Gun Games (9 page)

“More like mysterious.” Yasmine started walking . . . very slowly. She didn’t want the night to end. “Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome.”

They strolled for a few moments in silence, the only sound made by her clacking heels.

“No,
really
thanks.” Yasmine stopped. “It was the most wonderful, special day of my life. I’ll never, ever forget it.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, running away and disappearing up a sidewalk, her heels clapping against the pavement until he could hear a door open and close.

Then all was still.

Gabe stood for just a few seconds, then turned around and started home, his cheek still burning with the feel of her lips.

Chapter Nine

F
rom a detective’s standpoint, suicide was a strange crime. There was a victim, but the perpetrator wore many faces: depression, psychosis, humiliation, overwhelming debt, rage, self-loathing, or that tragic combination of teenage angst paired with a firearm. Reconstructing Gregory Hesse’s mind at the moment of impact was impossible. All Decker was looking for was a hint of why.

The week following Hesse’s memorial had been busy, the station house humming with crimes of every stripe. Most of his detectives were in the field, attempting to gather enough evidence to bring in bad guys who were at current, walking the public streets. Marge and Oliver seemed to be in and out of court, testifying on cases that took over a year to bring to trial. Thursday afternoon, Decker received a call from Romulus Poe of the New Mexico State Police.

“It appears that your serial killer, Garth Hammerling, was in fact around my area. I’ve been trying to retrace his movements, but I’ve got gaps. The last I heard, he had bought a bunch of camping equipment and was headed for the National Forest in northern New Mexico. The area is the southern tip of the Rockies and it’s easy to disappear there. Around this time, it’s also real easy to get lost and freeze to death. You’d have to be a real good survivalist to make it through the winter, especially the one we’re having now.”

Decker said, “I don’t know anything about Hammerling’s survival skills. I know he’s done some camping in the past.”

“Camping in the Rockies in wintertime isn’t Yosemite in summer with power hookups and porta-potties. It’s rigorous and it’s dangerous.”

“Good thing for Hammerling that he knows how to kill,” Decker said.

“Maybe he’s good with drunken women. A mountain lion is another beast altogether. And let me tell you, in the winter, they’re hungry. I myself live off the grid—been doing it for decades. But even I wouldn’t camp up north in wintertime.”

Decker said, “If you flew over the area in a helicopter, could you see anything?”

“The area is filled with pines so even in the summer you can’t see much from up top except green. At this time of year, it’s all white, and after a few minutes you get snow blindness. I suppose if you got extremely lucky, you might see some smoke or something. Best to wait until he comes down to civilization. If we don’t hear from him, we can start looking when the thaw comes in March and we’d be just as likely to find a body as a live person. I’ll apprise the park rangers and let you know if we get any action. If he was smart, he’d realize that it’s cold outside and shimmy back down to warmer temperatures.”

“Okay. Just don’t drop your guard. He is a very dangerous guy.”

“Understood. If I get a bead on him, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Poe, we’ll keep in touch.” Decker hung up the phone just as Marge Dunn was coming into his office. She said, “My schedule just cleared up. Anything you need?”

The clock read ten after three. “I’m sure I can come up with something.” He checked off items on his to-do list and was left with Gregory Hesse. “Could you run an errand for me?”

“Pick up your dry cleaning or wash your car?”

“Everything I have is wash and ruin, and my car is hopeless.” Decker pointed to a chair and Marge sat down. Today she was dressed in brown slacks and a pink sweater. Color looked good on her. “I’m still looking into a motive behind Gregory Hesse’s suicide.”

“How’s that going?”

“I’m still waiting for the tox report. I keep thinking that maybe the kid was high on something, because every one of his buddies seems to be in the dark as to why.” He gave her a recap of his conversations, especially the one last Sunday with Joey Reinhart. “Why don’t you go to Wendy Hesse’s house and pick up Greg’s laptop and his camcorder. Videotaping seemed to be Greg’s passion. Also ask Mrs. Hesse if you can look around his room. Greg’s best friend, Joey Reinhart, implied that maybe there was a girl in Greg’s life.”

“And if we find her?”

“Ask her about the relationship and if it went south. Maybe that was the reason behind the act.”

“We don’t want to make anyone feel guilty,” Marge said.

“No, of course not. For Greg to do this, he was clearly disturbed. Most guys can get over girls pretty quickly. Even if their brains are still sad, their gonads are still heat-seeking missiles. But there are those rare sensitive types that can’t see a future beyond a broken heart. Did we find anything new with the gun?”

“We ran it through ballistics. Now we have to pull up cases where we have shells from a .380 Ruger. It’s going to take time.”

“Think the gun has been sitting around doing nothing for five years?”

“It could have been doing something but we may not know about it. The obsession with a camera is intriguing. Maybe he filmed something he shouldn’t have.”

“I was thinking about the same thing.” He handed her an address. “I hope Wendy Hesse is still cooperative. I haven’t talked to her since the memorial service.”

“She hasn’t called you up?”

“No, and I’ve called her several times. All I’ve gotten is the machine. So maybe she changed her mind about poking into Greg’s personal life.”

“So why stir up things?”

“You know how it is with an investigation. The damn thing takes on a life of its own.”

G
abe hadn’t heard from her since Sunday evening. She had texted to say her final thanks, and he had texted back, anytime, which he had meant. Then his phone had gone cold.

During the week, he thought about contacting her, but what was the point? She’d either show up on Saturday or she wouldn’t, and the way things were going,
wouldn’t
looked like the likely option. It was affecting him and his playing. Even his teacher noticed.

Especially his teacher noticed.

