Free Fair Play (All's Fair Book 2) by Josh Lanyon

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