Fair Play (All's Fair Book 2) (5 page)

Chapter Seven

At two o’clock in the morning the raccoons launched a full-on assault of the trash bins behind the cabin. They were mostly thwarted by Elliot’s unexpected appearance. He restrained himself from shooting them in retaliation for scaring the hell out of him.

The racket did not appear to wake Roland.

That was the extent of Elliot’s adventures that night. When daylight broke, he staggered upstairs to sleep for a few hours. At some point he smelled coffee brewing, and it was a treat and a privilege to remember it was Saturday. He rolled over and went back to sleep.

The next time he opened his eyes the sun was shining brightly, hotly on his face. A groggy look at the clock informed him it was nearly eleven—and that snapped him awake.

He showered and went downstairs to find the kitchen tidy and empty. A folded piece of notepaper leaned against the now cool coffee machine.

He knew even before he opened it what the note would say. His heart still sank as he read the words.

Elliot
,

What I told you tonight was the truth.
I
don’t know who is after me—or why.
I’ve done my share of things I’m not proud of
,
things I regret.
Fighting for what I believe in is not—will never be—one of them.

I
do know that my son is not going to be collateral damage in someone’s private war with me.

I
still have contacts and I still have friends
,
and I believe I can get the answers I need
,
but this is for me to deal with on my own.
You are not part of this—and I will not allow you to make yourself part of it.

If I’m not successful
,
if for some reason I don’t see you again
,
I
want you to know that not only do I love you
,
I
am proud of the man you’ve become.
Mischa was right.
We used to talk about the immorality of bringing children into such a messed-up world
,
but you are
,
without exception
,
the best thing that ever happened to me.

Love
,

Dad

He read it again. Ink and paper. It didn’t get any plainer than black and white. His father had gone underground again.

* * *

Tom and Pauline Baker were two of Roland’s oldest and closest friends.

Though Tom Baker had once run the same streets, screamed the same obscenities, thrown the same Molotov cocktails all in the name of peace as Elliot’s dad, nowadays he was a high-power lawyer with a four-hundred-dollar haircut and handmade Italian shoes. Word was he still did a lot of pro bono work for leftist organizations and liberal causes, but to all intents and appearances he had, as his younger self would have said, Sold Out.

At forty-something, Pauline was his much-younger second wife. She always reminded Elliot of a porcelain dove his grandmother had kept in her china cabinet. She was tiny and fragile with pale skin and hair the color and texture of spun gold. She was as nervous and fluttery as a real dove, and never more so than when Elliot showed up unannounced Saturday afternoon at the Bakers’ Bellevue home.

“Elliot!” The Bakers were not so uptown as to have maids answering the doorbell. Pauline gazed at Elliot with consternation. The normal consternation of someone facing an unexpected visitor on a Saturday—or was this something more? Elliot couldn’t be sure. He had realized a few months earlier that, as unfathomable as it was to him, his father cared deeply for Pauline.

Was Pauline someone Roland would confide in?

“Hi, Pauline. Is Tom home?”

Poor Pauline. He could see her trying to think whether Tom was officially at home to Elliot or not. And once again he was impatient and bewildered at his father’s interest and affection for Pauline. Somebody like Mischa—sharp, savvy, poised, socially conscious, okay, yes, with a background in armed robbery—Elliot could understand. A woman like Pauline? No. And that was not even taking into account that Tom Baker was a man who would not take rejection gracefully.

Pauline compromised by saying, “Elliot, we heard about the fire. So awful. I can’t even imagine. How
is
Roland?”

“Well, that’s what I’d like to ask Tom.”

“Oh?” Pauline looked alarmed and confused. Which, in Elliot’s opinion, was normal for her.

“Can I speak to Tom?” Elliot pressed, and Pauline gave way, letting him inside and leading the way through immaculate, newly redecorated rooms to “Tom’s den” where the master of the house was lounging in a leather La-Z-Boy recliner playing “Red Dead Redemption” on his Xbox.

Elliot recognized the video game because Tucker had a fondness for it—in fact, Tucker had a fondness for many Xbox games. But Elliot was still a little surprised to see gun-control advocate Tom Baker busily blowing away his fellow former outlaws.

“Elliot,” Tom said, with a reproachful look at Pauline. “What can I do for you?”

