Gun Games

by Faye Kellerman

  “Where else can I talk?”

  He laughed. “Thanks for calling me back. Just hearing your voice makes me happy. I’ll catch you later.”

  “Why are your teacher and an agent discussing where you should go to college?”

  “ ’Cause the agent thinks that going to a regular college is a waste of time for my career.”

  “Harvard isn’t a regular college.”

  “It isn’t Juilliard. It doesn’t even have a performance department.”

  “Do you even need a music department? You’re probably better than anyone they could hire for faculty.”

  “See, that’s why I need you. My ego can’t function without your compliments.”

  “I just say what’s true. Dumb question but I take it you got into Juilliard?”

  “Yeah, and nothing you say is dumb.”

  “Tell my bio teacher that. Do you want to go to Juilliard?”

  “I dunno. Probably. It makes the most sense.”

  “More than Harvard?”

  “I dunno. I thought it might be fun to go to a regular university—someplace that wasn’t obsessed with music. I could also go to SC, you know. Nick is here, not in Boston.”

  “What do you really want, Gabe? That’s the only thing that’s important.”

  “I dunno. I’m so used to being led by the nose, I never thought about it.” He heard a bell in the background. “You have to go?”

  “I can be a few minutes late.” She paused. “I know how you feel. It’s like my dad has determined my future. In his mind, he’s already sitting at my graduation from medical school. I mean, I might want to be a doctor, but it might be nice to have a choice.”

  “I have no doubt that you could rule the world if you wanted to.”

  “You’re the best,” she told him. “I really, really miss you.”

  “I miss you, too. Did you really have a dream about kissing me?”

  “Yes.” Her voice became breathy. “And I kept wanting it to last, but I woke up and couldn’t get it back. It was really frustrating.”

  “I guess we’ll have to make the dream a reality.”

  “What a great idea.” Another bell rang. “That’s the tardy bell. I’ve got to go.”

  “Thanks for calling me, Yasmine. I have to go back in and play some Chopin anyway. That’s cool. I like Chopin. But not as much as I like you, cuckoo bird.”

  There was a pause. He could feel her smile. She said, “You know I adore you.”

  “I adore you, too,” Gabe told her. “Kisses.”

  “Kisses.” She hung up.

  Every time he stopped talking to her, he felt low. He hated it. He wanted not to care so much, but all he could think about was how much he liked her. How happy he was whenever they were together. He loved their early mornings together, sitting in the corner at Coffee Bean, holding hands under the table, stealing kisses when no one was looking. The way she talked about opera or school or her sisters or whatever while squeezing his leg. The way she allowed him to put his hand underneath her skirt, his fingers walking up her bare thigh until he almost reached the golden spot. And then she’d giggle and swat his hand away. And then he’d do it all over again.

  He was tired, he was confused, he was frustrated, and he was lonely. Most of all, he was horny.

  All hormones.

  Chris was right.

  Damn him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  An overcast sky teased the L.A. basin with the promise of rain. Instead all the city got was bleak weather—dirty fog and damp air. The low sixties bordered on coat weather, but a good cable-knit sweater would do in a pinch. The only reason Marge wore her leather jacket was for fashion. She had purchased it last year at the Camarillo Outlets—a favorite meeting spot for her and her boyfriend, Will, who worked in Santa Barbara. Theirs was a long-distance relationship that worked well.

  Lisbeth and Ramon Holly’s house was her last stop before she and Oliver were kicked loose. The address put them at a sixties ranch house in a neighborhood of modest homes on small lots and no sidewalks. Lawns were dotted with mature trees, most of them bare except for the pines and cedars that stretched to the pewter skies. Although it was two months past the holidays, some of the houses still had multicolored Christmas lights twinkling in the dusk. It was straight up five in the afternoon and the sun had set. A distinct chill hovered. It was just plain dreary.

