Gun Games

by Faye Kellerman

  The café was about fifteen minutes away from his bus stop to USC. Tuesdays and Thursdays were lesson days with Nicholas Mark, and although he wasn’t scheduled to meet with his teacher until eleven, he decided to get a jump on the day. He had slept fitfully last night. His mother’s voice knocking around in his head . . .

  He slathered cream cheese onto his bagel and started skimming through the news, which was even more depressing than his current life. A few minutes later, he felt the presence of eyes and looked up.

  A kid in the Jewish school uniform. Not surprising since the place was a two-minute walk from the day school. She must have had mufflers on her feet since he hadn’t heard a thing until she was standing over him, clutching her backpack as if it were armor.

  Her smile was shy. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” he answered. Upon a second glance, he realized that she was probably older than he had initially thought. She had a mocha complexion, a small, pointed chin, full lips, and big black round eyes topped with black eyebrows carefully arched and shaped. Her hair was equally as dark, very long and tied into a ponytail. She was actually cute, although her body wasn’t much—two scoops of ice cream for a chest and not a curve in sight. “Did you need something?”

  “Do you mind if I sit down?”

  He was the only occupant in the entire place. He shrugged. “No, go ahead.”

  But she didn’t sit. “I heard you play last year at graduation,” she told him. “My older sister was in Hannah’s class. You were . . .” She clutched her backpack to her chest. “Just . . . fantastic!”

  Gabe said, “Thank you very much.”

  “I mean it was like . . .”

  She didn’t finish the sentence. Silence ensued. It was awkward.

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.” Gabe picked up his coffee cup and sipped it, his eyes slipping back to his paper.

  “Do you like opera?” she blurted out.

  Gabe put down the paper. “As a matter of fact, I do like opera.”

  “You do?” Her eyes got wide. “Well, that’s good. Then at least these won’t go to waste.” She put down her backpack and started rummaging through it until she found what she was looking for—an envelope. She offered it to him. “Here you go.”

  He regarded her for a few moments, then took the envelope and opened it up. Tickets to La Traviata this Sunday at the Music Center. First row loge. “These are good seats.”

  “I know. They cost me a lot of my own money. Alyssa Danielli is playing Violetta. She’s wonderful, so I’m sure it’ll be wonderful.”

  “Then why aren’t you going?”

  “I was gonna go with my sister, but she flaked on me. I just couldn’t compete with a pool party and the lure of Michael Shoomer.”

  “So why don’t you find someone else to go with?”

  “No one my age is going to want to spend their Sunday afternoon at the opera.”

  “What about your mom?”

  “She’s busy. She’s not interested anyway. The only reason my sister agreed to go is I told her I’d clean her room. So I guess now I don’t have to do it.” She looked wounded. “You might as well use them. Take your girlfriend.”

  “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Well, then take a friend.”

  “I don’t have any friends. But . . . I certainly will use a ticket if you’re going to throw them away. Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Then thank you very much.” He handed her back the envelope with a single ticket.

  “You’re welcome.” She heaved a big sigh.

  Gabe tried to stifle a smile. “Would you like to go together?”

  The kid got excited. “Do you have a car?”

  “No, I’m only fifteen. But we can take the bus.”

  She looked horrified. “A bus?”

  “Yeah, a bus. That’s how you get around if you don’t have access to a car.” Her complexion darkened, and Gabe pointed to a chair. “Why don’t you sit down? I’m getting a pain in my neck looking up at you . . . although it’s not that far.”

  “I know. I’m a runt.” She sat down and glanced over her shoulder, speaking softly as if they were conspiring. “Do you know how to get to the Music Center by bus?”

  “I do.”

  “Where do you find a bus?”

  “At a bus stop.”

  She bit her lip. “You must think I’m a doofus.”

  “No, but you’re probably a pampered pooch who’s been carted around her entire life.”

  Instead of taking offense, she nodded. “Carted everywhere except where I really want to go.” She sighed. “I love Alyssa Danielli. Her voice is so . . . pure.”

