Fair Chance

by Josh Lanyon

  Tucker still looked serious. “Tonight, sure, but I mean...all the time.”

  Elliot raised his brows. Tucker’s answering smile was wry. “Yeah. I know that look. I’m not going to try to tell you not to poke around, because you’ll do what the hell you want regardless. But just...humor me on two points. Make sure you’re armed at all times.”

  “Hey.” Elliot drew back his blazer lapel in demonstration.

  “I know. But I mean at home too. Just in case Corian wasn’t bullshitting about having an accomplice. I don’t like what happened yesterday.”

  “Me neither.”

  “I also don’t like coincidences. So if you go out to Corian’s again, make sure you check in with Yamiguchi or Woll or Dannon—or even your dad. Make sure someone knows where you are. Don’t take chances.”

  “I solemnly promise,” Elliot said. He was amused but also softened by Tucker’s concern. Or possibly paranoia. “Anyway, you’re the one who should be worried. A whole weekend in redneck country. Don’t let them convert you.”

  That got a laugh out of Tucker. “To what?”

  “Country music? Line dancing? Buffalo jumping?”

  “Buffalo jumping?”

  “I may have made that last one up.”

  Tucker grinned a slow and sexy grin, leaning in for one final kiss. “Don’t worry, Professor. The only thing I want to jump is you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Apparently there was no shortage of murderers in Seattle, given the number of cars crowding the driveway of Will MacAuley’s lakefront property. Lights blazed inside the house and twinkled through the trees and shrubs all the way down to the small boathouse and private dock.

  Much of the upscale Seattle neighborhood of Laurelhurst had been developed in the 1920s and featured beautiful old homes with quaint architecture and lovely gardens. By contrast, MacAuley’s house had been built in the early sixties. From the outside it sort of resembled the minimalist designs of public libraries in Elliot’s childhood—a feeling bolstered by the flagpole in the center of the geometrically precise lawn. A white single-story stone-clad structure sat on two terraced and severely landscaped acres stretching down to the blue waters of Lake Washington. Through a multitude of picture and ribbon windows Elliot could see people drinking and laughing in rooms as brightly lit as a film set.

  He found a place to park and walked up the driveway. Latin music drifted on the breeze. Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie.”

  Elliot groaned inwardly. Once upon a time he’d enjoyed parties as much as the next young guy constantly hoping to get laid. What did it say about him that these days his idea of a successful social occasion would be finding a murderer among his fellow guests?

  He reached the front door beneath its boxed overhang and rang the doorbell. The door flew open and a tall, thin college-aged girl with chopped black hair and a tiny gold nose ring stared at him.

  “Hi,” Elliot said. She looked vaguely familiar. Maybe a student at PSU, though he couldn’t place her as one of his own.

  Brushing past him without a word, the girl hurried across the partially enclosed courtyard and started down the driveway. The click of her heels faded into the night sounds. Elliot glanced after her, mentally shrugged and stepped into the entry hall.

  The house seemed to shake beneath the sheer volume of sound, so he had to pay tribute to the carrying power of the voice that called to him.

  “Elliot, you did come! Fantastic!”

  A bald man in a black silk turtleneck and black trousers came to meet him.

  William MacAuley’s voice was his livelihood, and it was an impressive voice: deep and rich and kingly. The man did not match the voice, but he was a very fit and very confident fiftysomething. He was about medium height, deeply tanned and sort of...sleek. Not handsome but probably attractive if you were susceptible to the type.

  Elliot was not.

  “MacAuley.” Elliot had never seen MacAuley without a drink in hand, and this night was no exception—and not his first drink of the evening either. His blue eyes were too bright, his face too red.

  “Will. Remember?”

  Elliot amended politely, “Will.”

  MacAuley laughed. “Professor Mills the Younger.” He shifted his drink to offer his hand. “We are honored.”

  Was that supposed to be a royal we? Probably. “The honor’s all mine,” Elliot said.

