Fair Chance

by Josh Lanyon

  He got to the exterior wall, staying beneath the window. The stucco picked at the wool fibers of his blazer as he leaned back, listening hard, pistol at high ready.

  There was no sound from inside. No moans, no footsteps, no nothing. Dead silence.

  A dog barked down the street.

  Elliot craned his head around the corner for a quick look. He could see a slice of the entry hall. Empty.

  His pulse was racing, but he felt weirdly calm. He was conscious of his elevated blood pressure, his accelerated heart rate, all the signs of the inevitable fight-or-flight response, but at the same time he felt almost detached. The whole day was unreal and this was just one more dream-like stop on the way.

  Using his free hand to steady himself, he rose and stepped across to the opposite wall in the entry.

  He listened intently.

  Nothing.

  He glanced down at the threshold. No shadow. His own was fortunately blocked by the overhang.

  Are you doing this?

  He didn’t have to. He could—should—wait for backup. Backup? For LEO. Which he was not. Not anymore.

  But it was a rhetorical question. Of course he was doing it.

  He used his free hand to soundlessly push the door wide and cross the threshold to buttonhook into the room, weapon at ready as he made sure no one was hiding behind the door.

  Clear.

  He was past the point of entry and now in what was known in tactical training as the “fatal funnel.” If he was careless enough to get shot, Tucker would—No. Christ, don’t think of Tucker.

  For the next ten minutes he could not afford to think of anyone or anything but getting through this. It was not the time to start second-guessing himself.

  He swept the empty hall with his weapon, then traveled swiftly along the left wall toward the living room, safely reaching the opposite corner.

  Clear.

  It did not feel clear though. The house did not feel empty. Elliot’s scalp prickled with tension, and his shirt felt damp beneath the arms. He took a couple of deep breaths. Sticking close to the wall, he moved to the living room doorway and risked a quick glance around the frame. The blinds were partially open, but the rainy light was muted and liquid, creating shadows and the illusion of movement.

  Trying to do this on his own was a tactical nightmare.

  He made himself focus on the room in front of him while trying to stay alert to his peripheral fields. He could make out indistinct, stationary shapes. Furniture. Potted plants. Blinds.

  So far so good. Nobody and nobody.

  But his instincts were screaming at him to stay alert, stay sharp. It felt like he had been in the building an hour already. In fact, it was probably no more than a couple of minutes.

  His nostrils twitched at the scent of gunpowder...something burning...and blood. Yes, there was no missing that sharp, coppery tang. A lot of blood.

  He mentally swore.

  Something was hissing too. A broken valve? No. That would be the sound of boiling liquid hitting the high flame of a gas burner.

  MacAuley had offered him lunch, so odds were good he had been in the kitchen when this had gone down.

  Elliot crossed the hall again, hastily traversing the open offset doorway of the living room, and leaning back against the wall next to the kitchen doorway. He kept one eye on the living room while he listened to what was happening in the kitchen.

  The overflowing pot continued to spill and hiss, and something was softly beeping. A refrigerator door left open?

  It felt like forever since he’d entered the building. Where the hell were the cops? Even Code 2 was pretty noisy when you took into account all the vehicles and personnel and gear involved. He was not picking up anything from the street outside. Not so much as the smothered crackle of a radio or the rack of a pistol slide.

  Elliot drew in another couple of steadying breaths, and poked his head around the frame, scanning the room for threat.

  At first glance the kitchen looked empty.

  His gaze fell on a bald and stocky figure facedown in a pool of blood that spread from the sink counter to the island in the center of the room.

  Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. Too late.

  Elliot brought his weapon around, training it on the island.

  Angling around the corner, never moving his pistol, he covered the distance from the door to the back of the island.

  No one crouched behind the cherrywood and white-tile structure. He moved on, sweeping the wide room, making sure no one was sheltering beneath the table in the breakfast nook or wedged in the broom closet.

  The lid on the boiling pot began to clatter against the rim.

  He had his hand on the knob to the pantry door when he caught movement out of his peripheral vision and turned in time to see a man in a black hoodie peering through the window over the breakfast nook.

  Caucasian. Male. Blunt features. Dark eyes. Maybe a mustache.

  That was all Elliot saw in the split second before he raised his weapon and the hooded figure ducked down, the laurel bushes beneath the window shaking in his wake.

  Sliding doors led onto a small deck, and Elliot charged out the door and—remembering his knee in time—ran down the steps leading toward the lake.

  The figure in black was racing for the lake—or, more likely, the dock where a speedboat was moored. Elliot tore after him.

  “Stop where you are!”

  The guy did not stop. He cut to the right, heading instead for the boathouse.

  Here we go a-fucking-gain, Elliot thought, but he preferred this to the cat-and-mouse game of hunting each other through the residence. In fact, the relief of being out of that house, release from the extreme and prolonged tension of expecting the shooter to pop up and open fire on him at any moment, gave him a second shot of adrenaline and he began to close the gap.

