Gun Games (21 page)

“I agree with you there,” Oliver said. “No camcorder.”

“No camcorder, no camera.” Marge thought a moment. “If Mom found naked printed pictures, I betcha he hid his camera.”

“You know we think of camcorders as big hulking things. They’re really mini these days. Easy to hide.”

Marge said, “I hope he didn’t hide them under his mattress.”

Oliver said, “If he did, the people who cleaned up would have found them and given them to the mother, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, probably.” Marge shrugged. “Want to do another round?”

“Why not?”

The next half hour of searching proved fruitless. Oliver said, “Unless there’s a secret compartment in the walls or floor, the camera and the camcorder aren’t here.”

Marge said, “Kevin Stanger told Decker that Greg was supposedly working on something that would turn Bell and Wakefield on its head. First thing that comes to mind is a sex scandal, considering he had pictures of blow jobs on his computer.”

“Yes, but Kevin also said that the next time Greg spoke to him, he was less enthusiastic about his secret project.”

“Maybe it was a student-teacher sex scandal. But then someone paid off Hesse with a blow job.”

“Even if that was the case, did it have anything to do with Gregory Hesse putting a gun to his head? And is any of this police business?”

“It is if we stumble across something illegal going on—like an adult having sex with a minor.”

“That’s true,” Oliver said. “What next?”

“Someone stole Greg’s computer,” Marge said. “That’s really the only tangible crime we have. But I will tell you this. When the Loo and I were at Myra’s death scene, we couldn’t find her computer. Could be we missed it . . . or maybe not.”

Oliver drummed his fingers. “There were a couple of months between Hesse’s death and the theft. But the theft happened only two weeks after Myra Gelb’s death.”

“Yeah, they could be related,” Marge said. “Whatever the case, it’s time to pay Udonis Gelb a visit.”

Chapter Twenty-two

T
wo
A.M.
Thursday morning, Gabe was up, cruising Facebook, staring at Yasmine’s profile of course, but also looking at other sites just to prove to himself that he really did once have friends. It was interesting for Gabe to see who was doing who, who had done X or meth or crack or who had even tried skag—pretty ballsy. They posted in code so they couldn’t be called on it, but since Gabe read “innuendo,” he knew what the dudes were talking about. There were new pictures, the guys looking older and bigger. And while Gabe had grown taller, he was still thin and wiry. His arms and fingers were disproportionately long for his torso due to years of piano playing. He looked like an anorexic ape.

His buds were now displaying a good deal of body art and pierces. Gabe didn’t go for pierces, but he wouldn’t have minded a couple of tats. What really irked him was that a few of the older guys already had their licenses. He, being so young, was forced to take buses in a town built for convertibles.

With their driver’s licenses for the lucky few over seventeen came the cars. And with the cars came the girls—ergo the screwing. He knew he’d never contact any of them again even if he did go back east to Juilliard. Those days were long gone.

He used to sulk about all the sex he was missing. But now that Yasmine was part of his life, he didn’t think about the parties too often. They weren’t doing all that much, but since he really had the hots for her, everything they did do registered nuclear. As pathetic as it was, he’d rather do small shit with her than big shit with anyone else. He knew he was obsessed with her. And he knew he’d never get her. It was doomed from the start and he was in for a crash. He could take the heartache, but thinking of how it would affect her drove him crazy. He couldn’t bear the thought of her being sad.

An IM registered on his computer.

Hi.

Gabe groaned inwardly. He loved his mother, but he truly wished she’d stop bugging him. Her contact left him off balance.
How’s my sister?

A little cranky. She’s getting a tooth.

Gabe cracked a small smile, thinking about the baby. He hated that his mother deserted him, but he did like the idea of having a sibling.

Give her a hug and kiss for me.

I will.

Can you send a picture of her?

Of course.
A pause.
Can you send me a picture of yourself?

He wanted to type
like you give a shit,
but deep down he knew that his mother loved him and missed him and probably felt bad about what she had done.

I don’t have anything recent. If you give me your cell number, I could take one of myself and send it to you.

Does Chris pay your phone bills?

Yeah, he does so it’s probably not a good idea.

Do you have Skype account?

Yeah. Do you want to Skype?

Does Chris have access to your computer?

Not really; if it makes you nervous, we’ll pass on Skype.

