Blue-green water churned to white froth in the wake of the ferry. The wind whipping the waves into whitecaps seemed to taste of diesel and the distant snow on the Olympic Mountains. Elliot and Tucker stood sheltered from the wet morning breeze as Goose Island grew smaller in the distance.
“I’d like to get inside that house,” Elliot was saying.
Tucker said, “Corian’s house? Why?”
Elliot shook his head. “Because we’ve missed something. Obviously.”
Naturally that did not please Tucker, who opened his mouth to object to the idea that he had overlooked anything. Elliot headed him off. “Yeah, I know. That’s not what I mean. Anyway, the place has been cleared out and cleaned up so it can be put on the market. None of Corian’s belongings are there. I’d still like to go through it.”
It was hard to hear Tucker’s answer over the rumble of the ship engines.
“I don’t see what good it’s going to do. It’s not like you’re a profiler on TV and wandering through an empty house is going to let you see into Corian’s fucked-up brain.”
“Not arguing that.” Elliot stared out over the choppy waves. He could feel Tucker’s gaze on his profile.
Tucker didn’t sigh but there was a certain note in his voice as he added, “But it’s not like I can stop you. We released the house as a crime scene. If you can get a key from the real estate agent, you can spend as much time hanging out there as you like.”
True. Tucker would neither help nor hinder. That had been his attitude from the moment Elliot had joined the task force.
“What are you thinking?” Tucker’s tone was sardonic. “That somewhere in Corian’s house of horrors there’s a secret room or a hidden chamber we missed? Maybe a trunk sitting full of skulls in a secret passage?”
Yeah, yeah, very funny. The irritating thing was those thoughts had been running through his mind the day before, although Elliot knew full well it was impossible. Tucker had been over blueprints of the house with a magnifying glass. He’d talked to the architect and the contractor and the landscaper.
And Elliot had talked to the local historical society in case the original house might have had some kind of secret passage or tunnel. He wasn’t going to admit that though.
Elliot said, “There’s no way a room or a chamber could have been missed in that search.”
“No. There isn’t.”
“I’m curious why he wanted to unload the place so fast though.”
“Legal expenses would be the obvious answer.”
“Maybe.”
Tucker gave it some thought. “He’s going to be convicted. There’s no question of it. He had a mass grave in his basement.”
“He’s a megalomaniac. And he hasn’t been convicted yet. He hasn’t even gone to trial. Even if he believes he’ll be found guilty, he has no idea what his sentence will be.”
“Not long enough,” Tucker said bleakly.
Elliot agreed with that. Somehow even life didn’t feel long enough when he thought of the pain Corian had inflicted on so many. “I can make an argument for either case. That he might want to hang on to the house and property because there’s something more damning buried there. Or he’d want to get rid of the property for that very reason.”
“He needs the money,” Tucker said. “He’s not independently wealthy. He’s lost his teaching salary and a number of those high-priced sculptures can’t be sold and never will be.”
“Yeah, but the works that aren’t compromised are selling like crazy. Nothing like murder to boost an artist’s net worth.”
“Sad but true.”
“Does he own any other property? There’s an ex-wife out there somewhere, isn’t there? How do they get along?”
Tucker grimaced. The wind brought ruddy color to his freckled face. His eyes were as blue as the water surrounding them. “Honoria Sallis. Believe it or not, they’re still close. And yes, she still owns the house they lived in when they were married.”
Elliot hmmed and Tucker said, “The family mansion is on Capitol Hill. We’ve been over it with a fine-tooth comb. There’s nothing there.”
“It would be a stretch, I guess. No matter how well they get along.”
“Capitol Hill is one of the most densely populated neighborhoods in Seattle. It wouldn’t be as easy to hide that kind of industrial-scale slaughter from the folks next door.”
Maybe yes. Maybe no. City dwellers did manage to get away with murder on a regular basis. Well, maybe not a regular basis, and this was a lot of physical evidence to dispose of.
“Twenty-some heads are going to take up room. Did you know the average adult human head weighs about eleven pounds?”
Tucker’s expression conveyed volumes.
“Multiply that by twenty...”
After a moment, Tucker said, “Corian’s lawyer is Arvon Jamieson. You know how much that guy costs?”
“A rough idea.”
“A lot. I think the ex is helping with his legal expenses, but even so it makes sense he’d need to unload the house.”
Elliot nodded. He watched a cormorant dive into the rough blue water and come up empty.
Tucker said suddenly, “You dislike him too much.”
Elliot looked his inquiry.
“Corian.” Tucker’s tone was flat. “You dislike him and that makes it hard for you to say and do the things necessary to get information out of him. You won’t give him anything. You’re not willing to play up to him.”
“Maybe.” Elliot had never properly analyzed his feelings for Corian.
“It’s understandable. It was personal between the two of you. That’s the real problem. Someone neutral would have a better chance of getting information out of him.”
“Someone neutral would never get a shot.”
Tucker sighed. “True.”
Elliot glanced at Tucker’s hard profile. “You do know I’m not doing this because I enjoy the so-called game, right? Or because I want to stay in the media spotlight? Or because I want to be part of your case?”
“Yeah.” Tucker’s mouth twisted. He glanced at Elliot. “I know all that. I know you didn’t want any of this. I know you feel like you don’t have a choice.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.” Tucker’s gaze still held Elliot’s. “But I understand why you feel you don’t. If our positions were reversed...” He shrugged.
That diligent effort to see both sides of the equation was just one of the reasons Elliot planned on spending the rest of his life with Tucker. He bumped his shoulder against Tucker’s in friendly acknowledgement. Tucker looked down at his immaculate shoes and his cheek creased in a wry half smile.
* * *
When the ferry landed, Elliot dropped Tucker at his car in the small lot that overlooked the harbor, and headed on to Puget Sound University.
