Gun Games (37 page)

“And I know how important that is to you . . . my career.”

“You think that’s important to me? That you become a pianist.”

“You’ve always pushed me.”

“Yeah, I pushed you. ’Cause you wanted to be pushed. But if you want to give it up, that’s your decision. You don’t want to go to Juilliard, go to Harvard. You don’t want to go to college, come to Nevada and I’ll teach you how to run whorehouses. You want to just fuck around and be a total washout, I’ll support you. Just do what you want to do and if you don’t know what you want to do, that’s okay, too.”

Neither one spoke for a minute. Gabe was still looking at his lap. “I do want it, you know. Music is my life.”

“You have the talent to go all the way, Gabriel. Now it’s just a matter of fortitude.”

Gabe sighed, which made him wince. His heart was so heavy. He muttered, “I didn’t even get a chance to say good-bye to her.”

“What?”

“Yasmine. I didn’t get to say good-bye. Her mom just yanked her away from me.” His father remained stone-faced. “Forget it.”

“What would you like me to say?”

“How about, ‘That really sucks.’ ”

Donatti shrugged. “You get shot and you lose your girlfriend in a single day. That really does suck.”

Strangely his father’s words made him feel better. “I know you think I’m just a stupid kid, but I really, really liked her.”

Donatti said, “I believe you. I wish I could make you feel better. If you weren’t underage, I’d set you up with my whores. But I can’t take the chance. Once you turn eighteen, I’ll get you any girl you want—any body type, any hair color, any eye color, any race, any ethnicity, anything you want. Custom-made pussy. In the meantime, you’re a good-looking dude. You shouldn’t have any problems attracting twat. Once you get to college, you’ll be fine.”

Gabe stared at his father but didn’t say anything.

Donatti shrugged. “Don’t look so stunned. You should know me by now. I can’t relate to anything I can’t fuck. It’s not that I don’t have feelings. I do. But they’re intertwined with sex and that’s just the way I’m wired. Yes, it does suck that you lost your girlfriend. But my take on it would be: I’m pissed because I can’t have sex with her anymore. So if I can’t have sex with her, I’ll find someone else. So I’m talking to you like I’d like to be talked to if I were in the situation. And that would be, ‘Chris, you can’t have A, so here’s B.’ ”

Gabe glanced at his father. Then he said, “Can you pass me the hamburger?”

“Sure.”

“Thank you.” Gabe ate in silence. Then he realized he was starving, and ate the Jell-O and the bread. He said, “Are you sure you’re okay with me living with you?”

“You know you could have moved in with me after your mom left. I thought you were better off with the Deckers. But now you’re not. If Decker is saying get out of town, I take him seriously. And that’s the end of the story. Just mind your manners and keep out of my way when I’m in a mood and we’ll be fine.”

“You’re nothing if not honest.”

“I’m not even honest. I’m a pathological liar.”

Gabe laughed. “Yes, you are.”

“Watch it. I can say it. You can’t. And as long as we’re having this heart-to-heart, let me tell you something. In the future, if you ever endanger your life when you don’t have to, I’ll take you out myself. I don’t
ever
want to get that kind of phone call again. If it’s a choice between her and you, it’s her. No pussy is worth your life. Are we clear on that?”

“I would have done it all over again in a heartbeat.”

“Then you’re an idiot.” A pause. “On the other hand, it’s good that you can handle sticky situations. No father wants a pussy for a son.” Donatti gave Gabe the cranberry juice. “Drink. If you have to piss to get out of this place, do it sooner than later.”

“I could probably piss now.”

“Go ahead. You’ve got to save it in a cup.”

“
What? Why?
”

“I don’t know
why,
Gabe. That’s what the nurse told me. When he gets up to piss, have him save it in a cup. Maybe there is all sorts of important stuff in your piss that they need to look at. Maybe the doctor is a pervert. Just save it in a fucking cup, and I’ll ring up the nurse.”