Tom was tall, lean and somewhat ascetic-looking for someone who spent a lot of time on golf courses and in fancy restaurants. His eyes were dark and hooded. His hair was so perfectly silvered, it looked dyed. Maybe it was.

Last year, pressured by Roland, Elliot had tried to help the Bakers out with a delicate family matter. It hadn’t gone well, and Elliot knew that, logically or illogically, Tom partly blamed him for that.

Knowing he was viewed as an intruder, Elliot did not waste time on civilities. “Have you spoken to my father in the last twenty-four hours?”

Tom sat up and put the remote control aside. “No.”

“Do you have any idea where he might be?”

Tom said, as carefully as a defendant on the witness stand, “I understood he’d be staying with you.”

“He was staying with me. But he took off this morning. I have reason to believe he went underground again.”

“Under...ground,” Tom said. As though he didn’t understand the meaning of the word. As though he visualized Roland crawling through subterranean tunnels with the light from a miner’s helmet showing the way.

“Yes, underground,” Elliot said. “You remember. Leaving your normal life to go into hiding because you think someone might want to arrest you. Or kill you. I want to know where he’d go nowadays?”

“How would I know where he’d go?” That sounded genuine at least. “Trying to disappear today is not like it was forty years ago. I have no idea where Rollie would go. I can tell you right now, wherever he would have headed back in the day wouldn’t exist now. There is no
underground
anymore, not the way you mean it.”

Pauline was in Elliot’s periphery. She swallowed. Her hands were locked together in a nervous knot.

Elliot regarded Tom intently. “The fire that took out Dad’s house was not electrical or accidental. The police are investigating it as arson. He received a note a few months ago warning him not to publish his memoirs.”

Tom didn’t move a muscle, so either he already knew this or he was good at hiding his feelings. As a lawyer, he probably
was
good at hiding his feelings, but Pauline hadn’t flinched that time either, so Elliot suspected this was information Tom already possessed.

“I’ve already advised Roland not to publish that book,” Tom remarked.

“Was that as his friend or lawyer?”

“Both.”

“Yesterday evening someone showed up on Goose Island and tried to take my father out.”

Pauline gasped. “They tried to shoot him?”

Tom glanced at her and said steadily, “I assume Roland is okay or this conversation would have started out on a completely different note. Given this new information, I think dropping out of sight for a while is probably a wise decision.”

“Do you know a woman named Mischa Weinstein?”

“No,” Tom said.

Elliot laughed. “You don’t know my father’s first wife?”

“
That
Mischa Weinstein,” Tom corrected calmly. “Yes. Why?”

“Just establishing our baseline. Weinstein showed up at the cabin shortly before the shooting yesterday.”

Tom said, “I hope you’re not drawing some specious connection there. You’d be way off base. As for the rest of it, I’m your father’s friend as well as his legal advisor. I’m not going to share any information with you that Roland has not specifically directed me to impart. Clearly, if he’d wanted you to know where he was going, he’d have told you. Since he did not, I’m not about to speculate, which is all it would be. You’re no longer an officer of the law, Elliot. As far as I’m concerned you’re simply an uninvited guest in my home.”

“Tom!” Pauline protested.

Baker ignored her. He picked up the Xbox remote control. “Now. Is there something else I can do for you?”

“That ought to do it,” Elliot said wryly. He was unsure how much of what he’d just heard was the truth. The initial lie about Mischa had been stupid and not like Tom. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t stuck to the facts in all other areas. Not that there had been so many areas.

Pointedly, Tom turned back to his game and clicked Play. The character of John Marston resumed shooting—with impressive accuracy. Pauline led the way back through the beautiful, sterile rooms.

At the front door she said softly, “Mischa had dinner with Tom last night. He saw her to the airport. She flew out on the red-eye. She lives in New York, if you didn’t know that already.”

Pauline was way too young to have been a part of this, whatever “this” was. But her relationship with Roland offered other avenues. “Do you know where my father is?” Elliot asked, matching her quiet tone with his own.

She shook her head, raised her long dark lashes, and gave Elliot one of those apprehensive glances. “Talk to Nobby,” she said.

* * *

Elliot’s phone rang as he was climbing into his car.

