Gun Games

by Faye Kellerman

  His anger was gone. He was suddenly more dispirited than anything else.

  “It was also strange because she wasn’t a girl. She was a woman and she liked it.”

  He regarded Yasmine’s face, her red nose, and her inquisitive eyes.

  “You know that most girls don’t like it at first. They just do it to please their boyfriends.”

  Yasmine was very quiet.

  “You asked, so now you know. Happy?”

  “You did it with a married woman?”

  He shrugged. “I felt bad, but not that bad. It was a weird community. My friends’ moms were always coming on to me. It was a game with them.”

  “You did it with your friends’ moms?”

  “Count on your fingers, Yasmine! First time was in a car, second at a party, and third with my friend’s sister-in-law. One, two, three! Three, okay! Three!”

  “You’re mad at me.”

  “No, I’m not.” But his eyes were smoking.

  She said, “I’m sorry I made you talk about it. It wasn’t any of my business.”

  “I’m not mad.” He was very pissed. “It’s just that it wasn’t . . .” He grew sulky. “After I did it the third time, the sister-in-law asked me how old I was. I should have told her fifteen ’cause that was my friend’s age. But it caught me off guard. So I told her I was fourteen. Then she said, “Fourteen? Man, you really don’t count.” And I know she said that to make her feel less guilty. But it still made me feel very small. And at that point, I said to myself, ‘Gabe, you’re not your dad. You really need to raise your standards.’ ”

  He looked at Yasmine.

  “And then like a few weeks later, my dad beat the crap out of my mom and we wound up in California. And then six weeks later, my mom deserted me and went to India to have a baby. She accidentally got knocked up, which seems to be a pattern with her. This time it was by some rich old Indian doctor and they moved to Uttar Pradesh. Then my father moved permanently to Nevada. And I wound up with total strangers. So there’s the whole sordid tale of my life. Happy?”

  She touched his shoulder. He was a ball of coiled muscle. “I’m sorry.” She kissed his shoulder, and he felt a tear drip onto his skin. Her voice was plaintive. “Please don’t be mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad.” He was still pissed but tried to shrug it off. “It was sex, Yasmine. No emotion.” He turned to her. “Not like if we did it. I’m not saying we should do it. But I am saying if we did do it, it would be different.”

  “Different, but not special because you’ve done it before.”

  “Of course it would be special!” He tried to hide the irritation in his voice. “It would be the most extra special thing that has ever happened to me.”

  “But you’ve done it before.”

  “But not with someone I love. You know what the sex was, Yasmine? It was like eating a bad meal when you’re hungry. The drive is there and you know you’re gonna do it. But you feel lousy afterward.”

  “It’s just . . .” She didn’t finish.

  “What!” he grumped out.

  “It’s just if we did it, I want it to be something you’ve never done.”

  A thought floated into his brain. He quickly tamped it out.

  “What?” she asked.

  “What?” he asked back.

  “What were you just thinking?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s not true.”

  Gabe didn’t answer.

  “Gabriel, whatever your middle name is, Whitman, you are lying. What were you thinking?”

  “My middle name is Matthew.”

  “Mine is Tamar.”

  “Tamar?”

  “It means date in Hebrew.”

  He started kissing her shoulder again. “I can see that. You’re brown and sweet and I want to eat you up.”

  “Gabriel, what were you thinking?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “It’s important to me.”

  He was getting increasingly exasperated. It was a bad idea to come over. “Yasmine, there are things that you tell someone you love because you love them. And there are things you don’t tell someone you love because you love them.”

  She waited, drumming her fingers.

  “Like . . . this is theoretical by the way . . . but like if I saw a hot girl, I wouldn’t turn to you and say, ‘I’d like to do her.’ That would hurt your feelings. So I’d keep it to myself.”

  “Is that what you were thinking a minute ago? That you want to do another girl?”

  “I said it was theoretical, okay! Do you know what theoretical means?”

  “Yes, I know what theoretical means!” She stroked his cheek. “Please tell me, what were you thinking?”

