“Don’t ask.” Roche proceeded to launch into a long complaint about exactly how the book was coming.

Elliot handed him a glass of wine. Roche talked on.

Listening with half an ear, Elliot sipped his wine and rinsed a pound of peeled shrimp and patted it dry. He was vaguely familiar with the cold case. The FBI had been actively trying to solve young Mattson’s murder fifty years after, but to no avail.

“God, it smells good in here. What’s for dinner?” Roche finally finished detailing his woes and sniffed the air like a hungry bloodhound.

“Stir fry. Greek shrimp and leeks.”

“How do you know the shrimp are really Greek?”

“Funny.”

The phone rang and Elliot put aside the mixing bowl with the couscous and herbs, and went to answer it.

“Mills,” he said curtly. Seventeen months later he was still answering like he was on call. He needed to work on that. Like maybe try hello for starters.

“Elliot? This is Pauline Baker. I hope it’s all right that I called you at home?”

She sounded nervous and he softened his tone. “Hi, Pauline. What’s up?” He understood how stressed she was, but surely she wasn’t expecting him to have found out anything within a few hours?

“I-I’m afraid I wasn’t totally honest with you earlier today, and I want to be because I know…it might hamper your investigation if I’m not.”

Unexpected. “Go on.” Elliot picked up his wine glass up and finished the dregs of wine. Roche rose, held the wine bottle up. Elliot shook his head. He still needed pain meds some nights, and pills and booze was a bad mix. Roche refilled his own glass.

Pauline said, “You asked about Terry’s friends. Whether he has a girlfriend.”

She stopped again. Elliot prodded, “And he does?”

“No. No, he doesn’t. Terry is gay.”

“Gay,” Elliot repeated as though he’d never heard of such a thing.

“Yes. He came out to us, to his father and me last summer. I’m afraid it was…” her voice failed, but she recovered, “…a shock. I’m afraid it was a shock to both of us. Tom especially had a hard time with it. It’s not what you want for your child, you know?”

He had no idea. He neither had, nor wanted, children, and his own parents had been completely accepting of his sexuality. Choosing a career in law enforcement was the thing that had driven his father to threaten disowning him.

Roland must have filled Pauline in on a few other things about Elliot because she added hastily, “Please don’t be offended. I’m only trying to make you see that there was tension there, but it wasn’t…That is…”

Tom Baker was not to be considered a potential suspect in his son’s disappearance, Elliot cynically filled in the blanks. “I understand. Was Terry seeing someone?”

“Yes. I don’t think it was serious, but he was seeing someone. A boy named Jim Feder. He’s also a student at the college.”

“Did you share this information with the police or the FBI?”

“No. Tom felt it wasn’t relevant. That it was personal family business.”

Shit. An entire line of enquiry closed off because Tom Baker didn’t want anyone to know his son was queer. Unbelievable. Except it was only too common. Elliot had run into this kind of thing plenty of times. Of course, knowing Tucker, he’d probably seen through the smokescreen bullshit. Maybe that was why he believed Baker had offed himself. Nothing like parental expectation to drive a kid to suicide.

“You’ve done the right thing by telling me, Pauline. It opens another avenue of investigation for us.”

“I knew that. That’s why I wanted you to know…” She began to cry, and then to apologize.

“It’s okay,” Elliot reassured her automatically.

After a few seconds, she got control, apologized again, thanked him and hung up.

“What was that about?” Roche asked, green eyes watching Elliot over the rim of his wine glass.

Elliot had forgotten all about Roche. “Nothing. Friends of my dad are having some trouble with their kid.”

“When did you become a guidance counselor? And what does the FBI have to do with it?” That was the nosey writer looking for a scoop. Roche was always after Elliot to discuss his old cases. The more lurid, the better. And Elliot was always after Roche to mind his own business.

He ignored the question and turned on the oven to heat the skillet. “I guess you’re staying for dinner?”

Roche said cheerfully, “I thought you’d never ask.”

*  *  *

Back when he’d been a hot shot special agent for the Bureau, Elliot had operated out of Seattle. He was familiar with the Tacoma RA, though, and even if he hadn’t worked with the team there a few times, there wasn’t that much of a difference from satellite office to satellite office. Not really.

He arrived in plenty of time for his meeting with Tucker. Unless Tucker had changed a lot, he’d be striding into the building about four minutes before the hour. Tucker was rarely late, but he cut it close plenty of times. Elliot preferred to arrive early and well-prepped—today in particular he felt he needed the advantage of surprise.

He was annoyed to recognize the signs of nervousness in himself: damp underarms, elevated heart rate, and his tie felt like it was choking him. He fought the desire to pace, forcing himself to sit at the battered table in the plain meeting room. Expelling a long, calming breath, he stared up at the millions of tiny black holes in the soundproofed ceiling.

The last time he’d seen Tucker—

But no. Not a good idea to rehash those memories. Certainly not at this moment, when he was about to beard the lion in his den.

Anyway, what was the big deal here? Maybe things hadn’t worked out for them, but had either of them ever really expected them to? It would have helped if they’d been friends before they fell in the sack, but…the fact was, they hadn’t. Their working styles were very different and they really hadn’t had a lot in common off the job either. Tucker liked sailing and poker nights with the guys. Elliot liked rock climbing and miniature war-gaming. Not much in the way of shared interests. Except sex.

The sex had been fantastic.

Elliot had a sudden vivid memory of Tucker’s unexpectedly soft lips tracing a moist path from the nape of Elliot’s neck down, all the way down, to his tailbone…Tucker’s big, freckled hand wrapping around Elliot’s cock.

What do you want, Elliot? Say it out loud. Tell me…

As though feeling that ghostly tug, the cock in question gave a hopeful twitch.

The door to the meeting room swung open and Elliot snapped to his feet, ignoring the wrench of his wrecked knee.

Tucker strode in, bigger than life. That’s how Tucker always seemed: bigger than life. Just walking into a room he seemed to fill it, while at the same time emptying it of half the oxygen. Elliot had never known anyone who took up more metaphysical real estate than Special Agent Tucker Lance.

Uncomfortably aware of where his thoughts had been seconds prior, Elliot’s voice was stiff. “Hello, Tucker.”

Tucker froze mid-step. His knuckles whitened on the file he held. His eyes—a color known in painting miniatures as Prussian blue—went arctic.

“Is this a joke?” He sounded almost conversational.

“Good to see you too.”

Tucker glanced around and then behind him as though looking for The FBI Files film crew. He turned back at Elliot. By then he had himself under control.

He said evenly, “You’re looking fit, Elliot.”

Well, Elliot had known the advantage of surprise wouldn’t last long. “Thanks. You’re looking hale and hearty yourself.” Hale and hearty? He sounded like he was reading from a bad script. He made himself stretch out a hand in greeting.

Instead of shaking hands, Tucker thrust the file folder into Elliot’s fingers. “So you’re the consultant the Bakers brought in.” It wasn’t a question.