  MacAuley laughed. “You’re very sarcastic, Elliot. I like that about you. But then I like a lot of things about you.”

  “Uh...thanks.”

  The thing that saved MacAuley from being just another arrogant blowhard was that he could be both genuinely charming and disarmingly self-aware. He patted Elliot’s arm. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to dally with you. Not until you’ve had a drink or two.”

  The “dally” comment amused Elliot. He relaxed. It was just a couple of hours, after all, and maybe he would learn something useful. MacAuley did have a lot of contacts. Maybe he really had managed to uncover information before law enforcement. It had been known to happen. Elliot could vouch for that.

  “It’s Scotch, correct?” MacAuley added meaningfully, “Another taste we share.”

  So much for the not dallying, but Elliot only shook his head and allowed MacAuley to shepherd him through the crowd to the bar.

  Perhaps thirty people were milling around the elegant rooms with their high ceilings and bamboo cork floors. From the outside it had looked like a larger and more sociable gathering. While the crowd was certainly talking and laughing, Elliot sensed an undercurrent of tension as he followed his host.

  He glanced around, but no one met his eyes. Still, he could feel that he was being watched. Knew it was not imagination or self-consciousness. He was not prone to either emotion.

  He recognized several members of law enforcement, which was to be expected. Recognized them by type if not by face. Recognized a few others as well: the stocky, tattooed youth he knew to be a member of Deuce 8, who’d been released from prison on a legal technicality; the blue-haired grandmotherly lady he remembered seeing on the nightly news for several weeks before her case had ended in a mistrial.

  It was not a naturally congenial mix of personalities, so maybe that was the reason for the uneasy atmosphere. Ordinarily these were not people who would choose to get together for drinks. So what lured them here? MacAuley’s celebrity status? Free booze? The fear that this was an offer they could not refuse?

  Elliot was skeptical of MacAuley’s claim that no one in his “collection” had ever figured out what connected the dots of this particular social circle. If you had something like murder on your mind, you’d probably always be watching for signs that someone else had figured out your secret.

  “Did Andrew Corian ever attend any of your get-togethers?” Elliot asked MacAuley as they stood near the bar sipping Black Bull Scotch.

  “Are you asking if I knew what Corian was up to all those years?”

  “Mostly I’m asking if you knew him.”

  “No. We weren’t acquainted. I’m not much of an art collector.”

  “Your guests—” he paused at the alarmed look that flashed into MacAuley’s eyes, before continuing calmly “—are all personally known to you?”

  “No. Some came...recommended.”

  That must have been some recommendation. “By whom?” Elliot asked.

  “As I’ve said, I have contacts. I do my research.” MacAuley raised his tumbler in a salute—apparently to himself.

  “You’re saying that you invite complete strangers to a party at your house and they come?”

  “Yes.” MacAuley’s lower lip took on the suggestion of a pout. “Believe it or not, most people, normal people, consider an invitation from me to be a good thing in their lives. A positive thing. A treat.”

 
; Elliot nodded noncommittally and MacAuley looked more exasperated. “Imagine if Rachel Maddow invited you over for drinks. Would you go?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, there. See. It’s the same thing. People are delighted to receive invitations to my parties.”

  Yeah, Elliot was not picking up a lot of delight in the air, but then again he was, according to his nearest and dearest, unnaturally cynical. If not actually antisocial.

  He started to press MacAuley on the topic of his informant, but there was a crash behind him, the thud of something heavy hitting the floor combined with smashing glass. He spun warily, hand starting for his jacket, before registering MacAuley’s “Oh, for God’s sake.”

  It was the tone of an exasperated host, not someone facing the threat of violence, and Elliot recognized just how uneasy he was with this situation. Tucker would have found his overreaction funny.

  Then again, maybe not. Probably half the people in this room were carrying—including his host, judging by the way MacAuley telegraphed a hip holster with those little unconscious adjustments of his cashmere pullover.

  Following MacAuley’s glare, Elliot saw that a spiky potted tree in the corner of the room had fallen over. People stepped gingerly over broken pottery and spilled earth, gazing around helplessly like sheep confronting a cattle crossing.

