner, Special Agent Tucker Lance,” she inserted smoothly. “Yes, I’d heard. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Elliot’s heart stopped. He stared into her cool blue gaze.
She said, “I’ve already spoken to your colleagues, but please feel free to ask whatever you like. I have nothing to hide.”
Her condolences had caught him off guard. It was a punch to the heart and it took him a second to recover.
He said, “Although you divorced in 2008, you’ve stayed friendly with Corian?”
“Yes. And that puzzles you.”
“Frankly, it does.”
She gave a little exasperated huff of sound. “I’m not sure I can explain to your satisfaction. I’m not excusing what he’s done. You can’t judge Andrew as you would the average person. Artists are not like you and me. The artistic temperament is—”
“Most artists aren’t like Corian.”
Her smile was sardonic. “Most artists aren’t geniuses. It’s like anything. Most artists are adequate. Good enough to get by and no better. Most people are adequate. Adequate at their job, adequate in their hobbies and pastimes, adequate even in their relationships. How many people do you know who are brilliant at anything, let alone brilliant at everything?”
“So Corian was a genius and allowances have to be made for geniuses?” Despite his effort, Elliot knew there was an edge in his tone.
She heard it and smiled apologetically. “Well, I don’t know how many allowances society can make for murder. I understand why you all feel he had to be stopped. But in the end, Andrew’s art is all that matters. He will be remembered as a brilliant, yes, genius artist. A hundred years from now the fact that he committed murders will simply be an interesting footnote in an art history book. Like Caravaggio.”
Elliot honestly couldn’t think of an answer to that.
“There’s a price to be paid for that kind of genius. Part of the price is paid by the genius and part is paid by society.” She smiled and rose. “And now I’m going to have to excuse myself if I’m not going to be late for my lunch engagement.”