  The door was opened by a tall, tweener girl with olive skin, long dark hair, and a stick body. She was garbed in skinny jeans and a spangled sweatshirt and was on a cell phone. A woman in her thirties, presumably Lisbeth Holly, stepped into the foreground and welcomed them inside. She stood around five foot ten, with pale skin and long straggly blond hair, and she also had a stick body including her chest. Her face was filled with wrinkles, and her earlobes held about four pierces a pop. She had a rose tattooed on her right wrist and a butterfly on the back of her neck. She also wore skinny jeans and a sleeveless red sweater.

  Lisbeth introduced herself and offered each of the detectives a bony hand. She took their cards, and the group walked into a small living room with pink floral furniture and a once-white carpet that had aged to mottled gray. Her daughter, Sydney, remained on the cell and barely gave them a glance. She finally disappeared down a hallway.

  Bemused, the woman shook her head. “One of these days they’ll figure out a way to implant the dang things right into their brains. At least that way she couldn’t lose it. I don’t know what it is with kids today. They lose everything. I always took care of everything I owned. ’Course I didn’t own a lot. You’ll never find me fretting about what to wear in the morning. Not like that one.”

  She cocked a thumb in the direction of the hallway

  “Anyway, have a seat.”

  She lit a cigarette. “I hear you found my gun. You mind if I smoke, by the way?”

  Marge said, “It’s your house.”

  “Yeah, but people are funny. Sit down, please.”

  The two detectives chose the floral sofa. Lisbeth took the matching chair, curling her legs under her.

  Oliver said, “It was your gun that was stolen?”

  “Yep.” A plume of smoke filtered through her nostrils. “I have a few guns, and they’re all mine.”

  “How many do you have?” Marge asked.

  “I have a rifle and a revolver for target practice and a 16 mm semiautomatic for protection. In case you haven’t guessed, I’m the shooter in the family. I grew up shooting at targets. Ramon, in his community, they grow up shooting people. He’s long past that now. He still knows how to use guns, but he doesn’t like ’em anymore. Not since his brother was killed.”

  “When was that?” Marge asked.

  “About ten years ago. Ramon idolized his brother. The guy, frankly, was scum, but I don’t say anything. We all have that one fantasy that we cling to. Mine is I coulda been a supermodel if she hadn’t come along.” Again a thumb indicated that she meant her daughter. “It’s nonsense, but I use it on my husband when I’m pissed at him.”

  “And the gun was stolen around a year ago?”

  “Yep. My bad. I keep the suckers locked up in a vault like a good citizen. I had just bought the Taurus and the only reason I bought a mouse gun is because the dealer was practically giving it away. It was still on top of my dresser when it was stolen. Damn kids.”

  Oliver looked at her. “How do you know the thieves were kids?”

  “Because of what else was taken. Sydney’s phone, her iPod, and a couple of her rings, including the one her grandma gave her for her confirmation. Big blue aquamarine. Sydney’s favorite color is blue. It was inscribed so if you ever find it, you’ll know who it belongs to. And of course Grandma replaced it right away. You’d think Sydney would take care of it after that. But nooooo.”

  “It still could have been adults,” Marge said. “Phones and iPods are commonly stolen items.”

  “You’re right. But they also took Sydney’s CDs. Believe me, no one but kids
would want those CDs. And although my gun was stolen, my jewelry wasn’t touched. The pieces were hidden in the bottom drawer of my dresser, but you didn’t have to look too hard to find them. Whoever did it went through my daughter’s drawers but not through mine. And the thief was obviously in my room if he took my gun. He just wasn’t interested in my shit. That’s why I think it was kids.”

  “Maybe the thief ran out of time,” Oliver suggested.

  “Then why go to my daughter’s room first? Okay, I get someone taking the phone and the iPod, but then why bother filching her five-and-dime jewelry? The good stuff—if there is any good stuff—is gonna be in the parents’ bedroom. Her room was hit first. The parents’ room was an afterthought.”

  Marge smiled. “You should be a detective.”