  The shooter reached the boathouse and tried to yank open the double doors. The doors did not give, however, and he turned his back to them, pulling up his sweatshirt and grappling with what appeared to be a pistol.

  Elliot threw himself to the ground, flattening into the wet grass, using both hands to steady his Glock.

  “Don’t do it,” he said softly.

  He was not really talking to the shooter because of course the shooter was going to do it. Nothing could stop it now. With sickening inevitability the other man raised his weapon and aimed at Elliot.

  “Mordor Fun Run” read the graphic on his sweatshirt.

  Elliot fired.

  The deafening bang of his own weapon was all he heard, but at about the same instant, the shooter’s bullet chewed a chunk of grass and earth about a foot to the right of him.

  Elliot’s bullet hit his target dead center. The man fell back against the wooden doors and toppled over onto his side.

  Elliot’s face dropped to the grass and took a couple of quick, cool gulps of green-scented air.

  When he raised his head, a line of uniformed cops, guns drawn, were advancing across the lawn toward him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rain ticked against the bulletproof window.

  “It was a mistake to bring you in,” SAC Montgomery was saying. “I take full responsibility for it. But I was wrong. Clearly I was wrong.”

  Elliot had arrived at the Seattle office five minutes earlier—heading straight over to the building on Third Street after Tacoma PD had finally released him. It was now six o’clock on Monday evening and he was officially MIA for his Civil War in Film class. That was the second course he’d failed to show up for today—it was also the least of his problems.

  “In addition to a dead celebrity, I could have had a dead former agent on my hands,” Montgomery said. “Wouldn’t that look great? The director would love that. A Shield
of Bravery recipient shot to death after I brought him in as a consultant.”

  “I responded with the appropriate use of force,” Elliot said in answer to the real question. “I didn’t have a choice.”

  He had already been the beneficiary of a jurisdiction squabble between Tacoma PD and Seattle PD. The only reason he was not still sitting in an interrogation room at Seattle PD—or maybe even a holding cell—was because Detective Pine had reacted fast to his phone call requesting help. Pine had commandeered the MacAuley homicide by claiming it was part of Tacoma’s ongoing investigation in the Sculptor case.

  “Are you out of your head, Mills? Why the fuck didn’t you tell someone that MacAuley believed he knew the identity of Corian’s accomplice?” Pine had yelled once he and Elliot were in private.

  Elliot told Montgomery the same thing he’d told Pine.

  “I told Lance. Neither of us believed MacAuley, but we agreed that I would attend a party at his house on Friday night. Which I did. There were about thirty people there, including Deputy Sheriff Dannon and—though I didn’t run into him—Police Chief Woll. The shooter was not there.”

  “How sure are you of that? Did you stay the entire evening?”

  “No. I was there for a good part of it though.”

  “Maybe you missed him.”

  “If he left before I arrived, yes. That’s possible.”

  “Maybe you were having such a good time hanging out with the rich and famous, you didn’t notice him.”

  “I didn’t go there for my own amusement. I was looking for someone who might fit the bill of this possible accomplice.”

  “Who, according to MacAuley, left before you arrived.”

  “Yes.”

  “You should never have gone to that party,” Montgomery said now—which was the same thing Pine had said. “Lance should have...” She didn’t finish it, pressing her lips tight. But the next moment she burst out, “And as for this lunch invitation. What the hell were you thinking? Why would you not let someone know MacAuley possessed that information? Why, why would you go there on your own?”

  They had already been through it once, but Montgomery had not been listening to his answers. Probably because she didn’t believe there was an answer.

  “Because I didn’t believe him,” Elliot answered. “Because I figured it was just an excuse to get me over there.”

  “But you went. You did go. Why did you go if you didn’t believe him?”

  Elliot yelled, “Because I can’t just fucking sit around waiting to hear something.”

  The stark silence that followed his cry was more painful than the outburst. He got control of himself. She didn’t understand, of course. She thought Tucker was still on vacation and Elliot had let his consultant role on the task force go to his head.

  A muscle jumped beside Montgomery’s eye. She said, “Did MacAuley—”

  “No,” Elliot said tersely.

  “He gave you no hint, no clue—?”

  “No.”

  “Did he say who his source was?”

  “No. I’m not sure there was an actual source. He said the unsub had left before I arrived at the party, which sounded all the more bogus, frankly. He did not otherwise indicate who he thought this accomplice of Corian’s might be and, as I said, I thought he might be using the rumor Corian had an accomplice as a ruse.”

  “A ruse for what?”

  Elliot said flatly, “For getting me over to his house. It wasn’t the first time he’d invited me over. MacAuley is—was—gay, and he’d indicated that being conservative and homosexual presented some challenges for him.”

  “Challenges?” Comprehension dawned on Montgomery’s face. “Are you trying to say he was hitting on you?”

  “He did hit on me, although I think his interest in me was more about his fascination with law enforcement. He seemed obsessed with the details of my shootout with Ira Kane. Among other things.”

  “Great,” Montgomery said bitterly. “A groupie. A dead groupie.”