  “You’re just asking for it.” When she didn’t say anything, Gabe shook his head. “You know the saying: some girls are bitches but all guys are dogs. Well, it’s true.”

  “My father is not a dog.”

  “I’ve seen your mother. He’s a dog.”

  She hit him.

  “We’re all dogs, but it’s not like we can’t be trained.” He paused. “There’s this small percentage like my dad who are simply hopeless. If my dad were a dog, he’d be a vicious pit bull and have to be put down. And there’s this other small percentage like the airport drug dogs. You put a steak in their faces, no matter what, they’ll resist. And then there’s everyone else in between. Like if the master is standing over us, we’ll ignore the steak. But if left alone, we’ll start sniffing around the area, then sniffing the steak, then eventually if no one’s looking, we’ll take a bite.”

  “But why would you do that if you truly loved the girl.” She was wounded.

  Gabe stroked her face. “I would never hurt you. But how committed can we be to each other when we’re sneaking around? You can’t even tell your parents about us.”

  “Do you want me to tell my parents?”

  “No. Because they’d forbid you to see me. This way, at least we can pretend it’s really okay. Plus we’re kinda young. I mean maybe this will be forever, but we both know that we’ve got a lot of things working against us. Which is why that even though it would the most special thing for me, I don’t think it’s the right time to do it.”

  A tear ran down her cheek. “You do it with other girls that you don’t like, but you won’t do it with me?”

  “Of course, I’d do it with you. I’m dying to do it with you. I’m trying to be . . . considerate of your position. Don’t you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes. I’m not stupid.”

  “I’m not saying you’re stupid.” He blew out air. “Maybe I should go.”

  Her eyes moistened. “All I’m saying is that I’d do it for you, because I love you.”

  “I know.” He softened. “And I love you for it.”

  “Even if it wouldn’t be your first time.”

  “What do you want, Yasmine? If I had known the future, I’d take back my virginity in a heartbeat.” He exhaled. “You know, three girls doesn’t exactly make me a stud.”

  She turned to him. “I think you’re the biggest stud in the whole wide world.”

  Gabe laughed. “You are such a cuckoo bird!”

  “What were you thinking before . . . that you won’t tell me? Please. I want to know.”

  Gabe sighed. “This is a mistake.” She waited. “When you said it wouldn’t be my first time . . . my first thought was that it wouldn’t be my first time . . . but . . . it would be your first time and that would be exciting for me.” He gave her a tight smile. “Happy?”

  She leaned her head on his shoulder. “And that would be special for you?”

  “Yasmine, you’d be special whether or not you’re a virgin, okay. I love you, okay.”

  “But that would be special . . . that it would be my first time.”

  He paused. “I must admit that the thought was arousing, that I’d be your first. And you’d always remember me because of that.”

 
“So you really do want to do it with me?”

  “Oh my God!” He slapped his hand on his head. “Yes, I want to do it with you. But it’s a very big step, Yasmine. Once you do it, you can’t take it back.”

  She was quiet.

  Gabe said, “We’re not gonna do it tonight. You’re sick, you’ve got your period, and I’m not prepared anyway.” He kissed her cheek. “I don’t have protection. So let’s forget about it, okay.”

  “Okay.”

  Gabe let out a small laugh. “I think . . . I just shot myself in the foot.”

  Yasmine smiled. “Maybe.”

  “See how much I love you? I come over not expecting anything except your company and I turn down sex. Could you ask for a better boyfriend?”

  “I love the sound of that . . . that you’re my boyfriend.”

  “I hope I’m your boyfriend. I’ve never had a girlfriend. Will you be my girlfriend?”

  She sniffed. “Yes, I will be your girlfriend.” She blew her nose. “I love you, Gabriel. I love you and would do anything for you.”

  “I love you, too.” He meant it in a way she could never understand. Intellectually, he knew that there were people out there to whom he mattered, but the knowledge did little to ease his profound loneliness. Until she stepped into his life, he’d been swirling around in very dark thoughts, a step away from a black hole of nothingness. His eyes hooked onto hers. “I’d do anything for you, Yasmine. I’d even die for you.”

