Gun Games (24 page)

“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

L
os 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.”

T
he 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.

Reinhart was as tall and gawky as Harold Beezel Frasier was short and stout. Beezel had a round face, dark eyes, and a bowl haircut with bangs that hid a bumpy forehead of acne. Mikey Martinetto was about five ten with broad shoulders. He had blond kinky hair and light brown eyes, and he still wore braces. These were kids who would be thankful when they grew into adults.

Oliver came into the room and Marge made the introductions. He handed each of the boys a bottle of water. “Sometimes the tap gets a little nasty after all this rainfall.”

The boys nodded and cracked open the H
₂
O.

“Is it raining now?” Scott asked.

Beezel said, “Drizzling.”

Joey said, “Supposed to kick up tomorrow. I hate driving in the rain.”

“Not to mention how funky the school smells,” Mikey said.

“B and W leaks?” Marge said.

“Yeah, B and W’s got some real roof issues,” Mikey answered. “Mr. Hinton’s classroom really stinks.”

“Moldy,” Beezel said. “My allergies are going nuts.”

“Fisher auditorium is like a sieve,” Joey said. “You’d think with all the tuition our parents fork over, the school would take better care of the facilities.”

Marge said, “I’m really surprised. I always thought that B and W was . . . kind of a country club in the form of a prep school.”

The boys smiled without joy. Beezel said, “Not any country club I’d ever belong to. I keep telling my parents they’re getting ripped off.”

Oliver said, “It’s got a great reputation . . . B and W.”

Joey said, “A mile wide and an inch deep.”

Beezel said, “It accepts smart kids, so it does well as far as placing them in universities. But smart kids would do well anywhere.”

“So why are you there?” Marge asked.

Mikey said, “Public schools in my district are a joke. Besides, the counselors at B and W have the connections to the top-tiered colleges. That’s where they have their rep. Getting their students into the elite universities.”

“Yeah, that part is pretty good,” Joey said. “The counselors know how to pad the application to make us all look good. It’s really stupid, though. ’Cause all the private school applications are padded in practically identical ways.”

Marge said, “So what do you do to stand out?”

“It’s hard,” Beezel said. “Even the standardized test scores don’t mean much.”

Mikey said. “Either you’re the president of everything or you’ve got a particular skill that no one else has—like you’ve owned your own artisan cheese factory since you were nine.”

“Or you’ve done cancer research,” Joey said.

“And you’ve published a paper on it,” Mikey said.

Marge said, “So how does a guy like Dylan Lashay get into Yale?” Three sets of eyes took in her face. The boys suddenly went mute. The seconds ticked on in silence. She said, “What just happened?”

The boys eyed one another. Joey said, “What does Dylan have to do with Greg?”

“We’re not assuming he has anything to do with Greg,” Oliver said.

Beezel said, “So why bring him up?”

“We were talking about kids getting into good schools,” Marge said. “We happen to know that Dylan Lashay got into Yale. I was just wondering if he was an artisan cheese maker or the president of everything.”

Mikey smiled. “The president of everything.”

“He’s also a legacy,” Beezel said. “His stepdad is.”

Mikey said, “He also happens to be a smart guy.”

Marge said, “Not that smart if he needed Greg to edit his papers.” Joey’s eyes widened. She said, “Isn’t that what you told Lieutenant Decker?”

“Not exactly,” Joey stammered out.

Beezel came to his rescue. “Greg was an exceptional writer. He edited lots of papers for a lot of people.”

“That he did,” Mikey said. “It bought him a lot of . . . goodwill.”

“Dylan and company left him alone,” Oliver said.

Mikey shrugged.

Marge said, “Does he bother you?”

Beezel said, “We’ve all become pretty adept at staying out of his way.”

Mikey said, “Excuse me, but what does this have to do with Greg’s suicide?”

“You know what I’m going to do?” Oliver said. “I’m going to tell you exactly why we’ve asked you here and take all the guesswork out of the equation. We’d like to close out Gregory Hesse’s file.”

“Why does Greg have a police file?” Joey asked.

“Every unnatural death has a police file,” Marge said. “Greg’s file would have been closed a long time ago, but we’ve hit a few snags. First thing is the stolen gun that Greg used in his suicide. He didn’t seem like the type to break into houses and loot firearms, so where did he get the gun?”

“Is there a side of Greg that we’re missing?” Oliver said. “Is he a closet klepto?”

Mikey said, “I can’t see that.”

“So it would surprise you if he stole the gun.”

“Yeah, it would shock me. But so did his suicide. So I guess I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did.”

“Amen to that,” Joey said.

Oliver said, “Greg had to get the gun from
somewhere
.”

Marge said, “That’s why we brought up Dylan Lashay. Kevin Stanger mentioned that Dylan or one of his buddies had once pulled a gun on him. So if Stanger is telling the truth, we know that his gang has had access to weapons in the past.”

Oliver said, “We were wondering if Kevin Stanger’s case was a onetime deal or if Mr. Yalie has a predilection for firearms.”

Joey said, “I already told the lieutenant, I have no idea where Greg got the gun.”

“I don’t know where Greg got the gun, either,” Beezel said.

The conversation died for a moment.

Mikey shook his head. “C’mon, guys, what’s the hang-up? Everyone in the entire school knows that Dylan likes guns.” When Beezel and Joey glared at him, he said, “Like it’s a secret? He did his senior thesis on the history of firearms.”

Oliver said, “Does he deal in firearms?”

He just shrugged. “Can’t say yes, but there are rumors.”