Gun Games (19 page)

Gabe said, “No, not really.”

“What do you mean by not really?” Yasmine sat beside him. “I’m a big girl. I can take it.” When he didn’t respond, she said, “What’s on your mind? If you don’t tell me, I’ll be anxious.”

“Well . . . you need to figure out what to do with your hands.”

“Absolutely. I know I’m a little stiff when I sing.”

“Kinda.” Gabe cleared his throat. “If I had to say anything critical, the one thing I’d say is . . . you sang the notes . . . but not the words. I mean, opera is theater. You know what you’re singing?”

“I know the translation.”

He said, “ ‘
Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem herzen
—the vengeance of Hell boils in my heart!’ The Queen of the Night is so consumed with hatred for her rival, Sarastro, that she is willing to sacrifice her own daughter to satisfy her lust for revenge. I mean, I can totally see my dad doing something like that. Like him saying, ‘Here, Gabe, whack this guy or I’ll disown you.’ ” He stared at her intense face. “You’ve gotta channel into someone like that. You’ve gotta channel pure unadulterated hatred.”

Yasmine nodded.

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t sing beautifully. You did. Almost too beautifully. When I hear the
ha, ha, ha
part, to me, it always sounded kinda like maniacal laughter . . . not like
ha, ha, ha,
happy laughter.”

She nodded dutifully, something smoldering in her eyes.

He looked at her. “You’re pissed at me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. I’d be, too. We have egos. No one likes critiquing.”

“No, I’m not.” Her eyes filled with water that streamed down her cheeks.

What was I thinking?
Gabe said, “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“I’m glad you did.” She was trying so hard not to lose it. “At least I know you’re honest.”

“That I am. Sit on my lap.” When she complied, he kissed her tears. He said, “I want you to promise me something, okay?”

“What?”

“No matter what happens, you’ll continue with your voice training. You have too much talent not to continue on.”

“I promise.”

“No, Yasmine, I mean
really
promise. You’ve got to do more than just take some lessons. You’ve got to realize your talent . . . put yourself out there even if it means ruffling some feathers. I mean I know how hard it is to defy your parents. Hell, I should talk. I’m afraid of my dad. And I wouldn’t ever ask you to do it . . . not even for me.”

She looked up at him.

“I mean, let’s face it. Boys come and boys go, but a voice like that. It’s forever. It’s a gift from God. More important, you can’t see your face. You’re so happy when you sing. It’s a natural. It’s what you are.”

She was quiet.

“You’ve got to promise me that you’ll continue with it, okay?”

She shrugged.

“What?”

“You don’t understand. Nice Jewish Persian girls don’t become opera singers.”

“Why not?”

“Because they don’t. It’s just not done, okay. I’m sorry my sister ever said anything about a stupid CD.”

He blew out air. “Yasmine, there’s nothing wrong with being a doctor. My mother is a doctor. She sacrificed everything including me to be a doctor. But that was
her
dream. Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t see it as being your
dream
.”

“I don’t know what my dream is.” Her eyes grew wet. “I’m only fourteen. Right now my only dream is to be with you.”

Gabe smiled. “You know what? That’s my dream, too.” He brought her mouth to his and kissed her soundly. Within seconds, their tongues were dancing. He started unbuttoning her blouse as she tugged upward on his T-shirt until both of them were naked from the waist up. The feel of her chest against his sent shivers down his spine.

She was sitting on his erection, constantly shifting positions and that only made it worse. He thought he would have a heart attack.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

He was licking her breasts. Two dark drops like Hershey’s kisses. “What?”

“You know.” Shifting again. “Does it hurt?”

He picked his head up and kissed her hard on the mouth. “No, it doesn’t hurt. It feels good.” He ran his fingers down her spine and moaned. “I mean it’ll hurt if I don’t do something, but I’ll take care of that later.”

They kissed and kissed.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

He talked through his kisses. “What do you mean what do I mean?”

“Like are you gonna go to another girl?”

Gabe stopped kissing and stared at her face. “What are you
talking
about?”

“You know . . . to take care of it.”