For maybe the first time in his life, he was disappointed to see Tucker’s name flash up.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself. Where are you?” Tucker asked.

“Bellevue.” Elliot stared out the windshield at the distant blue of Lake Washington beyond the rows of expensive homes. A very nice neighborhood with its lofty views and safe distance from downtown Bellevue. “Where are you?”

“I’m here. Home. I’m on Goose Island.”

“You’re early.”

“And you’re...where? You’re not here. Your dad’s not here. What’s going on?”

“It’s kind of a long story.” But Elliot condensed it into a couple of sentences that left Tucker sounding winded on the other end of the line.

“You think your dad went underground. And you’re...what? You’re trying to find him by talking to his former revolutionary pals?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“What the hell, Elliot.”

“What does that mean?
What the hell?
”

Tucker made a noise of disbelief. Not quite a laugh. And certainly without humor. “You know better than anyone how a civilian getting involved in an investigation can hinder—”

“I’m not just a civilian.”

“Yes, you are. Worse, you’re an emotionally involved civilian.”

It wasn’t easy, but he managed not to lose his temper. Or at least not let his anger show in his voice. “How do you think this should work? Someone tries to take out my dad and I sit around grading papers and painting miniatures?”

“How I think it should work is you take a step back. A big step. Like it or not, you
are
a civilian now. You’ve been out of the field nearly two years. You need to leave this to Seattle PD.”

“I’m not getting involved in the investigation. I just want to know where he is.”

“Bullshit. He told you to stay out of it. And the fact that you can’t stay out of it—your inability to respect parameters—is the reason he left.”

Elliot sat up so straight he almost hit the ceiling of the Nissan. “My inability to respect parameters? What are we actually talking about here?”

“We’re talking about the fact that your father is a grown man capable of making his own decisions. He wants you to stay out of this. You need to respect that.”

“My father is nearly seventy. Someone is trying to kill him. I get that you don’t always understand family relationships, Tucker, but even you ought to be able to follow that I can’t stand aside and not make any attempt to find him.” That time Elliot didn’t bother to hide his anger.

Tucker didn’t usually raise his voice. When he got mad, his voice went deeper, lower. The chassis was scraping the pavement as he growled, “You know, you can really be a condescending prick sometimes.”

“You know what, so can you. And you don’t even have the justification of caring about anybody.”

“I care about
you
, you asshole. Which is why I don’t want you getting any further involved. Your father made his choices. You live by the sword, you die by the sword.”

“
Die by the s-s-sword?
” Elliot was stuttering in his rage. “Are you fucking
kidding
me?”

“Not literally, obviously! I just mean—”

“I can’t wait to hear it. Actually, I
can
wait. I’ve got people to see. I’ll talk to you tonight. Unless you decide to stay at your own place again.”

“No way,” Tucker said. “I’ll be here. And you’re damn right we’re going to talk.”

They disconnected simultaneously and forcefully, in fact, had they been pressing something other than cell phone buttons, there probably would have been detonation.

Elliot stared in disbelief at his phone. What the hell had just happened? How had they gone from
A
—
A
being a tentative wariness to
Z
—
Z
being zero tolerance—in a few sentences?

But then why had they started out on that undernote of wariness? What was going on between them? What did that comment about not respecting parameters mean? Since when did Elliot not respect parameters? But since when did Tucker turn his phone off? Or stay at his own place on a Friday night?

Chapter Eight

The words and melody to “Woodstock” were running through Elliot’s mind as he started down the dirt road toward the white and green barns and red silos.

His parents had listened to a lot of Joni Mitchell and CSNY when he was growing up. In fact, for years he’d misunderstood the lyrics, believing “Yasgur’s Farm” referred to Oscar’s farm—Oscar being Oscar Nobb, the fourth-generation owner and proprietor of Nobb’s Organic Farm.

Elliot had pleasant childhood memories of Nobb’s Farm, as it had simply been called back then, of collecting brown eggs from real live chickens, of picking baskets of blueberries on hot July days, and of family picnics in the shade of the rough-hewn pergola behind the house—picnics which usually ended with his father and Nobby going off to smoke funny cigarettes and talk for hours on their own in the old apple orchard. In those days Elliot had been equal parts awed and shy of Nobby, who had won a slew of medals he was ashamed of in Vietnam. Nobby had been gruff but mostly patient—very patient, Elliot realized now—for a man who didn’t have or want kids of his own.

