“Excellent choices, gentlemen.” The petite brunette waitress dropped her ticket pad in the pocket of her teeny tiny black skirt and bestowed a dazzling and impartial smile on both of them. “I’ll be right back with your cocktails.”
They were seated at Stanley & Seafort’s Steak, Chop & Fish House, one of their favorite places in town to dine on the evenings they weren’t in a hurry to get back to Goose Island. The food was fine. The bar was excellent. But more to the point, it gave them a chance to talk about the case on neutral ground. When Elliot had finally acceded to SAC Montgomery’s request that he visit Corian, one of Tucker’s stipulations had been that they not take the case home with them. From the point they boarded the ferry at Steilacoom, the topic of the Sculptor was officially shelved.
That was the goal anyway.
Tonight there was more to talk about than could be covered in the drive to the ferry.
Tucker sighed, loosened his tie and leaned back in the sofa-sized booth. Elliot gazed out the picture window at the stunning view of Tacoma and the blue waters of Commencement Bay Harbor beyond. He massaged his knee, which had started to ache.
Tucker glanced at Elliot. “If I seemed...harsh back there,” he began gruffly.
Elliot brushed the apology aside. “It’s all right. I get it.” He didn’t expect—or need—Tucker to pull his punches when they were working.
“You’re my priority. That doesn’t change. I genuinely believe your involvement is not critical, but even if I did think we needed your help, I wouldn’t be happy with this because I don’t think this is good for you. Or us.”
Well, hell. That was Tucker for you. No beating around the bush. And an unnerving ability to say aloud the things most guys, including Elliot, were not comfortable saying outside the privacy of their own bedroom.
“I know, Tucker. Like I said, I get it.” This ground was so well trod it was practically mud beneath Tucker’s handmade Italian shoes. “But just once I’d like to discuss the case without a preface from you on how much you didn’t—and don’t—want me involved.”
Tucker grimaced. Nodded.
They were silent for a few minutes. That was mostly weariness, though a small amount of irritation factored in. They were both too opinionated and strong-willed not to bump heads now and again. They’d learned over the past months that simply taking a deep breath and a step back usually took care of things.
The waitress appeared with their drinks. Whisky and soda for Tucker and a glass of California merlot for Elliot. He needed a drink after the day he’d had, but he would be taking pain meds that night for sure. He must have twisted his knee when he’d raced across Corian’s property to see who had opened fire.
Tucker’s expression was somber as he sipped his whisky.
Watching him, Elliot asked, “Do you want me to share my thoughts on my visit to Corian’s place?”
“If you think it’s relevant.”
Elliot let his head fall back, summoning patience.
“Sorry,” Tucker muttered. “It’s not pleasant watching a psychopath threaten your partner.” He threw the rest of his drink back.
Fair enough. Elliot would be struggling with that too, were the shoe on the other foot. There was nothing he could say to comfort Tucker, so he related his trip to Black Diamond and his encounter with Corian’s former neighbor Connie Foster.
“He had a gardener,” Tucker said at the end of Elliot’s recital. “You do realize that’s what it amounts to?”
“Yes.”
“Foster was interviewed. Twice. All of Corian’s neighbors were interviewed. Now she decides that the gardener was a suspicious character?”
“I know. Yeah. But we both know the reason for multiple interviews is that witnesses have a way of remembering information that didn’t surface during previous questionings. Memory is tricky. People remember stuff weeks, months, even years later. The point is we have information now that we didn’t originally have.”
Tucker mulled it over. “Do you think Corian was working with an accomplice?”
“I don’t know. My first instinct was no. Except... I’m not sure that was instinct so much as rejection of something I didn’t want to hear.”
“I watched the interview twice. I still can’t make up my mind.”
“Twice?”
Tucker was looking at his empty glass like he didn’t know what had happened to his drink. He caught the waitress’s eye and she nodded. He turned back to Elliot. “What I am sure of is there’s nothing he won’t do to wreck you.”
“Of course,” Elliot said. “We already knew that.”
Tucker’s expression drew a faint smile from him. “Come on, Tucker. We already know I’m the bad guy in Corian’s movie. He didn’t invite me over there because he thinks I’m the one person who can appreciate his artistic genius or have a civilized conversation with him, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. He wants me there so that he can dump his horror stories all over me and hopefully cause maximum mental distress.”
“That’s right,” Tucker said grimly. “He’ll try to get to you any way he can. Including physically, so don’t ever turn your back on him.”
“Is that literally or figuratively? Do you want me to shuffle backwards out of the room at the end of each visit?”
“I’m not joking about this.”
“I know. He’ll continue to be handcuffed and wear ankle restraints during our interviews. I’m not about to forget what he’s capable of.”
The waitress arrived with Tucker’s second drink and their dinners. Pan-seared wild Alaskan salmon for Tucker and rock-salt-roasted prime rib for Elliot. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he took that first bite of juicy rare beef dipped in horseradish. There had been no time for lunch during the very long day.
A few bites, a few sips and the wine and the food were working their magic. He expelled a long sigh.