“Oh my God!” He shook his head in disbelief. “Are you serious?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “First of all, there is no other girl. Second of all, even if there was another girl who was willing, I don’t want her. I only want you. Third of all, what I meant was . . .” He held up his hand and stroked the air.

Yasmine looked at his pantomime and then covered her mouth in embarrassment. “Oh . . . I get it.”

“God, Yasmine, I adore you. I truly do.” He wiped the lenses of his steamed-up glasses. “But you really need some . . . brothers or something.” He took her hand away from her mouth. “Kiss me.”

They necked for a few more minutes. Then she said, “Do you want me to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Do to you what you were gonna do to yourself later on.”

He stopped kissing and stared at her. “Uh, that would be unbelievably fantastic.”

“I don’t mean sex, you know.”

“I know you don’t mean sex. I don’t expect sex.”

Her eyes got wet yet again. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“No worries. I’m so turned on right now, it won’t take any skill at all.”

“You won’t think I’m a slut?”

“No.”

“You won’t like me less?”

“I won’t like you less if you do it, I won’t like you more if you do it. I’ll adore you just as much either way.” He kissed her. “Honestly, do what you want, okay.”

“Do we have time?”

He looked at his watch. It was twenty after twelve. “We have
oodles
of time.” Pressing his bare chest against her naked skin. “Oh my God, you are so fine. I just want to eat you up. Kiss me.”

She planted a wet one on his mouth. “Okay. I’m yours. Show me what to do.”

Wordlessly, he grabbed their discarded clothing and then lifted her up. He walked out of the garage, both of them half-naked with her legs entwined around his waist.

She said, “Are you taking me to your bedroom?”

“Yeah.” He paused. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah.” She leaned her head against his bare chest. “That’s really okay.”

Chapter Twenty

M
onday morning eight
A.M.
, Marge walked into Decker’s office, holding two cups of lidded coffee. She set one on the desktop and took an empty seat. “I just had a troubling conversation with Wendy Hesse.”

“At eight in the morning?”

“Seven actually.” She popped the lid open, and her face was engulfed in steam. “Someone broke into her house last night.”

“That’s terrible.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Did she report it?”

“No, she didn’t. But she was very upset by what was taken—Gregory’s laptop.”

Decker picked up his coffee and sipped. “What else was stolen?”

“Nothing but the laptop seemed to be missing. The only reason why Wendy noticed the missing laptop was because she had put it on the dining room table the night before. She had intended to bring it into the station house today.”

Decker sipped coffee. “Why?”

“There were some disturbing images on it that she wanted us to see. She said that some of the pictures showed Gregory playing with a gun—pointing it, twirling it, putting it to his head.”

“Good Lord. How painful for her to see that.”

“She was crying over the phone. Since she doesn’t know one gun from another, she wanted us to see if it was the same gun he used to kill himself.”

“Why now? Hasn’t she been dodging you for over a month?”

“Yeah. I must have called her three or four times before I finally got the hint.”

Decker put his coffee down and fished out a notepad. “Did Gregory look upset or was he just fooling around or was he acting out some kind of weird fantasy . . .”

“I didn’t ask, Pete. I figured the most sensible thing was a face-to-face interview.”

“And those were the only pictures she told you about?”

“Yes. They were probably the ones that upset her the most. She did say that in the pictures, Greg didn’t look like himself. He looked drugged.”

“When are you meeting with her?”

“Seven-thirty tonight. She’s coming into the station.”

“Why so late?”

“I’ve got things to do and she’s got things to do. It was the earliest we both could make it. You don’t have to stick around. Oliver said he’d be there.

“Be sure to ask about Gregory’s camcorder.”

“It’s on the top of my list,” Marge said. “I think we’re both wondering who took the pictures. I have no idea if someone was photographing him or if Greg had a camera on his computer or what.”

“We should get hold of Myra Gelb’s laptop,” Decker said. “See if there’s anything weird on her computer.”

“I phoned up Udonis Gelb yesterday after the memorial service. I got her answering machine and left a message, offering condolences and my number if she needed anything. I also phoned Eric Gelb. Again, I got a machine. I don’t want to push either one of them right now. I’ll call in a few days and set something up.”

