Gun Games

by Faye Kellerman

  “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.”

  Gabe 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.

  After 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 wa
s 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.”

  “Should we go to his room and see if your password works?” Wendy bit her thumbnail. Marge said, “Or I can bring his laptop out of the room if you’re not ready to go in yet.”

  “I really should talk to my husband about this.”

  “Whatever you want,” Marge told her. “I know that you’re interested in finding a reason—”

  “I don’t know about that anymore.” She inhaled and let it out slowly. “What difference will it make? It won’t bring him back.” Fat tears rolled down her cheeks. “Maybe it’s best to just let it go.”

  “Whatever you think is best.” Marge proffered the woman her card and she took it. “Call if you change your mind.”

  The woman stood and her sorrowful eyes met Marge’s. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Sure.” Marge hesitated, but decided to ask the question anyway. “I understand that videotaping had become Gregory’s favorite hobby. Was he interested in making films?”

  Wendy said, “Gregory was always the one that recorded family events.”

  “So he’s had the interest for a long time.”

  Wendy was silent.

  “Just curious,” Marge said. “Do call if you need anything.”

  When the woman still didn’t talk, Marge turned around and let herself out the door.

  Chapter Ten

  Rina loved the quiet of Shabbat morning, when the neighborhood was without construction noise and leaf blowers. Through her kitchen window, she could actually hear birds chirping. Last year there had been a nest of finches in one of her bushes. She had heard a racket of squawks several times every day when the parents had returned to feed the young. Food was primal, and with a big family, much of her life revolved around meals.

  She had been dressed for shul since eight, but Peter was taking his time. So she sat at her kitchen table, sipping coffee and reading the paper—a rare moment of alone time that proved to be short-lived. Gabe came in, dressed in a black long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Behind his wireless specs sat sleepy green eyes.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “You’re up early.”

  “Yeah, I thought I’d catch up on a few things. Get a jump on the day.”

  “Would you like some breakfast?”

  “Yeah, that would probably make sense.” The boy took down a mug from the cupboard and made himself a cup of instant coffee. He was comfortable enough to open pantry doors and raid the fridge without asking permission. He fixed himself a bowl of cereal and began shoveling food into his mouth.

  Rina said, “We’re eating lunch here today if you’re interested.”

  “Thanks, but I’m going out.” He looked at her. “A guy I know is playing a piano concerto at SC. I thought I’d show him support.”

  “That’s very nice. Is he good?”

  “He’s very good.” Gabe gave her a sly smile. “But not as good as me.”

  “That goes without saying.” She smiled back. “When’s the concert?”

  “Three. But to get there on time, I’ve got to take a one o’clock bus, which means I have to leave here around 12:30.”

  “Sorry I can’t take you.”

  “That’s fine. I don’t mind walking. If I didn’t walk to bus stops, I’d get absolutely no exercise.”

  “We’ve got a treadmill.”

  “Yeah, my life’s already too much of that.”

  “Poor Gabe,” Rina said. “It’s hard being a genius.”

  He let out a laugh. “I like when you do that. It means that you’re not pitying me.”

  “You, my boy, are anything but an object of pity. In fact, you’re overloaded with assets. You should lend a few out to those less fortunate. What time are you coming home?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Paul and I will go out to dinner. I suppose it depends on how well he performs.”

  “Call and leave a message on the machine. Not that I have to worry about a big independent guy like you, but I’m a mother and I’ll fret if I don’t know where you are.”

  “That’s okay. It’s nice to get a little mothering every now and then.”

  The room went quiet. Rina studied his face. “She contacted you again?”

  “Yeah.” Gabe plunked the spoon in his cereal and pushed the bowl away. “I found out that my sister’s name is Juleen.”

  “Pretty name.” Silence. “What else did she say?”

  “Nothing much. I told her that Chris knows about the baby and she shouldn’t worry too much about him.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Mostly. I mean he still likes her. He’s told me that he’d take her back, baby and all. But he certainly isn’t chasing her down. I think he likes being a martyr for a change. After all the misery he put her through, he’s happy with the role of the aggrieved spouse.”

  “I’ve got an aunt and uncle; they’re about ninety now. For forty years, they lived in two separate houses and got together only on Shabbat. People used to ask, are they separated, are they divorced? Nope. Just didn’t want to live together all the time. For them, it worked.”

  “As long as they’re okay, I’m okay.” He wiped his glasses on his T-shirt. “I think she wants me to come to India.”

  “That would be an interesting trip.”

  “Yeah, maybe in the future.” When I’m fucking ready, which isn’t now. Gabe put his glasses back on. “I should get started. What’d you make for lunch?”

  “Corned beef and turkey.”

  “Oh man!” He made a face. “Please save me some.”

  “I will take some aside and hide it in the refrigerator where no one will find it.” Rina kissed the top of his head. “Thank you for the compliment.”

  Gabe stood up and spontaneously gave her a small hug, then pulled away self-consciously. His face was warm, and he knew he was blushing. “Thanks, Rina. Not only did I land in the home of two of the nicest people in the world, you cook better than anyone I know.”

  “You’d better believe it.”

  He gave a small laugh and headed for the garage, the one place where he felt totally at ease—his piano, his music, his solace. Once in a while, when no one was home, he sat in the driver’s seat of Peter’s Porsche, his hand gripping the clutch, his eyes looking out the windshield and imagining an open road that led to anyone’s guess.

  Arriving at the bus stop at ten to one, but Yasmine was nowhere in sight.

  Oh well.

  He sat down on the bench and opened his composition book, playing his piece in his head, correcting and editing until the bus pulled up at five after. He stood and when the doors swung open, he stepped up, his brain still focused on his music. In the backgroun
d, he heard a scream.

  “Waaaaaiiiittt.”

  He held up his hand to the driver, stepped down, and saw her running toward the bus. She was a block away with her hair flying like a stallion’s mane. His heart leapt out of his chest. To the driver, he said, “Could you hold on a minute? My friend’s coming.”

  “I got a schedule and a route to do.”

  Gabe took out a ten. “Please?”

  The driver pushed the money away. “I still got a schedule. I’m gonna count to ten.”

  Stepping back out, he waved her on. On the count of eight, she had made it, completely winded and doubled over. Gabe paid for their tickets, the door closed behind them, and the bus jerked forward. She pitched backward and Gabe caught her before she fell. Her face was bathed in sweat. It didn’t help that she was wearing a quilted pink puffy jacket. At least her attire—jeans and flats—was more appropriate than last time.

  She was panting . . . gripping her side. Gabe led her to an open row and gave her the window seat. He sat next to her and for the first five minutes, all he did was listen to her wheeze.

  “You okay?” he finally said.

  She nodded.

  He started to say something, but just laughed instead.

  “I . . . had . . . to change . . . from shul.”

  “You look very nice, Yasmine,” Gabe said. “Maybe you want to take off your jacket?”

  She nodded, and he helped her pull it off. Underneath she was wearing a pink scoop-necked sweater that exposed those lovely collarbones. She said, “I brought . . . food.” She held up a purse slightly smaller than a shopping bag. “Hungry?”

  He was. His half bowl of cereal had been digested hours before. “What do you have?”

  “Cookies . . . and fruit.” She was still holding her side.

  “You have a cramp?”

  She nodded and pulled out an apple. “Okay?”

  “Sure.” He took it and she fished out another one for herself.

  “Sorry . . . I’m late.”

  He took a bite. The apple was big, juicy, and tart. “No prob.”

  “At least I made it.”