Free Fair Game by Josh Lanyon Page A

toward his vehicle, energized by annoyance. “I don’t need your permission, remember? I’ve got Special Agent in Charge Montgomery’s permission. I’ve got the permission of PSU’s president. I’ve got the permission of Terry Baker’s family.”
    “I see.”
    Elliot was expecting a more aggressive response. Tucker’s restraint put him in the unfamiliar role of belligerent. He unwound enough to say, “I’m not trying to step on your toes. I know you’ll want to interview Feder yourself. I told him to expect it.”
    “That’s big of you.”
    That was more the response Elliot had been waiting for. He added caustically, “When you get around to it.”
    “You know, I do have other cases.” Tucker was probably not trying to rub in the fact that Elliot was no longer with the Bureau. He had his faults, but pettiness had never been one of them. He was likely merely stating the facts, but it hit Elliot on the raw all the same.
    He retorted, “I don’t. The Bakers are family friends and they’re in hell waiting week after week to hear if their kid is still alive.”
    He reached the 350Z, opened the door and slid under the wheel, listening for Tucker’s terse, “If you’ve got some complaint about the way I’m running my case, let’s hear it.”
    “ Are you running the case? Because the impression I get is your mind is made up. You think Terry Baker walked away and further investigation is a waste of time and energy.”
    Tucker drawled, “Same old Elliot emotionally lashing out at anyone who doesn’t ask how high? the minute you say jump.”
    “ Same old Elliot? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
    “You know exactly what I mean.”
    “Are you telling me you had a problem with the way I did my job?” Why the hell that should matter so much was anyone’s guess.
    “A problem with the way you did your job?” Tucker sounded disconcerted. “No.” He recovered fast. “Not particularly. With the way you handled some other things? Yeah. I’ve got a problem.”
    Just like that it was in front of them: the brutal, disastrous ending of their relationship.
    “The way I handled things?” Elliot snarled. “Christ. You’ve got a complaint about how I handled things? You’re the biggest asshole on the planet, but you’ve got a complaint about how I treated you? Let me try and understand. Wasn’t I sensitive enough? Wasn’t I supportive when you needed me? Wasn’t I understanding of what you were going through?”
    In the resounding silence Elliot could hear a foghorn wailing across the harbor. Belatedly it occurred to him that Tucker had probably had more than one drink that evening. That made them even because if Elliot was sitting here in a parking lot yelling at him about the good old days, he’d clearly had more than enough too.
    “Well, at least you’re not holding a grudge,” Tucker said finally, mildly.
    Elliot strangled a laugh. How the hell did Tucker do that? Make him laugh at the worst times? Make him laugh when, the truth was, nothing was funny. He said, “You know what? I don’t care. I don’t care what you think or don’t think. It’s ancient history. Do you want to hear what the Feder kid had to say or do you want to interview him yourself?”
    “Sure, I want to hear what the kid said.”
    Elliot sucked in a breath, struggling for professional distance. Not that he’d ever been exactly dispassionate. Agents who specialized in civil rights cases tended to take their cases personally. “According to Feder things were cooling down between him and Terry. He blamed Tom Baker, but I got a feeling the fact Feder wanted to see other people was a factor.”
    “Was the wish to see other people mutual or are we discussing possible motive for suicide?”
    “Suicide didn’t seem to enter Feder’s thoughts till I brought it up. He started off by insisting Terry was taking a breather. Midway through the conversation he was accusing Baker Senior of murdering his