  “Because of his personal interest and the—” Elliot fumbled wearily for the word “—playful aspect of some of his communications, I didn’t put undue weight on his claim to know who this accomplice of Corian’s might be. Nor did I see anything Friday night that led me to believe there was any such unsub in attendance. I didn’t see MacAuley’s killer at the party.”

  “But you told Pine you did believe you recognized him.”

  It was not pleasant being on this side of an interrogation. Having his every decision second-guessed? His every statement questioned? Elliot had to struggle with his resentment and impatience, had to remind himself that he was no longer an agent and, truthfully, he had not behaved like an agent. It was reasonable that everyone from the cops to SAC Montgomery would require answers.

  “Yes. But not from the party. Someone jabbed a penknife in the tire of my car Thursday night. I didn’t get a good look at him, but MacAuley’s killer matches the general physical type—and he seemed to be wearing the same or a similar sweatshirt.”

  “Did you report the incident?”

  “Of course. To campus security and to Tacoma PD.”

  There was no possibility Tacoma PD would have retrieved the fingerprints from the penknife used on his tire, let alone received the lab results. That was liable to take months. But the fact that he’d reported the vandalism was a point in his favor.

  Montgomery took him through the details of the shooting yet again. Elliot answered carefully and accurately.

  No, he had not actually seen MacAuley get shot.

  No, he had not identified himself as, or claimed to be, law enforcement.

  No, he had not fired first.

  Yes, he had ignored the 911 operator’s instructions to wait for law enforcement to arrive.

  Yes, he had believed MacAuley’s life was in imminent danger.

  Yes, he had fired in self-defense.

  Montgomery’s intercom buzzed. A male voice said, “Special Agent Lance is still not answering his phone, ma’am.”

  “That is just fantastic,” Montgomery muttered. She glared at Elliot.

  Elliot stared stonily back.

  “Am I supposed to believe you have no idea where Lance is?”

  “I don’t know where he is.”

  “He wouldn’t turn off his phone. He certainly wouldn’t go dark in the middle of waiting to hear whether Corian is going to live long enough to go to trial.”

  “No.”

  “That phone call yesterday evening—you honestly think something’s happened to him?”

  “Yes,” Elliot said. “I know something has happened to him.”

  That was the emotional distance he’d traveled since that morning. He’d started the day shocked and confused, believing against his will that Tucker had deliberately deceived him. But not only did that go against his instincts, it didn’t jibe with the man he knew. The man he loved. Tucker would never do this to him, would never hurt him like this.

  Tucker knew better than most that not having an answer was the worst answer of all.

  “But you can’t be sure. He wasn’t due back here until tomorrow.”

  Elliot said, “True.”

  “We both know that people can surprise you. Even people like Special Agent Lance.”

  “Yes.” In fact, he had wrestled for hours with his fear that he believed something had happened to Tucker because that was less painful than accepting Tucker had lied to him.

  He was past all that now. The doubts were history.

  The terrifying truth was anyone could become a victim. Even a man as tough and capable as Tucker Lance could wind up a victim, given the right set of circumstances.

  Sometimes it just came down to being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

&nbs
p; Elliot’s acknowledgment seemed to defuse some of Montgomery’s anger.

  She said, “We can’t investigate his disappearance until he’s actually, officially missing. It’s not against the law for someone to change his travel plans or neglect to call home or fail to keep in touch with his workplace. It’s not against the law for someone to disappear, provided the disappearance is voluntary.”

  Elliot said wearily, “I know. I know all of that. I don’t—can’t—believe Tucker is deliberately, voluntarily ignoring my phone calls or that he would fail to return home when he promised, but I also know nobody’s going to help me with this until he doesn’t show up tomorrow.”

  “Ouch,” Montgomery murmured, sounding suddenly human.

  Elliot shrugged. He was too tired, too emotionally wrung out to pretend courtesy he didn’t feel.

  “Mills, I sympathize. Sincerely. But I can’t violate Lance’s right to privacy without more to go on. If he doesn’t show up tomorrow, I promise you, you’ll have the full resources of the Bureau behind you. If he wants to be found, we’ll find him.”

  “Thank you.”

  If she heard the flatness of his tone, she gave no sign. She opened a file. “In the meantime, here’s what Tacoma PD could give us on MacAuley’s killer.”

  It was not a lot. Torin Barro had a police record, but it was all minor stuff. Misdemeanors. Vandalism. Trespassing. Discharging a firearm in city limits. He was twenty-six years old and lived with an older married sister in Ravensdale. He worked as a full-time creamologist for Freeze Frame in Maple Valley.

  “What’s a creamologist?” Elliot asked.

  “I’m not sure. I think it has something to do with using liquid nitrogen to make ice cream.”

  “You mean he worked in an ice cream shop?”

  “That appears to be the case.”

  “Does it say anything about working as a gardener or for a landscaping company?”

  Montgomery read over the file. She shook her head. “No. He did attend PSU for a time, but that was five years ago and he was studying psychology, not art. We still don’t know what his connection might be to Andrew Corian. Or William MacAuley, for that matter.”