“Defensive wounds?”

“None apparent.”

“How long was he in the lake?”

“No more than a week.” Tucker’s eyes met Elliot’s. “We’re handing it off to Tacoma PD. This isn’t a federal case.”

“You sound pretty sure about that.”

“Regardless of what the Lyle kid’s aunt believes, I don’t see a connection between Baker’s death and her nephew’s disappearance. Can you give me any reason to think otherwise?”

Tucker was right. There wasn’t enough to justify involvement by the feds, yet Elliot heard himself say stubbornly, “I think this kid would have left a note.”

“I don’t. He went to lengths to make sure his body wasn’t discovered. Most people don’t leave notes, you know that.” Tucker seemed to be studying the titles on the bookshelf behind Elliot.

True. Men were more likely to leave notes than women, but less than a quarter of suicides left notes at all.

“Point. But that’s another thing. The whole chaining himself to an anvil business. Who does that? It’s stagy. It’s…fake.”

Tucker hadn’t stopped looking around since he sat down. What clues did he imagine he was going to find in this ordinary academic cubbyhole? Or was he just doing his best to avoid Elliot’s gaze?

“Look, we’ve both seen enough weird shit to know that disturbed people do bizarre things.”

“Yeah, but this is…This doesn’t make sense. There are simpler ways to get the same results. And where was the kid for three weeks? That strikes me as taking a long time to make up your mind to kill yourself. Do we have any intel on that? Where did he go when he left campus that night? Where did he find an anvil? For that matter, where did he get a gun?”

Tucker eyed him dispassionately.

“We both know Daddy-o is correct. It’s not that hard to get hold of a gun if you know where to look. The rest of it…that’s for the Tacoma PD to determine.”

“I think you’re wrong, Tucker.”

“So what’s new there?”

Elliot blinked, sat back in his chair. “So that’s it? Case closed?”

Tucker’s face could have been carved from rock. “That’s it.”

“Then I guess I’ll…see you around.”

Tucker gave a tight smile. “Yeah?” His big hands closed on the arm of the chair and he rose in a quick, lithe move. “See you around then.”

*  *  *

It should have made his day. No more Tucker Lance to piss him off with autocratic orders to butt out of his investigation. Instead, annoyingly, Elliot felt almost…disappointed. Of course part of that was the simple fact that without Tucker, Elliot no longer had instant access to law enforcement files and resources. He was a college professor, not a PI. What was his justification for asking to see police files? General nosiness? A genetically programmed streak of do-gooder? He wasn’t use to having to go through the same channels as civilians.

But there was another part of him that felt let down. Kind of like declaring war and nobody showing up. He’d been all psyched up to do battle with Tucker and now Tucker had retreated from the field. It took the fun out of victory.

Charlotte Oppenheimer phoned to indicate her thanks for his help and her relief that the investigation could be laid to rest.

“Gordie Lyle is still missing,” Elliot pointed out.

“There can’t be any connection. Gordie will show up when he’s ready.” Charlotte sounded like her old self, confident and relaxed. “Will we see you Thursday at the opening of the annual Art Students Show?”

“Not this Thursday.” Thursdays were his night to dine with his dad. These little rituals provided the glue that held his new life together.

“Not to worry. It runs through the end of the semester.” As Charlotte continued in that light, social vein, Elliot began to understand why Zahra Lyle felt that her concerns were being blown off. Not that Charlotte wasn’t in the right, merely that she was determined not to consider any other possibility.

There were always other possibilities. Elliot didn’t particularly like Zahra. She was abrasive and rude and a not-so-borderline racist. Her nephew, talented or not, read like an arrogant, egotistical prick. And yet, Elliot couldn’t let it go. He felt sure that Zahra’s instinct was correct—something had happened to Gordie—and Gordie, prick or not, was as deserving of concern and care as Terry had been. Maybe Roland’s views had rubbed off on him more than Elliot liked to admit, but Elliot couldn’t leave it alone.

He made a note of Andrew Corian’s office hours and stopped by to see him when his own afternoon lecture was concluded. As usual, Corian was holding court. Two girls lounged in his office, hanging on his every word. One wore a red velvet jacket and looked like a Victorian consumptive: long dark curls, pale skin, hollow-eyes. The other looked like a cheerful human pincushion. Elliot had never seen so many rings and ornamental safety pins in one face.

“Mills,” Corian greeted him cheerfully. “The way the suits have been circling, I expected the IRS to have towed you away for tax evasion by now.”

The lank-haired beauty snorted, exchanging looks with the pierced acolyte.

“I was hoping for a word in private,” Elliot said.

“Of course.” Corian said to the students, “Off to class, my lovelies.”

The girls unfolded and departed. Elliot closed the door behind them.

“I wanted to ask you about a student of yours. Gordie Lyle.”

“Sit down, Mills. I don’t like to be towered over.”

Since Corian had a few inches on just about everyone, that was almost amusing. Elliot took the chair across from Corian’s desk. It put him on eye level with the nude torso of a woman. He tried to avoid staring at the nipple pointing his way.

“Why are you asking about Gordie?” Corian frowned, his expression for once completely serious.

“He’s been missing since last Monday. One week. His aunt is naturally worried.”

Corian grimaced. “Has it occurred to you that Gordie has good reason to disappear?”

“What do you mean?”

Corian shrugged. “If you’ve met Zahra Lyle, I’m sure you’ve observed that she’s the classic domineering female. Living at home was not conducive to Gordie’s creative spirit.”

“You’re suggesting Gordie left home for the sake of his art?”

Corian shrugged. “If he took my advice, he did.”

“You advised the boy to run away?”

“The boy is over twenty-one. He’s a man, an autonomous adult, Mills. If he chose to leave home, that’s hardly running away.”

“Fair enough, although disappearing without a word, skipping class and leaving his aunt to wonder where he is for a week sounds pretty immature to me. Why do you think he’d choose to split now of all times?”

“I have no idea. I don’t know that that’s the case. I’m suggesting Zahra might not have all the facts.”

“Zahra? You know Gordie’s aunt well?”

“I know Gordie well. He’s one of my most gifted, most promising students. Zahra is part of the package. In my opinion, and it’s a knowledgeable one where the gentle sex is concerned, the woman is a harridan.”

Harridan? Now there was a word you didn’t hear every day. “When was the last time you saw Gordie?”

Corian stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Monday? Yes, Monday I think.” He met Elliot’s gaze and raised his eyebrows. “The day he disappeared, according to you. Does that make me a suspect?”

“How did he seem?”

“Like always. Energetic. Enthusiastic. Alive. He was looking forward to the art show.” At Elliot’s inquiring look, Corian said dryly, “The annual students’ art show. It starts on Thursday.”

“Oh. Right.”

Corian was still thinking it over. “He said nothing about leaving. In fact, nothing in his behavior struck me at the time, but looking back, maybe Gordie was…preoccupied? Distracted? Nothing definite. Nothing I can put my finger on and say, Ah ha, Watson!”

Elliot ignored the mockery. “If Gordie was in trouble of some kind, would he come to you?”