“That’s fine. But I’m still concerned about her laptop. I don’t think it’s too intrusive to call and tell them to put Myra’s computer in a safe place . . . just in case.”

“I can do that, but she has to find it first. We didn’t find it in her room, remember?”

“Ah . . . right.”

“Two missing laptops . . .” Marge thought a moment. “Two kids were going to the same school where suicides are not very common. And both deaths involved stolen guns and maybe laptops. You have to wonder.”

“What about Myra’s friends? Get a chance to talk to any of them?”

“I lined something up with Heddy Kramer on Thursday evening, the only evening when her parents don’t work late. They’re all coming into the station house at six.”

“So anything new with Dylan Lashay and the B and W Mafia?”

“Nothing. He doesn’t have an adult record. When I asked Juvenile about him, they claimed they’ve never heard the name. No wants or warrants. Not even a parking ticket. Mr. Eli seems squeaky clean. So maybe he is an upstanding citizen.”

“Or another Teflon don,” Decker said. “Either he’s clean or he’s careful. If it’s the former, then he’s out of the picture. If it’s the latter, we’ll wait until he screws up.”

T
he original text had come in an hour ago, at six-thirty. Gabe had turned off his phone because he’d been at the piano all day. He’d been coasting for the last week, spending too much of his time thinking about the wrong things. He knew he’d have to do better, especially because he now had some actual paying jobs in his future. This had been his first real day of work, his fingers and brain working as a unit. It felt good. He rewarded his hard work by allowing himself to read the text.

g8 lesson. made a breakthrough.

Gabe smiled. Maybe this would be the impetus to continue on with her voice. He texted back:
u still there, cuckoo?

He waited and his phone burred a moment later.

hi.

what happened?

at the lesson?

yeah.

my vocal coach said I sounded like a real opera singer 4 the 1st time, that I sang w/real emotion.

congrats.

thx . . . teach.

ur welcome, student. just don’t sue me for sexual harassment.

lol. want 2 know how i did it?

of course.

i thought of u w/another girl.

He broke up.
that would never happen but use what u need.

it better not happen.

better not w/u either. seriously keep up the gd work. knew u could do it . . . u got stuff in u just w8ting 2 come out. that’s y u need 2 sing.

thx
:)

i mean it, yasmine. u really need 2 sing. if u don’t, u’ll get depressed.

i get depressed when i’m not w/u. r we on 2morrow?

b there at 6:30.

it opens at 6.

but ur always l8.

i promise 2 b there at 6 . . . 6:15 L8est.

Gabe smiled. She was hedging her bets.
it’s still dark outside at 6. i’ll w8 for u on the corner so b there on time!

ok.

u know, if u make me get up extra early and ur l8, u buy breakfast.

I always offer. u never let me pay.

of course u don’t pay. only when ur bad.

u know me, gabe, I can b very bad.

Ugh!!! u wreck me.

think of me tonite when ur alone.

I always think of u especially when I’m alone.

my mom is calling me 2 help w/dinner. gotta go. kisses.

kisses,
Gabe texted back, then disconnected the line. His stomach growled. He realized he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

It seemed indeed that music was the stuff of life.

Play on, Gabriel, play on.

W
endy Hesse had dropped some pounds in a month, but the weight had come off too quickly and the excess skin on her face sagged like deflated jowls. Her blue eyes were clear instead of red, and her hair had grown out and was styled, her white roots no longer showing. It was a good sign that she took enough pride in her appearance. She wore a red sweater like the first time she had come into the station house and black pants. Marge had seated her in an interview room, offering her a chair and a cup of coffee. Oliver joined them a minute later.

Wendy looked uncomfortable in her surroundings. “Isn’t this where you interrogate the criminals?”

Marge said, “We use the rooms for all kinds of interviews.”

“Most of us just have cubicles,” Oliver explained. “This is a little more private.”

“If you would prefer it, we can go outside and talk in the open.”

“Oh good God, no. We need privacy.” She regarded Marge’s questioning eyes. “I know that you’ve called me several times and I haven’t called back.”

“You’ve had a lot on your mind.”