  “It’s in the blood. I come from a cop family. Indianapolis. My mom worked Grand Theft Auto, my dad worked Burglary. My grandfather was in uniform his entire life. My grandma raised me and my four brothers because my folks were never home. And guess what my brothers are? Cops. When I married Ramon—a former gangbanger—I thought my dad was going to have a heart attack. Turns out, I was right and they were wrong. Nyah, nyah, nyah. They like him now . . . my parents. They should like him. He stuck with me through three years of rehab.” She held up a cigarette. “This is the last piece of my addictive self.” Her eyes got misty. “That man saved my life.”

  She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another.

  “Anyway, you don’t want to hear my sob story. What else can I help you with?”

  Marge said, “Do you have any idea who might have broken into your house?”

  “Someone from the neighborhood. Our house wasn’t the only one that was hit.”

  “There were other thefts?” Marge asked.

  “Yeah, ours was the third or fourth house. We finally said, enough!”

  “What’d you do?”

  “The neighborhood got together to talk about it. We all came to the same conclusion that it was kids. Around here, we’re all kinda middle-of-the-road people, not poor, thank the Lord, but we aren’t Wall Street wonks if you know what I’m saying. Most of us need two incomes to get by. Which means two working parents. And since most of us have school-age kids, that means a lot of empty houses during the day. That’s when we were all hit.”

  She took another puff.

  “We had a couple of meetings with the local police about the situation. They stepped up their patrol. Plus, we pooled some spare change and hired a couple of the out-of-work husbands to patrol the streets. Gave the boys some dignity as well as something to do. No problems since.”

  “Do you have any specific candidate for the thief?” Oliver asked.

  “Nah, wish I did. Where’d you find the gun?”

  “This is the hard part,” Marge said.

  “Oh shit! It was used in a crime?”

  “It was used in a suicide,” Oliver said.

  “Oh God, that’s gross! Who?” Lisbeth’s pale complexion grayed. “Oh no! Not that teenage girl in the paper?” When no one spoke, she covered her hand over her mouth. “Oh fuck! Excuse me. That is . . . just . . . awful!”

  “Did you know her?” Oliver said.

  “No. What was the name again?”

  “Myra Gelb,” Marge said.

  “No, I didn’t know her. How old was she?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Christ!” She lit up another cigarette before finishing the first one. When she noticed, she stubbed one of them out. Tears were in her eyes. “I’m sorry.” Wet droplets rolled down her cheeks. “I’m really just an old softie.”

  Marge handed her a tissue.

  “You can keep the gun.” Lisbeth wiped her eyes. “It’s bad juju. I don’t want it.”

  Marge said, “Thanks. We’ll need you to sign a release—”

  “Whatever.” She waved her hand in the air. She was still disturbed.

  Oliver said, “We’ll want to run it through ballistics and see if it was used in any other crime as well.”

  “Oh my Lord, I sure hope not.” A pause. “Did the girl’s suicide have anything to do with the one that happened about six weeks ago?”

  “Why do you ask?” Oliver said.

  “I don’t know. Two teen suicides so close together? I’m just wondering. I mean there’s no such thing as a suicide epidemic, but you know kids. One gets a stupid idea and that influences another one. They’re such sheep.”

  “Did you know the first victim? His name was Gregory Hesse.”

  “No . . . I don’t know either one. How did the girl get my gun?”

  “We’re looking into that,” Marge said.

  “Was she . . . I don’t want to say a bad girl because I’ve been there. Did she, like, hang with the wrong crowd?”

  “It doesn’t appear that way,” Oliver said.

  “We’re just starting to look into that,” Marge said. “And you haven’t had trouble with break-ins since about a year ago?”

  “That is correct.” She took a final drag on her smoke and tamped it out. “You know, that whole thing worked even better than we could have imagined. Before the break-ins, I knew just a few people on my street. Then we had the meetings and got to know one another. By last summer, it was one block party after another. It’s nice. Sometimes you don’t realize how lonely you are.”

  Again her eyes watered.

  “That poor girl. God only knows how lonely she was.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Of course, 10:30 Yasmine Time meant 11:00.