  “Excuse me.” MacAuley went to deal with the disaster, and Elliot had to give him credit for his cheerful “No, no! No worries! Don’t give it a thought, my dear. I always hated that plant. So messy. So thirsty.”

  A voice on Elliot’s left said, “My, my, my. If you’re not a fish out of water, Professor Mills.”

  Out of task force context, it took Elliot a moment to place the silver-haired man wearing a black suit and bolo tie.

  “Why, howdy, Deputy Sheriff Dannon,” Elliot said. “I almost didn’t recognize you out of uniform.”

  “Howdy yourself, Professor Mills.” Dannon nodded at Elliot’s glass. “What are you drinking?”

  Elliot said Black Bull Scotch and Dannon’s brows rose in approval. He requested the same from the bartender.

  “Where do you know MacAuley from?” Elliot inquired, watching their host marshal the cleanup crew.

  “West Seattle Sportsmen’s Club,” Dannon said. “Which you’re not a member of.”

  “No. He was part of a case I was working last summer. Are most of the people here members of your club?”

  “Ha. No.” Dannon sipped his drink thoughtfully. “He knows a lot of folks, Will does.”

  “It seems like it. It’s a pretty eclectic gathering.”

  Under the Yosemite Sam mustache, Dannon’s mouth twitched in amusement at the notion of eclectic. “You could say that. Sad news about Corian.”

  “Yep. I’m all broken up.”

  Another twitch of amusement. “I guess it’ll make your home life easier.”

  Elliot had no response to that. He was still unused to the idea that his domestic arrangements were well enough established for people to comment on.

  “It’s too bad we can’t try the bastard in absentia,” Dannon said. “It’s one of the weaknesses of our legal system.”

  Elliot didn’t believe that a defendant’s right to be present at his own trial was a weakness of the legal system, so he swallowed the last of his Scotch.

  The music had stopped a few minutes back, but Ricky Martin blasted into the room with “Livin’ la Vida Loca.”

  Dannon winced and put a hand to his ear. “I don’t see your partner here,” he called.

  “No. I’m the party animal in the family.”

  Dannon laughed. “Is that so? Well, maybe. He’s a serious sonofabitch, Lance. I like him. Wouldn’t want to get on his bad side. Is this the first time you’ve been to one of Will’s get-togethers?”

  Get-together? Elliot was surprised Dannon didn’t call it a hoedown. He worked the Wyatt Earp shtick pretty hard. “It is. I wasn’t sure what to expect.”

  Dannon cocked an eyebrow. “It’s always interesting. He doesn’t skimp on the booze. Or the grub.”

  “No, I can see he doesn’t.”

  “Woll was here just a minute ago,” Dannon volunteered, looking around vaguely.

  “Woll was?”

  Dannon smiled. “Now, why does that surprise you so much?”

  “Because it looks like half our task force was invited,” Elliot lied. “I guess MacAuley’s looking for a scoop.”

  Dannon studied him. “Maybe he is.” He finished his drink and set the tumbler on the bar. “I should probably be heading out myself. I’ve got an early day tomorrow.” He winked. “I’m going fishing.”

  Elliot had the feeling Dannon had already been fishing, but he wished him a good-night and watched the older man make his way through the crowd and out the front door.

  So who had Dannon killed? Under what circumstances had the deputy sheriff taken a life? Or was MacAuley exaggerating the criteria for getting invited to one of his parties?

  If he wasn’t, who—and how—had Chief Woll killed?

  Given that most cops went their entire careers without firing their weapon anywhere but on the shooting range, discovering three members of a task force were involved in three separate fatalities seemed a little...extreme.

  But as he and Tucker had discussed, life was full of weird coincidences.

  Elliot asked for another drink and then, properly armed for social discourse, wandered around chatting to people.

  “Hey, nice to meet you!” was his modus operandi. “Where do you know Will from?”