“Oh God!” Disgusted didn’t even begin to describe how he felt. Slowly he got up on his feet. His head was dizzy, and it took a few moments before he was sure he could walk without passing out. His bandaged chest limited his mobility, but he could move his arms well enough. He wheeled his IV with him into the bathroom, his hospital robe flapping open in the back, exposing his butt in the breeze. His dad just watched, not even bothering to offer any help. He came back several minutes later with a full cup of urine. “This is really demeaning.”

The nurse walked into the room and relieved him of his cup. “Good boy.”

“So where’s my friggin’ lollipop?” Gabe grumbled.

The nurse stared at him. Donatti smiled and said, “Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome.” The nurse took Gabe’s arm and helped ease him into bed. “How bad are you feeling?”

Gabe felt contrite. “It hurts.”

“I’ll see what the doctor wants to give you.” She looked at the empty dinner tray. “You ate. That’s very good. Would you like something else?”

How about a shot of lead through my temples?
“I’m fine for the moment, thanks.” After the nurse left, Gabe said, “Chris, get me
out
of here.”

“You did your piss. Take a shit.”

“This is so degrading.”

“Yeah, hospitals suck the big one. What’d you do to your arm?”

Gabe rolled up the sleeve on his hospital robe. “I got a couple of tats.” When Donatti smiled and shook his head, he said, “I know. I’m an idiot.”

“It’s just so
wannabe
.”

“I wanted to do something for her.” Gabe blew out air. “Now she’s gone.”

“And you’re stuck with her name inked on your arm,” Donatti said.

“Well, I still like it.” He sighed. “It’s all I have left of her.”

“Roll up your sleeve again. What are the notes on the clef below the name?”

“ ‘Der Hölle Rache.’ ”

“You tatted opera on your arm?” Donatti stared at him. “Who
are
you?”

“I’m you if you were a nerd.”

Donatti laughed spontaneously. “You’re growing on me, you know that?”

Gabe said, “If I take a shit, do you promise I can leave?”

“I’ll do my best, but I’m not in charge.”

“You have a winning way with people.”

“It’s called a blinding smile and a firearm,” Donatti answered. “They probably won’t let you leave until tomorrow so why don’t you just relax.”

“Easy for you to say,” Gabe told him. “You’re not hooked up to an IV, bandaged like a mummy, and wearing a gown that shows your butt.”

Donatti just shrugged. “You just got shot, dude. Live with a bare ass.”

“Do you have anything else in the bag?”

“I have grapes, an apple, and an egg salad sandwich. Take whatever you want.”

“I’ll have some grapes.”

Donatti pulled out a clamshell of green seedless. The nurse came back and took Gabe’s vitals. Then she injected something in Gabe’s IV. “This will help you sleep.”

“Thanks.” Gabe popped a grape in his mouth. “Sorry if I snapped at you before.”

The nurse smiled and turned to Donatti. “You raised him right.”

“Thank you,” Donatti said. As soon as she left, father and son broke into laughter.

“God, that hurts!” Gabe was holding his side.

“When’s my nomination as Father of the Year?” Donatti was still smiling. “So tell me what you were working on before you got plugged.”

Gabe started talking music: the default topic between his father and him. He spoke of his lessons, his composing, his upcoming gigs, the pieces he was working on. Before he knew it, he had not only eaten all the grapes, but an hour had passed. Chris always had a way of listening that made you think he was really interested in what you were saying. The man oozed magnetism and charisma. Girls flocked to him because he was not only charming but movie-star handsome. Guys also clamored for Chris’s attention, all of them wanting to be his best buddy. Chris didn’t have any best buddy. He didn’t have any buddies. He had chattel. Gabe could feel his energy flag.

Donatti said, “You look tired.”

“Maybe a little.” His eyelids felt very heavy. “Must be the drugs. Where are you staying for the night?”

“Here.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“It’s midnight.” Donatti yawned, took off his shoes, and plopped his feet encased in socks on the hospital bed. “Even if I had a reservation somewhere else, I’m too lazy to move. It’s late and I’m beat. Go to sleep.”

