“Cutting it close,” Tucker commented, holding the meeting room door open for Elliot.
Elliot was not late and that comment was rich coming from a guy who believed punctuality meant arriving two minutes before the curtain rose—or sometimes before it fell—but Elliot restrained himself to a curt “Traffic.”
They had first met as agents in the Seattle field office nearly three years earlier, and had reconnected over the Sculptor case, so in a way Elliot’s involvement in this phase of the investigation was bringing things full circle. But some kinds of synchronicity you could do without. Certainly in Tucker’s opinion.
He was a big guy. A guy you noticed. Big shoulders, big chest, powerful arms and legs. Big but not fat. There was no extra bit of anything on his large-boned frame, unless you counted the freckles. He wore expensive tailored suits that emphasized his size and authority—today’s number was a black Versace two-button notch-lapel jacket perfectly complemented by a gray silk tie and crisp white shirt. Very striking with his red hair and dark blue eyes.
Those union-blue eyes met Elliot’s, but Tucker said nothing.
Elliot got it. Even sympathized. This was Tucker’s party and Elliot was pretty much the out-of-towner visiting cousin your mom insisted you invite to the festivities. As far as Tucker was concerned, Elliot was part of the task force because Special Agent in Charge Theresa Montgomery wanted him there. Period.
As far as Elliot was concerned, he didn’t have much of a choice.
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