He parked in the big crowded dirt lot and got out. It was a big farm, sixty acres of vegetables and berries and flowers as he recalled. The last time Elliot had visited, he’d been seventeen, and he’d had to be dragged along by his parents. By that age picking blueberries and stealing eggs didn’t hold their previous charms. He hadn’t been back since, and things had changed. The silvered and ramshackle buildings had been rebuilt and repainted and once empty fields were green and glistening with rows of produce. A large new sign proclaimed:
We are proud to supply 100
Washington State grown
,
certified organic
,
salmon safe
,
seasonal produce
.

It was busier, a lot busier than he remembered. But then Nobb’s Organic Farm did CSA or Community Supported Agriculture these days, and a lot of the visitors were carrying coolers and ice chests.

A red-haired girl in jeans and a yellow gingham top was apparently conducting a tour for a handful of adults. She directed Elliot past low opaque plastic tents to where a tall man in overalls and a baseball cap stood in what looked like a meadow of pastel mist.

As Elliot drew near, the honeylike perfume of the peonies grew almost dizzyingly sweet. Nobby looked up from the ragged-ruffle petals of the large pink flower he was examining and frowned.

“Tour’s that way,” he said, and pointed to the gingham girl.

Elliot smiled. “You won’t remember me. I’m Rollie’s son. Elliot.”

Even with that introduction, it seemed to take Nobby a moment or two to place him. He suddenly barked out a sound that probably signified amusement. “You’re that tall, quiet kid who wouldn’t drink milk straight from the cow.”

“I still prefer it out of a bottle,” Elliot agreed, and Nobby laughed again. It was a rusty sound, like he didn’t laugh often. But then he’d always laughed like that, as though the idea that something could be funny was unexpected.

He came to meet Elliot, wading through the pink and cream and coral clouds of bowl-like blossoms. He held a magnifying glass in his hand. Seeing Elliot’s look, he said, “Botrytis. Spreads like a sonofabitch if you don’t catch it fast.” He added, “My sight isn’t what it used to be.”

They shook hands.

From a distance, Nobby had seemed unchanged, tall and ramrod straight, but up close, his face was a leathered network of sun lines and wrinkles. His green eyes were faded. He no longer had a mustache or a mane of curly black hair. In fact, it looked like he was bald underneath the cap.

“It’s been a long time,” Elliot said, looking around. “I can’t get over how much it’s changed.” If he was honest, he was a little surprised Nobby was still in business, let alone running a thriving concern. He wondered if Nobby still grew marijuana in the back forty, and bit back an unwilling smile. Nobby had been a wild man back in the day. But then so had they all been, his dad’s crew.

Nobby followed his gaze. He nodded. “Yep. Everybody wants organic now.” He turned back to Elliot and said, “I don’t know where he is.”

Never one to beat about the bush, Nobby. Elliot remembered that. And it was nice to know he wasn’t completely off the track. Elliot said, “But you’ve talked to him recently?”

“Yep. I’ve talked to him twice this week.”

“So you know about the fire.”

“Yep.”

“And you’re the one who got in contact with Mischa Weinstein.”

“I might have got in touch with her. Or she might have got in touch with me,” Nobby said evasively. “They were close a long time ago.” He added, “Before your mother, of course.”

“Mischa was my dad’s first wife, I know.”

Nobby looked relieved. One less lie to keep track of? “Yep. He always listened to Mischa.”

The gingham girl’s voice floated their way, and Nobby frowned, listening.

If you’ve only ever eaten fruit and veggies from a supermarket
,
you’re in for a treat.
Our varieties of produce are optimized for flavor
,
not shelf-life.
This is how food is supposed to taste...

Elliot watched Nobby’s face as he asked, “What did you want Mischa to tell him this time?”

“I think you’ve got a pretty good guess,” Nobby said. His gaze was steady and unequivocal. “Both Tom and I told him not to write that damned book. But once your old man makes his mind up, that’s it. I thought maybe Mischa might have better luck talking to him.” He shook his head. “I should have known.”

“What is in that book that has everyone so worked up?”