A long pause.

What’s your account name, Gabe?

He gave it to her. Five minutes later, his computer rang. He pressed Answer with Video and for the first time in almost a year, he saw his mother’s face. It made him suddenly furious, but he tried to keep his hot anger in check.

“Hey there, beautiful,” he told her.

“Hi.” Her voice was quivering. Tears were in her eyes.

“I have to keep it down,” Gabe said. “It’s two in the morning. Tell me about my sister.”

“Do you want to see her?” Terry asked him.

“Of course.” She got up and he could hear her talking offscreen to someone. A moment later, she sat back down. He continued. “You look well.” She really did. Young and beautiful with a cascade of auburn hair and gold eyes. Of course, she was always young and beautiful with a cascade of auburn hair and gold eyes. He was just seeing her from a fresh perspective. His mother was simply a knockout. All his buddies used to salivate whenever she was around, but they wouldn’t dare say anything inappropriate. She was Chris’s wife. “Are you all right?”

Terry nodded, taking a swipe at her eyes.

“Is he good to you?” Gabe asked. “Does he treat you right?”

Again, Terry nodded.

“I’m glad, Mom. You deserve it.” Now her tears were flowing freely. So who was the parent and who was the child? “Please don’t cry. I’m doing okay. I’ve got a first-rate piano teacher and an agent. I’m going to play some summer chamber music festivals. It’s really exciting.”

“That’s wonderful.” Her voice was still unsteady.

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool.” A moment later, a baby filled the screen. She had a round face with a thick mop of black hair. She was drooling. Decker had been right. No way she could have passed this one off as Chris’s. Gabe felt his lips turn upward into a big smile. “Hi there, Juleen. I’m your big brother, Gabe.”

Juleen stared at the screen, then let go with a startling wail.

He did have a way with the ladies. “Did I scare you? I’m sorry.”

“She’s cranky because she’s teething.” Terry shifted her until she was over her shoulder. She patted her back. “Most of the time, she’s really easygoing.”

“She’s darling,” Gabe said. “Enjoy her, Mom. Before you know it, she’ll be giving you grief just like your other child.”

“You never gave me grief.” Her face crumbled. “I miss you so
much,
Gabriel.”

“Miss you, too.” Not.

“You look so . . . old.” The tears were back. “I’m so sorry, darling. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he told her. “You did me a huge favor.” Said with too much enthusiasm.

Terry said, “There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think about you.”

He rarely thought of her anymore. “It’s fine, Mom. I’m happy.” He grinned. “See?” He faked a yawn. “I have to get up early tomorrow . . . or rather today.” It was true. He was meeting Yasmine in the morning. “I need to sleep.”

Terry nodded, trying to smile away the defeat on her face. She was still patting Juleen’s back. “It’s wonderful to see you, Gabriel. I love you very, very much.”

“Same, Mom. Have a good night . . . or good day.” He waved and then quickly disconnected the line. He closed down his computer and slipped under the covers. In silence, his thoughts drifted from his mother to Yasmine. Whenever he wasn’t doing music, he compulsively thought about her. Usually that was enough to quell his angst. But tonight his mother’s sadness kept interfering with his peace of mind.

Two-fifteen . . . two-thirty . . . two-forty-five.

He gave up, stood up, and slipped on a T-shirt and jeans and loafers, heading out to his studio. He was a mess: anxious, lonely, depressed, furious at his abandonment, drowning in love, as well as obsessive/compulsive in thought and deed, and perpetually horny. On the plus side, he was good-looking and exceptionally talented. People were accepting of anything from a superstar.

T
he apartment appeared more spacious without the unwanted crowd of police and other officials. The living room had been neatened to the point of sterility, meshing with the antiseptic smell wafting through the hallway. Udonis Gelb wore a loose-fitting housedress and had slippers on her feet. She had taken some time to shower and make up her face—a little blush, a little lipstick. She had curly, salt-and-pepper hair and brown red-rimmed eyes with deep discolored skin that sagged under her lower lashes. She was holding a piece of paper—a to-do list from her son, she told them.

“It’s my bible. It gives me organization so I don’t have to think.”

Marge and Oliver were sitting on the couch, drinking lukewarm coffee. It was a dark and chilly Thursday morning, menacing skies holding the threat of rain all week.