  Gabe sat back in his chair and gave her face an honest appraisal. He admired passion in any form, but classical music was something he could relate to. “If you want to go to an opera so bad, just go.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Why not?”

  “You don’t understand Persian culture.”

  “Is there something in Persian genes that make them not like opera?”

  “My father wants me to be a doctor.”

  “I’m sure there are doctors who are opera fans.” He took a bite of his bagel. “You want some coffee or something?”

  “I’ll get it.” She stomped away, but left her backpack behind. A few minutes later she was back with something foamy. A sheen of sweat coated her forehead. “People are starting to come in.”

  “That’s good. It’ll keep the place in business.”

  “I mean it’s . . .” She glanced at her watch and sipped her coffee. “Is taking the bus dangerous?”

  “I wouldn’t go in the wee hours of the morning, but this is a matinee.” Gabe rubbed his neck. “If you’re going to continue to talk to me, could you please sit down?”

  She sat.

  He said, “Look . . . whatever your name is. How about if I give you directions by bus? If you’re at the bus stop, then we’ll go together. If not, I’ll buy you a CD and write you a review.”

  She sighed. “Maybe we can go by cab.”

  “A cab is like twenty times the money.”

  “I’ll pay for it.”

  Gabe stared at her. Who was she? “I’m not pleading poverty. I’ll pay for the cab if you definitely go. Otherwise, I’m going to go by bus.”

  “How about this?” the girl said. “You’ll pay for the cab if I go, and if I don’t go, I’ll pay you back.”

  Gabe shook his head. “This is getting very complicated.”

  “Please?” she implored.

  “Fine.” He rolled his eyes. “You’ll pay me back for the cab if you crap out . . . which doesn’t make any sense because I have to pick you up anyway and by that time, you should know whether or not you’re going.”

  Her big eyes got even wider. “You can’t pick me up at my house. I’ll meet you a few blocks away.”

  “Aha.” Gabe got it. “You’re sneaking around your parents.”

  “Sorta.”

  “Jeez, it’s not like you’re going to a rave; it’s a freakin’ opera.” When she didn’t say anything, he said, “It’s not just the opera; it’s going with me to the opera. Because I’m not Jewish.”

  She stared at him. “You’re not Jewish?”

  “Nope. I’m Catholic.”

  “Oh God. My dad would kill me just for going with a white boy.” She leaned over and spoke softly. “Why were you in a Jewish school if you’re not Jewish?”

  “It’s a long story.” He paused. “This isn’t a good idea. I don’t want to be responsible for getting you into trouble. Would you like your ticket back?”

  “No, of course not. If you don’t use it, it really will go to waste.” She blew out air again. “I mean, it’s just going to the opera, right?”

  “Yes, it’s just going to the opera. It is not a date.” He studied her face again. “How old are you?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “You look around ten.”

&nbs
p; “Thank you very much,” she snapped. It was clearly something she heard all the time.

  “You look young, but you’re very cute.” Gabe said it to mollify her, but he actually meant it. “This is what I’m going to do. I’m going to give you my phone number and you call or text me if you can make it.” He waited a moment. “You have a cell, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “So Persians can have cell phones—”

  “Ha, ha!”

  “Take down my cell number. Do you know my name?”

  “Gabriel Whitman.”

  “Excellent.” He gave the girl his number. “I’ll take your phone number now. But to do that, I first need to know your name.”

  “Yasmine Nourmand.” Pronounced Yaz-meen. She spelled it and then gave him her phone number.

  “That’s a very exotic name. What is your older sister’s name?”

  “I have three older sisters.”

  “The one that was in the class with Hannah.”

  “That’s Sage. My other sisters are Rosemary and Daisy. Yasmine is the Hebrew of Jasmine.”

  “So Mom had sort of a botanical thing going.”

  Yasmine smiled and checked her watch. “I have to go. School starts at seven-thirty.”