“All of it bad.” She reached in her purse and pulled out several photographs, but didn’t reveal them, keeping them close to her breast. “Right after it happened, I was going through Gregory’s drawers, hoping to find some answers.”

She put them on the table and looked away. Marge kept a blank face as she picked up the graphic snapshots. The girl’s features were obscured by long hair and a close-up of an erect penis halfway into her mouth. A few of that pose and a couple more of a tongue licking testicles. She passed the photos to Oliver.

Wendy said, “Obviously, there was a lot about my son that I didn’t know about.”

“Any idea who the girl is?” Marge asked.

“I didn’t even know that Gregory had a girlfriend.”

Oliver scanned them several times. “I don’t want this to come out the wrong way, but are you sure that’s even Gregory? There’s no face.”

Wendy turned to him, dumbfounded. “You know, I’m not sure at all. I just . . . assumed.” She exhaled forcibly. “Maybe it’s one of his friends. It certainly doesn’t look like professional smut.”

“No, it’s amateur stuff,” Oliver said.

Wendy bit a thumbnail. It had been painted red and some of the polish was chipping off. “I guess I was in the dark about my son. I feel stupid.”

Oliver said, “I don’t want to sound cavalier, Mrs. Hesse, but things like this . . . it’s sort of normal for a teenage boy.”

Marge said, “And please don’t feel stupid. Most fifteen-year-old boys don’t confide in their mothers.”

“It’s just shocking when you think you know someone and then . . .” She threw up her hands.

“Tell us about the photographs on the computer,” Oliver said.

“After I found these, I became curious about what was on Gregory’s computer. I hired someone to hack into it because I thought I knew his password, but he changed it. I felt a bit sheepish breaking into his privacy even though he’s . . . gone. But I wanted to know more about my son, get a clue as to why he did this. Most of the pictures were just him and his friends.” Her eyes got wet. “But then I saw other pictures like the ones I brought to you. I can’t imagine Snapfish printing them.”

“No, these were probably done with a photo printer hooked up to a home computer,” Oliver told her. “Does your son have a photo printer?”

“I didn’t see one. Even though he’s gone, it really upsets me that he would take such indecent pictures of himself. And what girl in her right mind would let herself be photographed doing something so obscene?”

“It’s not all that uncommon—kids being kids,” Marge said. “If you can, talk to me about the photos of Greg with a gun.”

“Just like I told you over the phone. He had pictures of him pointing it and . . .” Her eyes spilled tears onto her cheeks. “Of him holding it to his . . . head. It got me to thinking that probably what happened was just a terrible mistake.”

Marge nodded.

“I don’t understand how such a responsible boy could do such foolish things.”

The paradox of adolescence. Oliver said, “It’s a miracle that more tragedies don’t happen to them.”

Marge said, “You told me that Greg looked stoned or drunk in the pictures?”

“He had a bizarre expression on his face . . . droopy lids, lopsided smile, and his head was cocked to the side. It didn’t look like him. But it was him. That much I can tell you.”

Her eyes flitted between Oliver’s and Marge’s faces.

“That’s why I didn’t return your calls. I didn’t want all this . . . ugly stuff to come out about my son. But once I saw the gun pictures on the laptop . . . I don’t know. I just felt I should let you know . . . although I don’t know why.”

“Your instincts were good,” Marge told her. “Especially now that the laptop was stolen.”

“How did the thief get into your house?” Oliver asked.

Wendy stared at him. “I don’t know.”

“Any windows or doors unlocked or opened when you got up this morning?”

“Not that I can remember.” She was quiet. “That’s very odd. I was so intent on the laptop, I never even thought about how they got in.”

“They?” Marge asked.

“They, he, she . . .”

“And you’re sure nothing else was taken?” Marge asked.

“All my jewelry was still in the box in my bedroom. So I thought maybe they didn’t go into the master. But my purse was still hanging in my closet. All my money was still in my wallet. Plus on the same table as the laptop, I have a pair of silver candlesticks. They weren’t touched. I haven’t gone through things item by item, but it appears that nothing was taken except the laptop.”

Marge said, “Did you happen to find Gregory’s camcorder?”