Gabe was silent. Then he said, “Maybe I’ll try to go to the bathroom.”

Donatti threw his head back and closed his eyes. “Go for it.”

“Do I have to save that, too?”

“No one said anything about saving your shit. But don’t worry about that, son. Even if you flush it down the toilet, there’s always life to replenish the stock.”

Chapter Thirty-eight

D
espite the emphatic protests of the A.D.A. Nurit Luke, the presiding judge did set bail for Dylan Lashay at five million dollars plus a surrender of his passport. Within three days, the boy was out and about, flaunting his freedom in a brand-new Audi.

Kyle Kerkin’s lawyer reached a plea agreement with the D.A.’s office. The teen would be the state’s witness against Dylan Lashay in the murder case of Gregory Hesse in exchange for the reduced charges of involuntarily manslaughter, kidnapping, and weapons violation. The plea included an eighteen-month sentence of prison time to be served at CMC (level II) in San Luis Obispo with a chance for early release depending on his behavior.

Cameron Cole was not implicated in Gregory Hesse’s murder, but she was charged with attempted murder and kidnapping along with possession of stolen property. She also reached a plea agreement of one year of jail time served in Central California Women’s Facility in Chowchilla.

Despite Decker’s best efforts, he couldn’t find any way to link Dylan Lashay with Myra Gelb’s suicide. There was no doubt in Decker’s mind that Dylan stole the gun from the Hollys’ house. (Charge denied.) Decker was also positive that Dylan sold Myra Gelb the weapon. (Also denied.) But since the booty taken from the Holly house was found in Cameron’s possession, not Dylan’s, the stolen property was the heated debate of a “he said, she said.” And with both of the parties shown to be adroit liars as well as psychopaths, the judge felt it was easier to go with the path of least resistance. Many charges were heaped upon Lashay, but burglary and Myra Gelb’s death were not among them.

No personal link was found between Gregory Hesse and Myra Gelb, other than a few phone calls while working on the school paper. Perhaps Myra got the idea of suicide after Gregory’s demise. She knew where to find a gun as did almost everyone in B and W. Myra had had problems before, and it could have been that the death of a schoolmate sent her over the edge. Even so, Decker just couldn’t shake the idea that if he worked a little harder, if he dug a little deeper, he could have found something: the detective’s curse. But there was always the future. No case is ever fully closed.

What really troubled him more than anything was Dylan’s freedom while he was awaiting trial. He expressed his concerns to Marge on a hot summer day in August three and a half months after Gabe was shot. The station house’s air-conditioning was languid at best, and the two of them were sitting in his office fanning their faces with blank sheets of paper even though Decker had an electric desk fan blowing around tepid air.

“Dylan’s been out for months,” Marge said. “Why is this still eating at you?”

“It just is.”

“You can’t allow that, Pete. If you do, he wins.” Marge wiped her face with a tissue. Even wearing lightweight linens and cottons, she was still sweating. The heat and smog that hung in the San Fernando Valley’s basin at this time of year were twin towers of oppression. “Are you still worried about the kids?”

“Honestly, I think they’re fine; however, I will feel better once Lashay is behind bars.” Decker paused. “Gabe’s certainly okay. Chris will take care of him. I’m not even concerned about Yasmine since her family moved to the city.”

“Is it Wendy Hesse then? I know she comes down to the station house and brings you cookies all the time. Do you feel responsible for her?”

“She is what got the ball rolling and, yes, I do want justice for her.”

No one spoke. Marge said, “But it’s more than that.”

“I’ve seen Lashay hanging around. He drives that red Audi R8. The kid has charges of murder, attempted murder, and kidnapping hanging over his head, not to mention felony weapons and drug charges, and he’s not even trying to blend into the woodwork. What is wrong with his parents?”

“I’m sure he’s conned them just like he conned everyone else.”

“There’s denial and then there’s stupidity,” Decker said.