  “I remember that. Why were you here so early?”

  “Sometimes I come early to listen to my CDs.” She pulled out six operas—two Verdi, two Rossini, and two Mozart. “I mean, I really love my parents. And I love my sisters. They’re gorgeous and wonderful and everything. And I enjoy the regular pop stuff, too. But sometimes when I listen to my music—that no one else seems to like—I like being alone.”

  Her eyes were far away.

  “It’s my dream to see a real-life opera. And to hear someone as good as Alyssa Danielli.” She hefted her backpack. “Thanks for offering to come with me.”

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  “And thanks for not making fun of me.”

  “Well, I kinda did.”

  “Yeah, you kinda did.” She gave him a wave and was off.

  He returned his eyes to the paper, knowing full well that this was a mistake. But in talking to her, he suddenly realized how lonely he was.

  She had awakened a sleeping lion.

  Girls.

  Chapter Four

  Autopsy reports involving self-inflicted gunshot wounds were always grisly. The damage done by an up-close-and-personal weapon was horrendous. Details were even harder to read when the victims were young like Gregory Hesse. As Marge scanned the lengthy police file as well as what the coroner’s examiner had to say, she didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. All the signs of suicide were there: single bullet in the head, close-up burn mark on the temple, the position of the body with regard to the gun, stippling on the boy’s right hand. She got up from her desk and knocked on Decker’s open door. “Did you want to see Gregory Hesse’s file?”

  “Yeah, that would be great.” He motioned her inside. Marge wore a light knit brown sweater and black slacks—much more comfortable than Decker’s gray suit. Today he was wearing a thin black turtleneck so at least he didn’t have to wear a tie. The captain had given his attire the once-over, asking if he was going Hollywood. “Anything I should be aware of?”

  Marge sat down and laid the paperwork on his desk. “Most of it was plain depressing.”

  “What about the gun?”

  “The files say it was a Ruger LCP .380.”

  “A mouse gun,” Decker said.

  “Mouse gun, ladies’ gun—whatever it was, it did the trick. Oliver told me it was an older-model Ruger.”

  “How old?”

  “I don’t think he said. He’s pulling it out of the evidence locker sometime today.” She paused. “If everything seems consistent with a suicide, what’s our next step?”

  “Well, I can make a phone call to Mrs. Hesse and tell her there’s nothing for us to pursue. Or I can make a phone call and tell her that I’ll talk to some of Gregory’s friends and teachers and try to find some clues as to what happened.”

  Marge nodded.

  Decker said, “What’s on your mind?”

  “I know that she lives in the community we serve. So we are her employees in a very broad sense. But is that really our job—a psychological autopsy? Not that I mind doing it, but I don’t want to get into areas that we’re not familiar with.”

  “Valid point, so let me put it this way. When we do an investigation, we try to find the motive behind every crime. Technically suicide is a crime.”

  “I suppose every crime starts with a weapon,” Marge said. “I’ll see where Oliver is on that.”

  “Could you also get me a couple of phone numbers?” He flipped through his notes. “For Joey Reinhart and Kevin Stanger. You probably can get those by calling up Bell and Wakefield. I don’t want to contact Wendy Hesse until we have something to say.”

  “The school might be more cooperative if I added a personal touch.” Marge checked her watch—eleven. “I can go there right now.”

  “Sure. And while you’re there, try to get a feel for the place.”

  Oliver knocked on the door and came in. “I just got some information on the Ruger used in the suicide. The gun was stolen from Dr. Olivia Garden who, according to our computers, is a sixty-five-year-old dermatologist practicing in Sylmar.”

  Decker pointed to the chair next to Marge, and Oliver sat down. Scott, always the dandy, was appointed today in a black shirt and tie, gray trousers, and a herringbone jacket. His shoes were black buffed leather loafers. “Did you contact the doctor?”