  Her eyes searched his face for clues to his ghoulish mood. He was often hard to read. She knew he didn’t like talking about his past, and it had been wrong for her to probe. “Gabe, what prompted you to even think that?”

  Gabe took her hand. “Just that . . . you mean so much to me. I want you to know that it isn’t just sex.” He broke into a slow grin. “Although I wouldn’t say no should you have an overwhelming desire—”

  She hit his shoulder, and then kissed his cheek. “You know, I’d rather die than to have you die. But let’s not talk about that. It’s a little morbid.”

  “So . . .” He smiled at her. “What should we talk about, girlfriend?”

  “I dunno . . .” She shrugged. “Music is always safe.”

  “Okay. What are you singing these days beside ‘Der Hölle Rache’?”

  She started talking about her lessons. Even with a cold, her voice was rhythmic and musical. Her pitch rose as she warmed to her subject, her enthusiasm infectious and just plain cute. After a few minutes of a nonstop soliloquy, she blew her nose and looked at him. “God, I love you. I can’t talk to anyone about my singing except you.”

  Gabe kissed the top of her head. “We are very well matched.”

  Yasmine smoothed his hair still damp from rain. “Well . . . as long as you’re in your underwear, do you want me to do something?”

  He gave her a dopey smile. “Are you up to it?”

  “I think so.” She climbed onto his lap and brushed her lips against his. “Although you know if you keep kissing me, you’re gonna get my cold.”

  He slipped his arms around her waist and bit her lower lip gently. “Hmmm . . . I think”—a soft swipe against her lips—“that the thrill of kissing you”—his tongue grazing hers—“is definitely worth the risk of a few nonlethal microbes.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Los Angeles was subtropical, mild temperatures with wet winters and dry summers. For nearly a week running, the skies cracked open, drowning L.A. and its environs in water and mudslides. Marge was going over the day’s assignments with the Loo. They were sitting in Decker’s office. It was ten o’clock on Thursday morning in mid-April and the sky was overcast, the clouds dark and heavy.

  “Drop in overall crime this week. Even felons don’t like getting their feet wet. Burglaries are way down . . . what else?” Marge continued to flip through her notes. “Okay . . . this is regarding the Gregory Hesse/Myra Gelb suicides. Remember a couple of weeks ago, we were scrolling down Myra Gelb’s phone calls and there were a few unknown numbers. One of them was disconnected?”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “We finally got hold of Wendy Hesse. She’d been out of town visiting her sister. The number was Gregory Hesse’s cell phone.” She closed the notebook. “So obviously Greg and Myra did know each other.”

  Decker sat up. “How many calls did she make to him?”

  “Only one in her most recent calls. It was placed a few days before Greg killed himself. We asked Udonis for a copy of Myra’s old phone records. She didn’t have anything on hand. After Myra died, she paid off the phone company and canceled the number. She did agree to contact the phone company for Myra’s records.”

  “Great. It’s easier for her to do it than for us.”

  “I talked to her on . . . Tuesday.” She reread her handwriting. “I’ll call and see if she did it yet. If so, it’ll take a couple of weeks for the records to come in. And even if there were a couple of calls between them and they knew each other, it doesn’t mean the suicides are related.”

  Decker said, “I can understand Myra killing herself after Greg died if there was something between them. But why did Greg do it?”

  “Lord only knows but this might be a clue. Wendy Hesse saw images of Greg on his computer fooling around with a gun. Teenaged boys do stupid stuff. Maybe Gregory accidentally shot himself.” She thought a moment. “Would it make Wendy Hesse feel better if the M.E. ruled it an accidental death?”

  Decker shrugged. “Maybe a scintilla.”

  “Maybe we can get the M.E. to consider accidental death.” She looked at the Loo. “And maybe it’s time to stop treating the deaths like foul play. Without any evidence, we can’t draw any conclusions. We’re trying to fit a square peg in a round hole.”