“What’s on the list?” Oliver asked her. When she handed him the paper, Scott’s eyes skimmed down the items. Most of the numbered chores were errands—grocery shopping, bank, laundry, and so on—but one entry leaped out.

Find Myra’s laptop.

He handed the paper back to her. “That’ll keep you busy for a while.”

“Maybe.” Silence. “The hardest part of my day is waking up.” She regarded her muumuu and slippers. “I should have put on something more respectable.”

“You look fine,” Marge told her.

“All things considered, I guess that’s true.” Udonis picked at her nails. “When I go back to work next week, I’ll have to dress like a normal person again.”

Oliver said, “I noticed item number fifteen—find Myra’s laptop. Have you found it?”

“I haven’t looked for it. I haven’t been in the room.”

Marge asked, “Has anyone been in the room?”

“Eric was here when the cleaning service came. I wasn’t home. I don’t know if Eric was actually in the room, but he took care of it for me.”

“My lieutenant and I were in Myra’s room on the day of the incident,” Marge said. “Would you mind if Detective Oliver and I had another look at her room?”

She nodded. “Go ahead.” Oliver thanked her, and then she said, “You took a couple boxes of her artwork with you.”

“Yes, we did,” Marge said. “We’re still looking at the pictures, but we can give them back if you want them now.”

“No, just when you’re done.” She kneaded her hands. “Why do you need them?”

Marge said, “They help us get to know Myra a little, give us a little peek into who she liked at school and who she didn’t like.”

“She didn’t like too many people. She was critical. Most artists are.”

“If you feel up to it, it would be helpful to hear about Myra from you.”

The grieving mother sighed. “I appreciate your interest in my daughter, but can I ask you why it’s a police matter? It’s Gregory Hesse, right?”

Marge said, “Yes, it’s true that we want to make sure that there’s no overlooked connection between the two of them. Is this something you thought of, Mrs. Gelb? That the two incidents might be related?”

“Call me Udonis. And it crossed my mind. It crossed Wendy Hesse’s mind, too. She called me up. We spoke for about an hour. Mostly, we commiserated about belonging to the club that nobody wants to belong to.”

Her eyes blurred, and it took her a minute to find her voice again.

“As far as we could figure out, the kids didn’t know each other. Besides, Myra, God bless her soul, was having depression problems for some time.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “I was stunned it happened, but upon reflection, I should have been more aware. Once they’ve tried it, I don’t think you’re ever quite safe.”

“There have been other attempts?” Marge asked the question even though she knew the answer from Eric.

“Yes. About three years ago, she took pills. I put her into therapy and I thought we were long past that.” Her eyes were brimming over with water. “I should have been more aware.”

Oliver said, “Did she seem particularly depressed before this happened.”

“Not more depressed, not less depressed. Just Myra—quiet, studious, thoughtful.”

“She cartooned for the paper.” Oliver checked his notes. “The
B and W Tattler.
Do you know if she was writing for the paper as well?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Myra is a good writer.”

“Did she ever take any journalism classes?” Marge asked her.

“She took one in the ninth grade. That’s when she began to cartoon. She liked the teacher, Mr. Hinton.”

“Gregory Hesse also liked Mr. Hinton,” Marge mentioned.

Udonis said, “They wouldn’t have taken the class together. She was a year older. Did Gregory work on the paper?”

“I don’t know exactly how active he was, but he did write at least one article.”

Udonis sipped coffee and made a face. “This is terrible! I can’t believe I served you this swill.” Angrily, she took the cups away and marched off to the kitchen. She came back a moment later. “Do you think this has something to do with the school paper?”

“We don’t know,” Oliver said.

Marge said, “Gregory’s friends told us that he was working on something. Unfortunately, we don’t know what it was. Wendy Hesse thought his laptop could give us some clues, but that was stolen last Sunday night.”

“
Stolen?
”

“Somebody broke into the apartment and took it,” Marge said.

“It was the only thing the thief took,” Oliver said.

“Which is why we thought about Myra’s laptop,” Marge answered. “You don’t know where it is, right?”

Udonis nodded.

“When we were in the room, we noticed Myra’s phone and her iPod. Do you know if those items are still in her room?”

“They’re not,” Udonis said. “They’re in the kitchen drawer. Eric put them away for safekeeping.”