They got in the sedan, Tucker talking on his cell phone. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve already established my crime scene debriefing team…”

That brought back memories. Elliot smiled sardonically. Montgomery did have a tendency to micromanage. He listened absently, his attention focused on the activity across the meadow. In addition to the initial responding officers, Tucker’s debriefing team would consist of local investigators and the evidence collection technicians: the photographers, latent print personnel and other specialized personnel. It would be Tucker’s job to determine what evidence was collected, discuss preliminary scene findings with team members, discuss potential technical forensic testing and the sequence of tests to be performed, and finally initiate any actions required to complete the crime scene investigation.

When Tucker finally hung up and started the car engine, Elliot had a question for him. “You said Terry tied an anvil around his waist?”

“That’s right.”

“A real anvil or an anvil-shaped object?”

“I’m no expert. It looked like a real anvil to me. Why?”

“Where would he get one?”

Tucker didn’t reply.

“It’s not the kind of thing you find littering the ground.”

“So he planned ahead. That’s already obvious. He planned to kill himself and conceal the body in the lake.”

“Who found the body?” Elliot asked.

“A wingshooter was out spreading decoys around the lake to train his retriever. The Baker kid hadn’t walked too far from shore when he blew his brains out.”

“Yeah, well no kidding. Do you know how heavy an anvil is?”

“I’m assuming that’s rhetorical. About as heavy as a sailboat anchor?”

Elliot was still thinking. “What’s the estimate on how long Terry was in the water?”

Tucker said slowly, “The ME isn’t saying.”

Something in his tone cued Elliot. He turned. Tucker’s profile was unreadable. “What?”

“What do you mean what?” Tucker made a left onto North Union Avenue.

“What is it you’re not telling me? Something about the crime scene isn’t right, is it?”

“There’s nothing wrong with the crime scene.”

“But?”

Reluctantly, Tucker admitted, “But the ME has some doubts about how long the body was in the water.”

After a shocked moment, Elliot asked, “How long does he think it was in the water?”

“He’s not willing to speculate, but he doesn’t believe Baker was in that lake for more than a week.”

*  *  *

You could tell a lot about people from their kitchens, in Elliot’s opinion.

The Bakers’ kitchen was pristine. It had every gadget known to the Food Network, but if those gleaming copper kettles hanging from the ceiling rack over the granite island were any indication, no one in this house had so much as boiled an egg in years.

Frankly, it didn’t look like anyone ever ate in here, let alone cooked.

“I wish I could say it was a surprise,” Tom Baker was saying.

“How’s that, sir?” Tucker asked. Elliot watched him taking note of Baker’s jerky movements.

There was nothing about Tom Baker—unlike his long time friend, Roland Mills—to remind anyone that he had once been a leftwing radical. In fact, everything about Baker, from his buffed fingernails to his four-hundred-dollar haircut, announced Establishment. Money, class, privilege: that was the message Tom Baker projected to the world, although Elliot knew Baker’s background was as working class as his own family’s. He looked like a French aristocrat. Tall, lean, austere, with dark, hooded eyes and a hawkish profile.

“It’s all part of the lifestyle, isn’t it?” Baker was subdued as he dunked his swollen hand in a bowl of ice. He had not been subdued twenty minutes earlier when Elliot and Tucker had delivered the bad news about Terry. In fact, he had been far more vocal than Pauline, who had heard them out in white-faced and mute agony and then dosed herself with tranquilizers and retired.

It was after Pauline’s retreat that Tom had punched his fist through the white saloon-style swinging doors that led off the kitchen. Tried, anyway. One of the battered doors now sagged from its hinges like a broken wing.

“What lifestyle is that, Mr. Baker?” Tucker persisted too politely.

Elliot opened his mouth, and then let it go. He knew Tucker in this frame of mind and he knew he would be wasting his breath.

“The gay lifestyle,” Baker spat. He suddenly glared at Elliot as though Elliot were the one challenging him.

That seemed to annoy Tucker still further. He said coolly, “To my understanding suicide isn’t part of any lifestyle. It is, unfortunately, on the rise with persons under the age of twenty-five, and gay teens are about six times more likely to kill themselves than straight peers. A lot of that can probably be tracked back to depression over familial and societal attitudes.”

“Lance,” Elliot muttered.

Baker’s face mottled with rage. “How the hell dare you?” He sounded winded. “My son is dead.”

“And any help you can give us that might shed light on the circumstances surrounding his death will be greatly appreciated.” Tucker’s tone was as flatly unemotional as a recording.

Elliot threw him a disbelieving look. He said, “Do you own a handgun, Mr. Baker?”

Baker’s brown eyes swiveled his way. “No. Absolutely not. I am vehemently anti-firearms.”

“Do you have any idea where Terry might have obtained a handgun?”

“Anywhere in this goddamned city in this goddamned state in this goddamned country. It isn’t hard given the lack of any meaningful gun control.”

It was almost like spending an evening at home with Roland. Elliot said, “Had Terry ever threatened suicide?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

A lot of absolutes for a child of the New Generation.

“Did Terry suffer from depression?”

“Not until your people got their hands on him.”

“My people?” Elliot was aware of Tucker straightening. He could almost feel the menace emanating from those powerful squared shoulders and jutting jaw. He shot him a warning look, but Tucker’s attention was all on Baker.

“Queers, faggots,” Baker snarled.

Clearly Baker wasn’t a bleeding heart liberal on all issues.

Tucker said, “Let’s talk about you, Tom. Let’s talk about the night your son disappeared. According to you, you were working late at your office.”

“What about it?”

“Can anyone verify that?”

“You sonofabitch.” Baker snatched his hand out of the bowl of ice and charged.

On instinct, Elliot moved to get between him and Tucker. It was a bad idea. Baker crashed into him and as they wrestled, Elliot trying to maneuver the older man into a restraining hold, Elliot slammed his knee against the kitchen island. The pain was instant and electrifying. Everything else faded to gray in its wake. He let go of Baker and grabbed for the granite countertop to keep from crumpling to the floor, clenching his teeth against the raw sound threatening to tear out of his throat.

From the other side of the nova he could hear Baker ranting. His voice sounded peculiarly muffled. Tucker was speaking over him, and what he was saying was, “Mills? Are you all right?”

The white hot distance shrank, receded along with the desire to faint or—worse—burst into tears, and Elliot was once again in the Bakers’ pristine kitchen, trying not to throw up on their sparkling granite countertop.

“Elliot?”

“Fine,” Elliot got out. He pushed off the counter. Blearily, he saw that Tucker had Tom Baker down on the floor and was engaged in handcuffing him. Pauline, apparently woken by the fracas, was standing by the broken swinging door, weaving slightly. Her mouth moved as though she were reading aloud, but no sound came out.

“Tucker, hold off.”

Tucker spared him a look. He had what Elliot always thought of as his pit bull face. Blunt and unyielding as a bullet. That was the thing about Tucker. He reacted fast and aggressively. And he didn’t tend to second guess himself.