As a non-tenured professor, Elliot carried a heavy class load. This semester was the heaviest yet, probably because he was no longer viewed as convalescent. He was teaching five courses: Abraham Lincoln and the Civil War Era, Reconstructing the Nation 1865—1914, History of the West and the Pacific Northwest, The Civil War in Film, and The United States and the War in Vietnam (the latter being a course his father had previously taught at the same university). He didn’t mind working long hours—he’d been used to that at the Bureau—but now that he was fully recovered from the effects of his shooting two years earlier, he no longer received the perk of a teaching assistant, and that—as Roland would have said—was a real drag.
Of course teaching was just one of his responsibilities. There was also the expectation that he would manage at least one conference presentation per year and publish several peer-reviewed articles. More if he wanted to be seriously considered for tenure.
There was little time for poking around in criminal investigations—and that was without even taking into account the expectation of his performing administrative and “service work” for the university. The discouraging truth was an ungodly part of the academic life was simply spent in meetings and answering email.
He enjoyed teaching. He did not enjoy meetings. He enjoyed researching and writing. He did not enjoy workshops and conferences. He enjoyed a lot of his job at PSU. Which didn’t change the fact that Tucker’s mention of the possibility of returning to the Bureau in any capacity at all had seemed to throw open a window and let in a gust of fresh air.
It worried him how very refreshing the idea felt—not least because it might not be true.
And even if it was true...what was the right decision? He had been adamant about not wanting to stay on if he was going to end up behind a desk.
But he was behind a desk now, wasn’t he?
Working as part of Tucker’s “special,” a high-profile task force investigation, had brought home to Elliot how much he missed the freedom, challenge and constant variety of working for the Bureau. It also forced him to face how much he missed the support and camaraderie of the FBI’s extended “family.”
Former colleagues had greeted him like a long-lost friend the first day he’d shown up at the Seattle office to interview with SAC Montgomery. He’d forgotten how much he missed being part of that team. Teamwork was what the FBI was all about. In fact, that was one of Montgomery’s little slogans. “How do you spell team? FBI.” She also spelled excellence and success the same way.
Okay, that stuff he didn’t miss.
It had been his choice to shut himself off from the emotional, logistical and even financial support his colleagues had tried to extend when he’d been shot in the line of duty. He hadn’t been able to deal with the idea that he was not going to be returning to the field. At the time it had seemed easier to cut himself off from everyone and everything.
Of course, as Tucker’s partner, he could regain and rebuild those relationships without rejoining the Bureau. Spouses and families were typically involved in office social functions—and most offices, certainly the Seattle office, held plenty of social events: everything from highly competitive baseball games with the RA offices to the annual Christmas party.
Tucker did not like the idea of his returning to the FBI. That was a major consideration. He didn’t want to make Tucker unhappy.
And he did enjoy teaching. Tucker was right about that. Elliot found it frequently satisfying and just as challenging in its own way. He thought he was a fairly decent teacher. Not a great teacher. He was never going to be the legend Roland was, that was for sure. But he liked working with kids more than he’d expected. The thought of preparing lesson plans for the next twenty years didn’t fill him with undue dread. It didn’t thrill him either.
The idea of presenting an academic paper at a conference did fill him with dread, but he’d certainly survived worse things.
If you could get over the awkwardness of having to shoot someone, you could probably survive speaking in public.
So what was the answer?
He didn’t know. And meanwhile the stack of papers waiting on his desk to be graded wasn’t getting any smaller...
* * *
He was in his office at Hanby Hall listening to Loggers linebacker Tip Wilkins earnestly explain why football practice was more important than writing an essay on “ancient history,” i.e., the Dred Scott Decision, when Tucker phoned.
He didn’t waste any time. “It’s bad news. Depending on how you look at it.”
“Go on,” Elliot said. His gaze rested distractedly on Tip’s rosy cheeks and calflike brown eyes. Tip smiled ingratiatingly. Elliot mentally rolled his eyes.
Tucker’s tone was devoid of any emotion. “Another prisoner attacked Corian in the exercise yard this morning. He’s in critical condition.”
“Critical. You mean—”
“It’s not looking good.”
“Shit.” Tip jumped—that would be at the tone, not the word—and Elliot grimaced in absent apology, irritably pressing and depressing the end cap on his pen.
“Yeah,” Tucker said.
“How the hell did that happen?”
“We don’t have the full details yet.”
“What details do you have?”
“You just heard them.”
Tucker seemed to be waiting for Elliot to say something, and for the life of him, Elliot could not think of what to say.
Tucker said into that well of shocked silence, “There is good news. Or at least a bright side to this.”
“There is?”
“You have your life back.”
Right. Elliot considered that fresh angle with a sinking feeling.
He saw Tucker’s point. Elliot’s only justification for poking around in Tucker’s case was Corian’s fixation on him. Without Corian demanding Elliot’s attention, he had no reason to continue pursuing his own theories. Not that he had anything as solid as a theory.
What he had, clearly, was too much curiosity about things that did not concern him.
“True,” Elliot said at last.
“Which is good.” Tucker sounded a little insistent on that point, and again, Elliot understood why.
“Yes. I guess I’m out if—Any chance that Corian will pull through?”
“I don’t know. Severe head trauma is what they’re saying. Miracles happen, though I don’t know why God would make the effort there.”
“Okay. Right.” He was still trying to come to grips with it, the sudden and terrific letdown. He could hear Tucker listening to all that he wasn’t saying, and made an effort. “Well. Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Of course. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Yep.”
“Take care of yourself,” Tucker said. And then, apparently feeling the need for reiteration, “I love you.”
“Back at you,” Elliot said, aware of Tip’s interested gaze. He listened to the purposeful buzz of the dial tone and disconnected.