“I know that. But why are you thinking about it now?” Marge asked.

“Nurit Luke called me yesterday. Dylan’s lawyer, Sanford Book, wants to meet with her next week.”

“Ah. You think they’re going to plea bargain.”

“Why else would Book call Nurit?” Decker said. “My guess would be voluntary manslaughter down from premeditated murder.”

“That’s not going to happen. Not with Dylan laughing like he did on the videotape.”

“Yeah, but the camera never ever showed his face.” Decker looked pained. “I’m concerned.”

“We have Kyle calling the person behind the camera ‘Dylan’ over the audio.”

“Yeah, but without seeing him, you could paint a different scenario.”

“Like what?”

“Something stupid. You could say Dylan was in shock and that’s why he laughed. Or it wasn’t really Dylan with the camera. Or Kyle was trying to implicate Dylan to get back at him for some reason . . . because Dylan broke his heart.”

“That’s stretching it.”

“That’s what defense lawyers do. They stretch the truth.”

Marge said, “Nurit’s a great lawyer. She isn’t afraid to go for broke.”

“That’s what worries me. Suppose she goes for broke and we strike out?”

“Not with those charges.”

“I hope you’re right.” Decker shrugged. “Let it go, right. It isn’t up to me.”

“Exactly. Let the attorneys battle it out. Even if they plea murder one to voluntary manslaughter, with the other charges of attempted murder, kidnapping, possession of stolen firearms, and drug charges, I would say that Dylan will do heavy time.”

He exhaled. “I’m usually pretty optimistic. I just have a bad feeling about this.”

Marge was quiet. “Isn’t your vacation coming up soon?”

“Two weeks.”

“That’s great. Where are you going?”

“To that fantastic tropical isle of Manhattan. We’re going to New York to help settle Hannah into Barnard and Gabe into Juilliard. Then we’re going to visit my folks in Orlando.”

Marge smiled. “Florida’s nice.”

“Not in the summer,” Decker groused. “One of these days, Rina and I are going to take a real vacation. And when we do, I might never come back.”

W
hen Decker found out that it was New Mexico state police detective Romulus Poe on the line, he thought that, at last, he was in for some good news.

He thought wrong.

Poe said, “No sightings of Garth Hammerling, but we do have a dead girl.”

Decker’s stomach dropped as Poe described the psychosexual murder scene. He said, “Are you sure it’s Hammerling?”

“No, we’re not sure. But she has DNA and you have DNA and I thought if my DNA can get together with your DNA, I’ll know who I’m looking for.”

“I’ll send you the profile we have.”

Poe was silent for a few seconds. Then he said, “I am so goddamn
pissed
about this. It’s like you handed me this guy on a silver platter and I screwed up.”

“You didn’t screw up, but I know the feeling.”

“He was on my radar. I don’t know how he slipped out.”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Decker said. “He slipped from California, he slipped from Nevada. If the cellular evidence matches, it’ll be just one more state that’ll have a warrant out for his arrest.” A pause. “He seems to be making an eastward trajectory. If he keeps going this way, his next stop will be Texas.”

“I pray to God that Hammerling is apprehended there,” Poe said. “The Lone Star State has the death penalty and she’s not afraid to use it.”

D
eputy D.A. Nurit Luke showed up at the station house in person and unannounced in a hot pink cotton blazer and black linen pants. Her red hair was neatly coiffed, but her makeup could use a refresh. She didn’t look happy. When Decker came up to her from behind and tapped her on the shoulder, she jumped.

“Sorry,” he said. “Are you looking for me?”

“No apology necessary. I’m discombobulated. And yes, I’m looking for you.”

“The meeting didn’t go well,” Decker stated.

“Can we talk somewhere private?”

“That bad?”

She gave him a forced smile. He escorted her into his office and closed the door. “What’s the bad news?”

“Dylan was a no-show.”

Decker leaned forward on his chair. “He was scheduled to be there?”