He could see Tucker was finally starting to unwind, as well. Their gazes caught and Tucker offered a glimmer of the first real smile Elliot had seen since the night before.
He waited until they were nearly done with their meals before returning to business.
“It’s not that easy to take down a healthy young male. Corian used animal tranquilizers on some of his victims, and he’s a big guy, but even so there are logistical problems with transporting and disposal. He had a full-time job, a thriving art career and a busy social schedule. There would have been time constraints.”
Tucker made a noncommittal noise and caught the eye of their waitress. He pointed to his glass and Elliot’s.
“I’m good,” Elliot said. Tucker was drinking more than usual, a sure sign of stress.
The brass accent lights and chandeliers glowed warmly, softening the lines around Tucker’s eyes. Through the window, the pink-and-blue sunset had deepened to purple and indigo and at last turned to night. The lights of Tacoma glittered below.
The waitress delivered Tucker’s third drink. He sipped it and said, “Obviously, it’s not outside the realm of possibility. It’s not something I want to hear either, but... Pine’s right. We’ve got to pursue it as we would any lead.”
Now, that really was progress. If Elliot had still had a drink, he’d have said salut!
The conversation moved to less sensitive channels: Elliot’s fall semester classes, the paper he was writing for the Journal of American History on the cache of Confederate gold lost at the end of the Civil War, and another of Tucker’s cases, the investigation into the murder of Assistant United States Attorney Robert Dice Thompson.
The murder had occurred back in 2001. At ten-thirty on the night of December twelfth a lone gunman stood in the backyard of AUSA Thompson’s home and shot him multiple times through a basement window as he sat at his computer. Thompson died in hospital the next day.
Thompson had worked for the Western District of Washington prosecuting white-collar crimes for over a decade. Every few years the Bureau assigned a new agent to take a fresh look at the cold case. Elliot had been working it right before he’d been shot, so he was glad the file had not finished back in the freezer, although it had been disconcerting—even a little painful—to learn Tucker was the agent picking up where he had left off.
Because Thompson had been African-American, Elliot had been investigating the possibility that the killing might have been racially motivated. Tucker, on the other hand, firmly believed Thompson had been killed because of a case he had either been in the midst of prosecuting or had just finished prosecuting.
They finished their meals and ordered coffee. Elliot filled Tucker in on the phone call from his father regarding Nobby’s hearing.
“You declined.” Tucker sounded surprised.
“Yes.” Tucker’s reaction was unexpected. “Why? You think I should testify as to Nobb’s value to the community? His sanity? What?”
“You sound defensive,” Tucker said. “I’m on your side, remember?”
“I feel defensive. My dad blames all of this on me.” He also probably sounded aggrieved, which was juvenile. Knowing he had Tucker’s sympathy, however ridiculous his own feelings, had a way of disarming him into sharing things he normally wouldn’t.
“Nah. Come on.”
“He’s—Things haven’t been right, really right, between us since this whole thing went down, and today made it worse. But... I can’t be so forgiving.”
Tucker listened closely to all of that. He said, “Do you think Nobb still poses a threat to the community or your dad?”
“How the hell should I know? I don’t think he’s the most stable of my dad’s old cronies—which is saying something.”
Tucker considered this.
Meeting his blue gaze, Elliot grimaced. “My dad asked me where my compassion was.”
“You’re compassionate. You’re also afraid for your father.”
“I am, yeah.” Elliot sipped his coffee and brooded.
“Why don’t you talk to Roland about this part of it?” Tucker asked.
“What part of it?”
“The part where you feel hurt and shut out and blamed unfairly for acting out of love and wanting to protect him.”
Elliot must have looked fairly horror-struck because Tucker laughed. “Listen, your father gets caught up in this stuff, in his causes du jour, but I guarantee you he has no idea you feel like this.”
“I don’t want him to know I feel like this,” Elliot said. He gave a short laugh. “I’m not sure I want to know I feel like this.”
Tucker shook his head. “As your father would say, you’re one uptight cat, Mills.”
“Don’t I know it,” Elliot said gloomily. “It wouldn’t be so bad if Dad was planning to put some distance between them. But no. He plans to continue living over at Nobb’s while his own house is being rebuilt.”
“It makes sense on one level.”
“What level is that? The no-parking level?”
Tucker made a sound of grim amusement. “Roland does need a place while his own house is being rebuilt. He’s made it clear he doesn’t want to stay with us, and he’s been out there running that farm while Nobb’s been in jail. They’re both lonely. They can both help each other.”
“My dad’s not lonely.” Elliot frowned at the idea.
“You don’t think he’s lonely?”
“He’s got a million friends. A million, as you say, causes. He belongs to...” Elliot’s voice petered out. “You think he’s lonely?”
Tucker lifted a big shoulder. “All I know is you’re the most important thing in your father’s life. If he knew you were feeling like this, he’d want to fix it.”
Elliot mimicked Yamiguchi. “Respectfully, Special Agent Lance, you’re not a profiler, psychiatrist or psychologist.”
Tucker laughed. “True. You know how I know this, Professor Mills? Because it’s how I feel about you.”