  The answer was generally vague. In some cases, guests had been interviewees on MacAuley’s radio program. Like Deputy Sheriff Dannon, a handful of people professed long acquaintance with their host. But mostly, by and large, MacAuley’s guests seemed flattered but clueless as to why they had been invited to his home.

  Elliot began to think he’d have done better to sit outside the house in his car and take photos of everyone coming and going, especially when a couple of guests recognized him from his involvement in the Sculptor case.

  Now, that was uncomfortable.

  He kept an eye out for but saw no one resembling the person who had vandalized his car. He knew the idea was a stretch. The kid could have been planning to steal his hubcaps and had flattened the tire to halt potential pursuit.

  Or it could have been something else.

  Harassment?

  Why? To what end?

  He was making a mental note to ask MacAuley for a guest list—and double-checking Tucker hadn’t phoned—when his host reappeared.

  “Uh-oh. Checking your messages? You must be bored.” MacAuley grinned broadly.

  Elliot pocketed his phone. “Just making sure I remembered to pay the electric bill.”

  MacAuley guffawed in delight. “God, you’re a bastard! I love it!”

  Elliot took a closer look at him, considering both the hectic flush of MacAuley’s face and the feverish glitter in his eyes. He thought MacAuley seemed noticeably drunker, though still in control.

  An experienced drunk. It was not a recommendation, in Elliot’s view.

  MacAuley leaned in close and whispered in whisky-soaked accents, “Having fun?”

  “Sure.”

  “Would you like to see my playroom?”

  “I’ve seen it,” Elliot said. “Lots of dead mammals. No Ping-Pong table.”

  “That was the game room. Very different. Now I’d like to show you my playroom.”

  “Ah.”

  “Want to see it?”

  “I’m thinking no.”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “Encouraging you.”

  That time MacAuley’s laugh had an edge to it. “And I know why. I know everything. What you rea
lly want. What you crave.”

  Elliot set his empty glass on the tray proffered by one of the circulating caterers and smiled. “I can tell you right now what I really want is nothing in this house.”

  “You’re so wrong. I know all about you. I knew the first time I ever looked in your eyes what you needed, what you wanted.” MacAuley leaned forward and whispered hotly into Elliot’s ear, “Sexual. Submission.”

  Strangely, Elliot’s heart gave a little jump at the words. He still managed an unimpressed “Hmm.”

  MacAuley drew back, smiling. He looked supremely self-satisfied. “It’s no use trying to pretend with me,” he said softly. “You’re a sub, Elliot. A sub desperately, urgently in need of a Dom.”

  Elliot said, “And here I thought the evening couldn’t get any weirder.”

  MacAuley ignored that, putting his seductive, silky voice to good use. “Submit to me for one night—one night of mind-blowing pleasure—and I guarantee in the morning you’ll be begging me not to send you away.”

  Mind-blowing pleasure. Did people really say that? “That’s quite a load of...confidence.”

  “I am confident. I have plenty of reason to be.” MacAuley glanced pointedly at his own crotch, which admittedly did appear to be listening. In fact, it was starting to look like he kept surveillance equipment down there.

  “I’ll take your word for it.” Elliot managed to keep his voice steady—he’d had enough to drink that he was finding the very inappropriateness of this funny.

  “I don’t want you to take my word for it. I’m offering you something I don’t offer just anyone. Something you want. Something we both want. Something you need.”

  Elliot opened his mouth, but MacAuley rushed on. “Yes, need. I know all about you, Elliot. I’ve made a study of you.” His expression was weirdly earnest. “You know, people talk.”

  Now, that caught Elliot’s attention. He frowned. “What people?”

  “Old friends. Old lovers.”

  Great. Well, everybody was young once. Everybody had a past. And the truth was Elliot had done his share of sexual experimentation before he’d joined the Bureau. Nothing extreme. No gizmos, gadgets or gerbils had been involved. He had not taken out any club memberships, signed any contracts or sat for any portraits that were going to prove awkward if he ran for political office one day.