“He was scheduled to be there, he was supposed to be there,” Nurit said. “Book was serious about a plea bargain. Book showed, his secretary showed, and Dylan’s parents showed. After thirty minutes of waiting, the team went into phone-call mode. He isn’t answering his cell, and no one seems to know where he’s gone.”

“What about his car?”

“It’s still in the garage.” Nurit fiddled nervously with the straps of her bag.

“Okay,” Decker said. “When was the last time anyone saw him?”

“His mother claimed she saw him just a few hours before the meeting.”

“I’ll send out an APB right away. I’ll also have my people start calling up the airlines, the bus lines, train lines, rental cars, and taxi cab and limo services. He couldn’t have gotten very far if he left just a few hours before the meeting.”

Nurit continued to play with the straps on her purse.

“You don’t believe the mother, do you?”

“No.”

“Even though the family stands to lose five million dollars?”

“I don’t believe her at all.”

“You think Dylan is long gone.”

“Yes. I think he left as soon as Book wanted to deal—a sign that Dylan would have trouble with a jury trial. That his car is in the garage means it wasn’t an impulse flee—something that had been planned a week ago.”

“So Dylan could be anywhere.”

“Yes.”

“Good Lord . . .” First Hammerling, now Lashay. It’s enough to give vigilantism a good name. “Okay. We’ll start an investigation. The first thing to do is to try to retrace his steps.”

“God, I’m pissed.”

“I am, too.” He paused. “I’m going on vacation this Friday. Marge’ll handle this. She’s been in charge from the beginning anyway.”

“Actually, I called her before I called you. She isn’t picking up.”

“That’s right. She has a court date. She should be out in a couple of hours.” He picked up his phone. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to make a couple of calls.”

“You’re calling up the families?”

“Yes, I’m calling up the families. I have to let them know.”

“Man, I don’t envy you at all.”

Decker gave her a sick look and punched in the Nevada area code. He chose Donatti first because he knew the number by heart.

T
he visit to Olivia Garden’s office was a pop-in, and because the doctor wasn’t expecting the police, the detectives had to wait until she was between patients. Ten minutes later, the doctor’s secretary took them into her personal office. Ten minutes after that, the white-coated physician came inside and shut the door. She sat down behind her desk and wiped her face with her hands. She was all business.

“What can I do for you?”

Marge said, “It’s about your grandson, Dylan Lashay.”

“As if I didn’t know.” Her eyes became very sad. “I’ve been just sick about this. Just . . . sick!”

Oliver said, “Dr. Garden, I understand the love between grandchild and grandparent. It’s a deep-rooted relationship that’s based on nothing but adoration. I have grandchildren of my own, and I find it’s the sole reason to have children. But I must tell you this. If you’re hiding Dylan, you are hiding a fugitive. You are breaking the law. You’ve made a life for yourself. Don’t jeopardize it for a man accused of murder, attempted murder, and kidnapping.”

“Dear God!” A heavy sigh. “I wish I could help you, Detective. But I haven’t seen Dylan in years. When his stepfather adopted him, Dylan cut all of us out of the picture at the insistence of his mother.”

“How did your son feel about that?”

“It’s complicated,” the doctor replied.

Marge said, “When we came and visited you the first time, did you have suspicions that Dylan stole the gun.”

“No. I didn’t suspect anything!” Olivia was adamant. “Once everything came out, I put two and two together. It made me absolutely sick!”

“Dylan had access to your gun?”

“I suppose he must have.” A heavy sigh. “My son isn’t really Dylan’s father. I found that out later on. At the time of his divorce from Cresta—Dylan’s mother—Maurice thought it would be good for Dylan to spend some time at the office. He thought that being near me would be palliative for Dylan’s fragile nerves. We were always close, and when the divorce was announced, Dylan
seemed
so vulnerable.”

“You think he was faking it?”

“No, I don’t think he was faking it at all. Dylan was a quiet child, with his mother always screaming at one thing or another, so who could get a word in edgewise.”

“What do you mean that your son wasn’t Dylan’s father?”