  “I put a call into her secretary. Doctor was with a patient. Her lunch hour is from twelve-thirty to two. I’ll just pop in and try to catch her then. Maybe Gregory Hesse was her patient. You know teenagers and acne. Could be he lifted it from her desk.”

  “The gun was stolen six years ago,” Marge said. “Gregory would have been eight or nine.”

  “Right,” Oliver said. “So it probably passed through a few hands since then.”

  “Was just her gun stolen or was it part of a larger burglary?”

  “I don’t know. I just plugged in the serial number and there it was.”

  “Where did the theft take place?”

  “From her office,” Oliver said.

  “Her office. Interesting.” Decker thought a moment. “Maybe she had problems with previous drug break-ins and felt she needed protection.”

  “When I speak to her, I’ll ask her about it.”

  “Okay. Also find out who knew about the gun and who had access to it.”

  “Got it.” He stood up and looked at Marge. “Want to come with me?”

  “I’ll go with you if you come with me to Bell and Wakefield. The Loo wants some phone numbers. Those kinds of things are easier to get if we show up in person.”

  Decker said, “And while you’re at it, get Gregory Hesse’s class schedule. At some later date, we may want to talk to his teachers.”

  “Sure, I’ll come with you,” Oliver said to Marge. He regarded Decker. “Is this Gregory Hess thing like a full-fledged investigation? I mean all signs point to the kid killing himself. Case closed.”

  “A fifteen-year-old boy shoots himself with a mouse gun stolen six years ago from a doctor’s office. I’m a little curious. For now, let’s say case still open.”

  The beep from his cell distracted Gabe’s concentration . . . which was okay with him because he really wasn’t playing very well.

  Some days you hit it, some days you didn’t.

  He’d forgotten to turn off his phone. Why he kept it was still a mystery to him. Not many people called nowadays: the Deckers, his piano teacher who was usually switching times on him, and his father engaging him in thirty-second conversations. For the amount of minutes Gabe used per month, it didn’t even pay to keep the line going except that it was more expensive to cancel the service than to keep it current.

  It was a text from a local number that Gabe didn’t recognize: i’m comin
g with u on sunday.

  It was from the Persian girl. Yasmine. The smile that spread across his face was involuntary. He had been thinking about her the last couple of days. Not on-purpose thinking. That’s the kind of thinking when you longed to keep the image fresh in your brain—like the last time he saw his mother. It wasn’t like that . . . just that Yasmine had popped into his head from time to time.

  His thumbs pecked across the keyboard of his phone.

  g8. where do u want to meet?

  She texted him back an address of where to meet her with the cab.

  it’s 3 blocks from my house. what time?

  The show started at three. A taxi wouldn’t take nearly as long as a bus, but he still wanted to allow a little breathing room because he was a stickler on punctuality.

  is 1 ok?

  a little early for me to get out. how about 2?

  cutting it too close. 1:30 max.

  ok.

  A pause.

  B there 1:30.

  He wrote, looking 4ward. Bye.

  bye.

  He put down the phone. Then it beeped again.

  Thx.

  He smiled again. ur welcome.

  This time he turned off the phone and went back to his piano. He stowed the Mozart piano sonata no. 11 in A major and instead chose Chopin—the polonaise in C-sharp minor, op. 26, no. 1, first movement—allegro appassionato.

  His mood of the moment was very appassionato.

  The banners hanging across the two-story buildings announced that Bell and Wakefield was currently celebrating thirty years of excellence. It was built when Marge had just come on as a rookie detective in the Foothill Division with Decker. The school’s architecture had held up well because the style was classical: California mission with large leaded-glass windows, wood-trimmed doors, stucco walls, and red tiled roofs. The campus was set on acres of rolling lawns shaded by sycamores, eucalyptus, and California oak. Facilities included a library, a computer lab, and a faculty building along with a football field, a bank of tennis and basketball courts, plus an outdoor swimming pool. Cars in the student and guest parking included subcompacts, compacts, and lots of four-wheel drives from Ravs to Range Rovers. Faculty had their own dedicated lot.