Fair Game - lanyon Josh - Страница 14
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Feder was attracted to him. The realization caught Elliot by surprise. He reached for his own drink, took a sip to give himself time and said neutrally, “Did Terry feel the same way?”
“I don’t know.”
Translation: no.
“Can you think of anything else that might be useful?”
“Not really,” Feder said apologetically. “I mean, I was surprised and I wasn’t to hear Terry had split, if you know what I mean?”
“Yeah. If you think of anything that might be helpful, or you happen to hear anything, will you let me know?”
“You mean like if Terry calls me?”
“That, sure.” Elliot thought the chances were pretty remote. “But if you hear anything about Terry, I’d like to know.”
“Okay. Sure.”
Elliot started to rise and Feder said quickly, “Um, could I buy you another drink, Elliot?”
Elliot hesitated. Feder was attractive and seemingly interested, and it had been way too long since Elliot had been with anyone. But not only was Feder a student, he was technically a suspect. A suspect in what, remained to be seen, and Elliot’s own involvement was mostly unofficial, but he was approaching this like any case. And doing the—as his father would say—wild thang with a suspect was definitely not okay. “How about a rain check?”
Feder looked flatteringly disappointed, but recovered. He said playfully, “It rains a lot in Seattle.”
Elliot grinned. “It does, yeah.”
He rose, careful not to move his knee the wrong way, self-consciously aware of Feder’s attention as he threaded his way through chairs and tables and people.
“Night, Elliot,” Feder called softly after him.
Chapter Eight
The doors to the Wharfside swung closed behind Elliot. The night air smelled of briny ocean and broiling steaks.
He walked over the bridge to the parking lot, passing talking, laughing couples on their way inside. Starlight sparkled on the marina water. The docked ships and buildings along the wharf cast rippling black shadows on the water. Music and laughter drifted from the restaurant as the doors opened and closed again.
Elliot fished his cell out of his pocket and thumbed the numbers he still remembered.
“Lance,” Tucker answered briskly almost at once.
Elliot had expected the call to go to message, so he was disconcerted to find intelligent conversation required. That was what was making his heart pound, right?
“It’s Elliot.”
There was a fraction of a pause and Tucker said smoothly, “This is a surprise.” His voice dipped and there was chink of ice in a glass. “What can I do you for, Professor?”
Elliot picked out the background noise of a dishwasher. Tucker was in his kitchen fixing himself a drink, a scene Elliot remembered from more than one evening where a long, wearing day had ended at Tucker’s apartment and, after a couple of drinks, in Tucker’s bed. The undertow of memories nearly sucked him under for a second. How the hell could you be homesick for a place that had never been home?
No, it wasn’t Tucker’s home or Tucker that he wanted; what he missed, with sudden gut-wrenching longing, was his old life. That was all. Because anything else would just be too damn sad.
“I just met with Jim Feder, Baker’s boyfriend.”
Tucker took a swallow—maybe to give himself time—and said flatly, “Really? When did we agree on that?”
Elliot pressed his key fob and the lights to his Nissan 350Z flashed on and off halfway down the long line of parked cars. He walked toward his vehicle, energized by annoyance. “I don’t need your permission, remember? I’ve got Special Agent in Charge Montgomery’s permission. I’ve got the permission of PSU’s president. I’ve got the permission of Terry Baker’s family.”
“I see.”
Elliot was expecting a more aggressive response. Tucker’s restraint put him in the unfamiliar role of belligerent. He unwound enough to say, “I’m not trying to step on your toes. I know you’ll want to interview Feder yourself. I told him to expect it.”
“That’s big of you.”
That was more the response Elliot had been waiting for. He added caustically, “When you get around to it.”
“You know, I do have other cases.” Tucker was probably not trying to rub in the fact that Elliot was no longer with the Bureau. He had his faults, but pettiness had never been one of them. He was likely merely stating the facts, but it hit Elliot on the raw all the same.
He retorted, “I don’t. The Bakers are family friends and they’re in hell waiting week after week to hear if their kid is still alive.”
He reached the 350Z, opened the door and slid under the wheel, listening for Tucker’s terse, “If you’ve got some complaint about the way I’m running my case, let’s hear it.”
“Are you running the case? Because the impression I get is your mind is made up. You think Terry Baker walked away and further investigation is a waste of time and energy.”
Tucker drawled, “Same old Elliot emotionally lashing out at anyone who doesn’t ask how high? the minute you say jump.”
“Same old Elliot? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“Are you telling me you had a problem with the way I did my job?” Why the hell that should matter so much was anyone’s guess.
“A problem with the way you did your job?” Tucker sounded disconcerted. “No.” He recovered fast. “Not particularly. With the way you handled some other things? Yeah. I’ve got a problem.”
Just like that it was in front of them: the brutal, disastrous ending of their relationship.
“The way I handled things?” Elliot snarled. “Christ. You’ve got a complaint about how I handled things? You’re the biggest asshole on the planet, but you’ve got a complaint about how I treated you? Let me try and understand. Wasn’t I sensitive enough? Wasn’t I supportive when you needed me? Wasn’t I understanding of what you were going through?”
In the resounding silence Elliot could hear a foghorn wailing across the harbor. Belatedly it occurred to him that Tucker had probably had more than one drink that evening. That made them even because if Elliot was sitting here in a parking lot yelling at him about the good old days, he’d clearly had more than enough too.
“Well, at least you’re not holding a grudge,” Tucker said finally, mildly.
Elliot strangled a laugh. How the hell did Tucker do that? Make him laugh at the worst times? Make him laugh when, the truth was, nothing was funny. He said, “You know what? I don’t care. I don’t care what you think or don’t think. It’s ancient history. Do you want to hear what the Feder kid had to say or do you want to interview him yourself?”
“Sure, I want to hear what the kid said.”
Elliot sucked in a breath, struggling for professional distance. Not that he’d ever been exactly dispassionate. Agents who specialized in civil rights cases tended to take their cases personally. “According to Feder things were cooling down between him and Terry. He blamed Tom Baker, but I got a feeling the fact Feder wanted to see other people was a factor.”
“Was the wish to see other people mutual or are we discussing possible motive for suicide?”
“Suicide didn’t seem to enter Feder’s thoughts till I brought it up. He started off by insisting Terry was taking a breather. Midway through the conversation he was accusing Baker Senior of murdering his son.”
“Interesting leap.”
“I think there’s a fair bit of guilt there. I get the impression the Baker kid was much more into the relationship than Feder, and that Feder would prefer to believe almost anything to the idea Terry got depressed and capped himself.”
“You’re not looking at him as a potential suspect?”
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