  “There’s truth to that. And I’m willing to let it all go as soon as I find out where the kids got the guns.”

  “Yeah, that’s a sticking point,” Marge admitted. “Gregory was way too young to steal the gun from Olivia Garden. Myra’s gun was from Lisbeth Holly’s burglary. That was only a year ago.”

  “And in that burglary, other things were taken besides the .22.”

  “Yes. Some of the daughter’s jewelry, her phone and iPod, and some CDs.”

  “Kid stuff.”

  “Exactly.” Marge thought a moment. “One of the missing rings was inscribed with the kid’s name—Sydney. If we find the ring, we’ll know who it belongs to.”

  “And none of the mother’s jewelry was missing, right?”

  “Correct . . . that’s why Lisbeth Holly thought it was done by kids. So it’s theoretically possible that Myra Gelb could have stolen the gun. But we didn’t find anything else belonging to Sydney Holly in her room.”

  Decker washed his tired face with dry hands. “Is Gregory Hesse’s camcorder still missing?”

  “Yes. And both Myra’s and Greg’s laptops.”

  “Margie, we both know that there’s a missing link out there. We just don’t know what it is.” Decker drummed his fingers. “Okay. We’ve got two things to figure out. The thefts and where the kids got the guns. My vote is with Dylan Lashay for both things. We know that he and his gang like guns. And Dylan seemed to enjoy torturing Myra. I could see him selling her a gun.”

  “You realize we have no evidence, Pete.”

  “I don’t like him.”

  “You never even met the boy.”

  “I don’t trust anyone who invents a Mafia and calls himself a don.”

  “Yeah, that is wannabe. But I think you also don’t like him because he’s good-looking, rich, popular, and smart.”

  “No, I don’t like him because he’s a bully.”

  Marge looked him up and down. “You never were a bully in high school?”

  “When you’re my height and weight at sixteen, you don’t have to be a bully. People naturally give you room.” That wasn’t entirely true though. Decker did push his weight around, stupid kid that he was. He said, “Even if Lashay wasn’t the one with the gun, it�
�s still guilt by association.”

  “Last week, I put in a call to Saul Hinton asking to meet with him again.”

  “The guy that Heddy Kramer confided in.”

  “Yeah, he hasn’t returned my call. I thought about using his guilt to ask about black market guns and dealers on campus. Maybe he can point us in some direction.”

  “What guilt are you talking about?”

  “About not preventing Myra’s suicide.”

  “How could he prevent it?”

  “Well, he could have intervened with her directly, talked to her parents, gotten mental-health professionals involved . . . but maybe Heddy told him and he forgot about it,” Marge said. “Maybe he blames himself for Myra’s death. And now that we know that there was a phone call between Myra and Greg, I can also ask him about the relationship between the two of them.”

  “Go for it.”

  Marge said, “You know, Loo, I could talk to some of Greg’s other friends. Joey Reinhart gave me some names. We were going to interview them, then Wendy Hesse suddenly stopped returning my calls and since it was her son that was dead, we let it ride. But now she seems to be cooperative again.”

  Decker said, “Why don’t you and Oliver go down the list of Gregory’s friends and see what you two can pull up.”

  “Great. I’ll talk to Saul Hinton and Greg’s friends. Anything else?”

  “A couple of Advil would be nice.”

  “Aw, I’ve given the Loo a headache.”

  Decker gave her a dismissive wave. “You can go now, wise guy.”

  Marge reached into her purse and pulled out a couple of aspirin tablets. Then she took his coffee cup from his desk. “It looks like you need a refill.”

  “I need a brain refill.”

  “Can’t help you there, big man. But if you want a good cappuccino, I’m the bomb.”

  The boys’ overwhelming commonality was their awkwardness. Three of them: Michael Martinetto, Harold “Beezel or Beeze” Frasier, and Joey Reinhart. No swaggering, no smirks, no arrogance, the three shambling teens appeared apprehensive and subdued when Marge escorted them into an interview room. Maybe they were finally coming to grips with the loss of one of their own.