  When Gabe answered the knock, he tried to hide his disappointment when he saw that she had brought a friend, whom she introduced as Ariella. He had pictured her like the Disney character with a mermaid’s body and long red hair. Instead, the girl was around five three and buxom with unruly black hair and flashing brown eyes. She looked around eighteen, while Yasmine looked around twelve.

  He invited them in and the three of them stood awkwardly inside the Deckers’ tidy living room. Yasmine was wearing a full black skirt and a white top and looked as if she were going to play in a school orchestra, especially because she was gripping sheet music. Ariella was garbed in a tight red sweater dress that showed every curve. Yasmine had described her as a wild woman. Now Gabe knew why. He finally said, “Why don’t we go in the back where the piano is.”

  Ariella said, “I’m not staying, I’m sure much to your relief.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Yeah, you didn’t see your face when you opened the door.” Her laugh was raucous. “I came to tell you that if you hurt my best friend, I’ll kill you.”

  Yasmine giggled. “Stop it!”

  Gabe held back a smile. “Your warning shot has been heard. I promise you I would rather die than to hurt a single hair on Yasmine’s head.”

  “Okay. I just wanted to get that out.” Ariella was still looking stern when she returned her attention to her friend. “I’ll come pick you up at one-thirty.”

  Gabe said, “That’s only two and a half hours!”

  Yasmine said, “Don’t worry. She’s always late, too.” She kissed her friend. “Go already.”

  “Ariella,” Gabe called out to her as she walked out the door. “Thank you.”

  She winked at him and left.

  Silence. Gabe closed the door and leaned against it. “You know, I think this is the first time in six weeks that we’ve known each other that we’re actually alone.” A blush came to Yasmine’s face. “Can I kiss you hello?”

  “You have to ask?”

  He took the sheet music from her and gently swept his lips against hers. It was instant electricity. He put his arms around her waist and drew her to his body while she threw her arms around his neck. They kissed passionately for a few minutes and then he abruptly drew away. His face was hot and his glasses had fogged up. He never minded specs, but it was annoying at certain times. He wiped his lenses on his T-shirt, trying to contain his obvious arousal, but it was there and that was that. At least
she didn’t say anything.

  “You know, I really do want to hear you sing.”

  “Later.” She stepped forward and planted her lips against his.

  Again they kissed. He said, “I think you’re trying to put this off.”

  “You’re right.”

  He broke it off and put his arm around her shoulders. “C’mon before I faint. I’ll show you my studio. My piano shares space with the lieutenant’s Porsche.”

  Walking with difficulty, he led her outside and into the makeshift practice room. It was far safer to be with her there than in his bedroom. He handed her the sheet music and sat down at the piano bench. “Do you want to warm up?”

  Yasmine smiled. “And here I thought we were warming up.”

  “I am trying to be considerate and you’re making me die!”

  “Okay . . . I’ll sing for you.” Yasmine sat down next to him and looked into those gorgeous green eyes. “You know, I’ve never heard you play other than at graduation.”

  Gabe ran his hands over the keyboard. “You’re stalling again.”

  “No, really. I want to hear you play.” She put her hand on his knee. “Please?”

  He leaned over and kissed her. “If you keep touching me, I won’t be able to do anything.”

  “Please play for me, Gabriel?”

  “Okay.” He took in a breath and let it out. “What do you want to hear?”

  “I dunno.” She thought. “How about . . . like . . . ‘Flight of the Bumblebee’?”

  Gabe groaned. Without looking at the keyboard, he began to run through the piece. “God, I think I learned that when I was five or something.” He stuck out his tongue.

  Yasmine stopped him. “So if you don’t want that, play something else. You like Chopin, play Chopin.”

  “Do you want flash or class?”

  “How about flash?”

  He thought a moment, then from the bang of a C-minor chord, his left hand flew down the keyboard at lightning speed in twists and runs until it was joined by his right hand, the music playing out a story in forte dynamics. He talked while he played. “ ‘Revolutionary Étude’ in C minor. Written after Russia invaded Warsaw. Chopin was Polish, so this is his like paean to his homeland although he was more French than Polish. It’s a good piece but it is a little bombastic.”