“You haven’t read it?”

Elliot shook his head.

Nobby studied him. He seemed to be thinking. Finally he said, “I haven’t read it either, but I don’t think it’s so much what’s in the book, as the idea of the book.”

“I’m not following.”

“That book is a red flag to all the hardcore right wingers who listen to Willie MacAuley’s radio show or read his blog. He wrote a column about your old man last year.”

“‘Tenured Terrorists’? Yes. I read it.”

“And instead of your old man showing the proper regret for his actions like those wing nuts believe he should, it’s like he’s giving them all the bird with this book. Rollie is unapologetic and unrepentant, and God bless him for it. But we’ve all received threats over the years and we aren’t the ones writing books and blasting conservatives in
Mother Jones
interviews.”

Elliot’s knee twinged with phantom—maybe sympathy?—pain. He’d been injured almost two years ago in Oregon after a political extremist had shot up a courthouse, and Elliot had pursued him through Pioneer Courthouse Square. He couldn’t fail to see some sad parallels between the friendly fanatics he’d grown up with and the fanatic who had tried to kill him. Both sides believed they were in the right, and both sides believed violence might be necessary to achieving their aims.

“You were underground for years. Where do you think he’d go?”

Nobby scowled. “First of all, even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you,” he said. “Your old man wants you kept out of it, and that’s good enough for me. Secondly, it’s not like it used to be. No one can stay off the grid for long these days. Rollie knows that as well as anyone. So he’s just lying low for a few days, maybe thinking things over. Hopefully thinking things over.”

“Do you have Mischa’s phone number?”

Nobby stared at him. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“I need to know he’s okay.”

“He’s okay. Believe me. No one is better at taking care of himself than Rollie.”

Elliot said patiently, “And I want to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

Nobby’s laugh was sour. “Now that...all bets are off.”

* * *

It took some persuading, but Nobby did finally give him Mischa’s phone number, though it was clearly with reluctance—and probably because he knew Elliot could hunt it down from other sources fairly quickly anyway.

Elliot stopped for coffee and a chicken panini at a coffeehouse in Bellevue. He tried Mischa’s number, but she did not pick up. He decided to retain the advantage of surprise and not leave a message.

While he ate his sandwich, he weighed his options. It seemed clear he was not going to get much cooperation from Tom Baker or Oscar Nobb. Mischa might be more cooperative. Women were more pragmatic in general. But he wasn’t betting on it. One thing he did remember about these sixties radical types: not “ratting” on each other had been a major point of pride with them, and in fact, to the frustration of the many law enforcement agencies pursuing them, they had rarely turned on each other, certainly much less frequently than modern-day radicals on all sides seemed to do.

What was his next move?

The police were supposed to be talking to Will MacAuley, as well as contacting his webmaster for the IPs of everyone who had commented on that “Tenured Terrorists” post, but that was going to take some time. And once that list was compiled, it would not be shared with Elliot.

Tucker had a point. As a private citizen, Elliot was at a distinct disadvantage. If not an actual dead end.

He didn’t even know how many possible enemies Roland might have from the good old days because he didn’t have a copy of that damned manuscript to read. There had to have been more than four members in the “Collective” or whatever they had called themselves. People Roland might turn to now. People who might be willing to help Elliot.

He could try to request a copy of the manuscript from Roland’s publisher. It was doubtful they’d comply though. Why should they? For all they knew he was just another angry nut, family member or not.

The reality was Elliot could not force anyone to divulge information. Worse, he didn’t even have the resources to figure out additional avenues of investigation. He needed help and the obvious person to supply that help was Tucker. Who hadn’t sounded particularly cooperative when last spoken to.

Elliot sipped his coffee and considered Tucker. They were going to have this out, sooner or later. He couldn’t avoid going home because he didn’t want to get into it again.

In fact, he was a little dismayed at how quickly their last argument had escalated.

Maybe he was more pissed off about the night before than he’d realized. And Tucker had managed to flick him on a couple of very raw patches. But that was still no excuse for coming unglued with the guy he planned on spending the rest of his life with simply because they couldn’t reach détente on a sensitive subject that they were liable to be debating the rest of their natural lives.

He washed the last of his sandwich down with his coffee, tossed the cup, and headed home.