Fair Game - lanyon Josh. Страница 38

That was all too true.

“What about today’s call?”

“They haven’t got back to me on that one yet, but all anyone needs is a public computer and there are plenty of those around.”

Too true. Elliot brooded over this for a couple of minutes.

“What do you want for dinner?” Tucker asked eventually.

Elliot shook off his preoccupation. “I don’t care.”

“Pizza?”

A reluctant smile tugged at Elliot’s mouth. “Sure.”

“You still like it with anchovies and pineapple?”

“Ha ha.”

Tucker grinned briefly and went to call in an order for delivery pizza. When he was finished, he returned to the living room.

“I’ve been thinking,” Elliot said.

“Maybe I should sit down.” Tucker folded into the wide leather armchair, crossing his arms, eying Elliot as though the other man presented a difficult problem. “Okay, Professor. Let’s hear it.”

“Originally I was thinking there was some point to the fact that Terry Baker’s murder is so complicated. Like red herrings or something. Somebody trying too hard to be clever. I mean, tying the anvil around Baker’s waist, for example. Dumping him in the lake behind the school.”

“There was a point. The point was to try to make it look like suicide.”

“I know that figured in, but it was such a lousy attempt. Like shooting Baker in the middle of his forehead. When was the last time you saw someone shoot himself in the middle of the forehead? People shoot themselves in the temple.” Elliot held his hand up mimicking a gun and placed it against his right temple. “Or they put the gun in their mouth.” He illustrated again.

Tucker said, “Do you mind not doing that? I’m starting to feel queasy.”

Elliot removed his finger from his mouth. “I’m merely saying it’s awkward.”

“Yes. I agree. But I’ve seen people shoot themselves in the throat. It’s open to dispute, so where are you going with this? We’re already agreed Baker didn’t kill himself.”

“I think where I’m going with this is Baker’s murder wasn’t thought out. Our Unsub was improvising, and I don’t think he’s good at that.”

“Now you’re a profiler?”

Elliot shrugged. “I’m working my way through this, okay? Bear with me. I don’t think Terry Baker was the first victim, but I think his was the first killing the Unsub tried to make look like something other than what it was—abduction and murder.”

“Is that why you told me to ask Tacoma PD about similar disappearances in the Tacoma vicinity?”

“I did?”

Tucker laughed. “You don’t remember?”

Elliot shook his head. “Not clearly. Did Anderson or Pine get back to you on that?”

“Not yet.”

“If I’m right, our Unsub was flustered into disposing of Baker because of the attention his disappearance garnered. The FBI was brought in. I was brought in. I think he panicked and aborted whatever the usual plan is.”

“What do you think the usual plan is?”

“I have no idea. If we knew that, I think we’d know who and what we’re dealing with.”

Tucker scraped the edge of his thumb absently against his bottom lip. He said finally, “Your theory is the Unsub panicked and tried to make it look like Baker committed suicide. Then why did he snatch Lyle? Why not lay low?”

“He’d already taken Lyle. Lyle disappeared on the previous Monday, remember?”

“Okay. Fair enough. Why did he try and grab your teaching assistant this morning?”

Elliot shifted restlessly and winced. “I think that was personal. I think that was directed specifically at me. He now sees us as competitors in some sick game. And, I want to point out, that he assaulted Kyle before I—your word—baited him. Which is why I think the Unsub is someone I questioned. Someone I’ve talked to.”

“Jim Feder.”

“Maybe.” Elliot made another effort to get comfortable against the cushions. “I’m not quite as convinced as I was this afternoon. It would be pretty stupid to try to grab his own ex-boyfriend. Besides, I think Kyle would have recognized him, ski mask or not.”

“It was dark.”

“I’d know you in the dark, Tucker.”

Tucker’s eyes flashed up to meet Elliot’s. He said curtly. “Yeah. I’d know you too.”

Elliot cleared his throat. “Anyway, it might be Feder. I might—he might—want to get my attention or see some kind of relationship between us. I don’t know. It’s not like I have a shortlist of suspects. If I’m correct and these abductions have been going on for a while, then it cracks the list of possible bad guys wide open.”

Tucker nodded, noncommittal.

“I should call my dad,” Elliot said abruptly. “He’s liable to have heard about the shooting on the news.”

Tucker retrieved Elliot’s cell phone and Elliot called his father.

Expecting Roland’s usual, easy greeting, Elliot was caught off guard by the harsh, “Where in God’s name have you been?”

“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m fine. I took a couple of painkillers and I was out most of the afternoon.”

“What the hell happened out there today? I heard from Charlotte that you’d been shot at by a sniper. When I called the fuzz no one would tell me a goddamned thing.”

Elliot tried to explain while downplaying the danger. While he was answering Roland’s questions, the doorbell rang and he watched Tucker go to answer it. Tucker appeared a few moments later carrying a pizza box. The scent of tomato and garlic and parmesan wafted through the room, and Elliot’s stomach lurched hungrily in response. It occurred to him he’d had nothing to eat since breakfast about a million years earlier.

“Are you going to Terry’s funeral on Sunday?” Roland asked.

“I thought it might be tactless.”

“I think you should go.”

Given the uncomfortable memory of their last argument, Elliot wasn’t about to argue. “All right. If you think the Bakers won’t take my showing up the wrong way.”

They talked a few minutes more, but it was strained. Elliot knew he needed to address their last bitter conversation, but didn’t know how, and he knew this was not the time or place.

Bidding Roland goodbye at last, he disconnected and limped into the kitchen. The pizza box sat open on the table. Tucker was getting plates. Two glass mugs sat gently foaming. The mingled scent of beer and pizza had Elliot salivating.

“I was bringing it out to you.”

“Don’t bother.” Elliot dropped into the nearest chair, reached into the box and pulled out a wedge of pizza, strings of cheese hanging.

Tucker watched him bite into it, eyebrows raised. “Wow.”

“Wow what?” Elliot replied through a mouthful of pizza.

“I’m not sure I want to risk my hand. I’ve seen boa constrictors with better table manners.”

Elliot swallowed, laughed. “Sorry. No breakfast and no lunch.”

“What do you live on? Your high ideals?”

“If you want a piece of this, you’d better shut up and eat.”

Tucker asked innocently, “If I want a piece of what?” He pulled out the chair across from Elliot and picked up his plate.

Elliot ignored that last comment. In three bites he consumed his slice and was reaching for another.

In the end they ate at the kitchen table, devouring one extra large pizza between them. Tucker had two beers but Elliot, mindful of his painkillers, stuck to Coke. He did not want this evening—this unforeseen truce—with Tucker to end. For once both their guards were down. Tomorrow that might not be the case, so he sat there, wired despite his exhaustion, drinking too sweet, fizzy soda and talking about nothing in particular while the small hand on the kitchen clock climbed steadily.

“Maybe the shooting isn’t related to the investigation,” Tucker suggested. “I know it’s a coincidence, but have you had any run-ins with anyone lately?”

“Besides you? No.”

“Have you flunked anyone lately? Dinged anyone’s car door?”

Elliot said shortly, “I still remember how it works, Lance. No. I’m not in line for most popular instructor, but I don’t think anyone actually wants me dead.” He thought of Mrachek, Leslie having to rewrite her paper and Ray’s annoyance with his inability to remember to put his trash basket in the hall. He’d turned Jim Feder down a couple of times, exasperated Charlotte Oppenheimer by refusing to drop the case and irritated Andrew Corian on general principle. None of those things were grounds for murder to a sane person. It was hard to say what might trigger an unbalanced mind.