You’re distracted
. Then Nick graced him with one of his famous withering looks.
Gabriel, you’re a good professional-quality pianist. You’ll always be a good professional pianist. But if you want to be
great,
you’re going to have to be one hundred percent focused on what you’re doing. In this business, good isn’t going to cut it.

For Chrissakes, he was fifteen. Most dudes his age were smoking dope and sniffing girls. What did the man
want
from him? Instead, Gabe told Nick that he was right and he’d try harder.

It’s not your hands, Gabe, it’s your brain. Get your head wrapped around the music.

He had meant to take the advice to heart. He really had meant to do it. Plus, Nick had given him some composing assignments that ordinarily he really liked. But instead of making progress in his chosen field, he was alone in the house, sitting on his bed at four in the afternoon, surfing Facebook.

Chopin would just have to fucking wait.

Distracted.

His Facebook account was still active, but his pictures were old. There were several snapshots of him and his buddies when he had buddies. There were a couple of him and his mom when he had a mom. There was one old picture of his dad who happened to be the only one still in his life. He hadn’t answered anyone’s mail or posted any comments in over a year. Wistfully he surfed the pages of his old buddies, looking at updated photographs. His friends had grown taller and broader, and some of the more swarthy ones had sizable clumps of facial hair. His own cheeks and chin had sprouted stubble, but it was hard to see because it was growing in blond.

Anyway he wasn’t really interested so much in his old friends—just his new one.

For the fifth time in an hour, he pulled up Yasmine’s profile. She had accepted his invitation to be her friend, but that was as far as their contact had gone.

He stared at the pictures of her (gorgeous), her three sisters (gorgeous), her mother (the original gorgeous), and her dad who was bald and square faced and looked to be in his late sixties. Yasmine resembled her sisters (who in turn resembled the mother) except that she was still childish whereas the other three were closer to being women. He got a clear idea how she’d mature, would love to take a bite out of her two years from now. Even as is, he wouldn’t mind a nibble. He continued to gape at her face, wishing she’d never approached him. He had even gone to Coffee Bean several times in the past week at six in the morning, hoping to catch her, but she didn’t show.

As a last resort, he thought about hanging around her school, acting surprised when he saw her. He had a legitimate excuse. Rina was a teacher there. But he nixed the idea because it was clearly stalking.

So he stared at the same dozen pictures that he had stared at a few minutes before.

His computer broke in with an IM.

Are you there?

The screen name was different from the last time, but he suspected who it was.

Mom?

A long pause.

How are you?

He felt his eyes blur and his throat close up.

I’m fine.
His brain was awhirl. She never told him about her pregnancy—the reason why she had abandoned him. He decided to jump the gun and let her know that he knew.
How’s my sister doing?

Another break from the text. It was taking her a while to answer. What time was it in India? It had to be in the wee hours of the morning.

She’s fine. Did Chris tell you?

Gabe wrote:
Yes, he told me. But Decker figured it out also. We’ve all known for a while. What’s her name?

He waited for her to respond.

Juleen.

I like it. Someday I’d love to meet her.

I would love that, too. Maybe sooner than later?

His heart felt very heavy. The moment was awkward.

We’ll see how it shakes out. Give her a kiss for me. And don’t worry too much about Chris. I’ve seen him a few times. I think he’s moved on to other things.

Another pause.

I love you, Gabriel. I love you and miss you very much.

A very, very heavy heart. He wasn’t angry anymore. His rage at her desertion had been replaced with engulfing sadness. The piano seemed to be calling his name.

I miss you, too. I’ve got to go practice, Mom. Don’t worry about me. I’m really fine.

He shut off the computer before she could respond and walked over to the garage where the Deckers had set up a piano studio for him. They were wonderful people—just the best. But they weren’t his flesh and blood.

Focus, Gabe, focus.

The subtleties of Chopin never sounded so good.

A
fter giving the door a firm knock and receiving no answer, Marge stuck her business card in the space between the door and the frame. She was just about to turn around when the door opened and the card fell onto the ground.

Wendy Hesse looked bleary eyed, dressed in blue sweats, with socks but no shoes on her feet.

Marge bent down to pick up the card. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hesse, did I wake you?”

Her expression suggested confusion. “What time is it?”

“Four o’clock.”

Wendy rubbed her eyes. “I was watching TV and I must have fallen asleep.” Several seconds ticked by. “Four o’clock?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ve got to pick up my kids from school.” She put her hand over her mouth. “Is it Friday?”

“Thursday.”

“Oh . . .” She regarded Marge’s face. “You look very familiar.”

“Detective Dunn, LAPD.” She handed the woman her card. “I was wondering if I could come in.”

“Of course.”

Marge crossed the threshold. It was a cool February day in the Valley, but the house was as hot as a foundry. It had been a long time since the interior had experienced fresh air. The place was tidy especially considering the circumstances. Wendy Hesse sat down on a red sofa, and Marge sat next to her.

“Do you need anything?” Marge asked her.

“No, I’m . . .” She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ears. “People have been kind. Some are a little shy about approaching me, but for the most part, it’s been . . . Thank God for friends.” She needed her hands. “It’s Thursday?”

“Yes.”

“Almost two weeks.”

“Have you gone into his room yet?” When Wendy shook her head no, Marge said, “Would it be possible for me to look around his room? We’re still searching for a reason . . . all of us. It would be helpful if I could take Gregory’s laptop to headquarters and probe its contents.”

Wendy looked nervous. “Maybe I should ask my husband about this.”

“Sure.” Marge waited a beat. “Have you looked at Gregory’s laptop?”

She shook her head no.

“Do you know his screen name and password?”

“I know his screen name. I used to know his password, but I think he’s changed it.”