Blood Games

The woman was quiet. Then she said, “You can call me Wendy.”

“Whatever you’d prefer,” Decker said.

Marge said, “Any girlfriends in his life?”

“I didn’t know of any.”

“Did he go out on the weekends?”

“Mostly, he and his friends go to each other’s houses. Joey’s the only one old enough to drive.” Wendy’s eyes welled up with tears. “Mine never will.” Instant sobs. Decker and Marge waited until the hapless woman could find her voice again. “A couple of times”—she wiped her eyes—“when I went to pick him up … I saw a few girls.” She dabbed her eyes again. “I asked Gregory about them. He said they were Tina’s friends.”

“Who’s Tina?” Marge asked.

“Oh … sorry. Tina is Joey’s little sister. She and Frank, my younger son … they’re in the same grade.”

“Did Joey and Gregory go to the same school?”

“Bell and Wakefield. In Lauffner Ranch.”

“I know it,” Decker said.

Bell and Wakefield was the North Valley’s exclusive prep school on twenty acres with a state-of-the-art football field and indoor basketball arena, a movie studio, and a computer lab worthy of NASA. It prized sports, dramatics, and academics in that order. Lots of pro athletes and actors lived in the area and B and W was a natural repository for their children. “About fifteen hundred students?”

“I don’t know exactly, but it’s a big school,” Wendy said. “A lot of breathing room to find your special place.”

And if you don’t find your place, it’s a lot of room to get lost, Decker thought.

Wendy said, “Joey’s a goofy kind of kid. About five eight and weighs about a hundred pounds. He wears big glasses and his ears stick out. I’m not saying this just to be mean, just to tell you that there were lots of other kids that would have been bullied before Gregory.”

“Do you have a picture of him?” Decker said.

Wendy rummaged through her purse and pulled out his grade-school graduation picture. It showed a baby-faced boy with blue eyes and pink chubby cheeks. Puberty was years away, and high school never treated those boys kindly.

“May I keep this?” Decker asked.

Wendy nodded.

He closed his notebook. “What would you like me to do for your son, Wendy?”

“Find out what really happened to my boy.” There were tears in her eyes.

Decker said, “The coroner has ruled your son’s death a suicide.”

Wendy was resolute. “I don’t care what the coroner says, my son didn’t commit suicide.”

“Could it have been an accidental shooting?”

“No,” Wendy insisted. “Gregory hated guns.”

Marge asked, “So how do you think he died?”

Wendy glanced at the detectives while kneading her hands. She didn’t answer the question.

Decker said, “If it wasn’t accidental death by his own hand and if it wasn’t intentional suicide, that leaves homicide—either accidental or intentional.”

Wendy bit her lip and nodded.

“You think someone murdered your boy?”

It took a few moments before Wendy could speak. “Yes.”

Decker tried to be as gentle as possible. “Why?”

“’Cause I know he didn’t shoot himself.”

“So you think the coroner missed something or …” Wendy was silent. Decker said, “I have no problem going to the school and talking to some of Gregory’s friends and classmates. But the coroner is not going to change her determination unless we find something extraordinary. Something that would directly contradict a suicide. Usually, it’s the coroner who comes to us because he or she suspects foul play.”

“Even if it was … what you say.” Wendy wiped her eyes with her fingers. “I don’t have … a clue … to what happened.” More tears. “If he did do it … I don’t know why. No idea whatsoever! I couldn’t be that dumb.”

“It has nothing to do with brains—”

“Do you have children, sir?”

“I do.”

“What about you, Detective?” She had turned to Marge.

“A daughter.”

“So what would either of you do if you suddenly came home one day … and found your child … had committed suicide?”

“I don’t know,” Decker answered.

Marge’s eyes watered. “I can’t imagine.”

“So tell me,” Wendy continued. “How would you feel if you knew there was absolutely no reason for your child to do this? He wasn’t depressed, he wasn’t moody, he didn’t take drugs, he didn’t drink, he wasn’t a loner, he had friends, and he never ever handled a gun. I don’t even know where he got the gun!” She burst into sobs. “And no one … will … tell me … anything!”

Decker let her cry it out, handing her the box of tissues.

Marge said, “What do you want us to do, Mrs. Hesse?”

“Wen … dy.” She answered between sobs. “Find out what happened.” Her eyes were imploring. “I realize this is probably not a police matter, but I don’t know where to turn.”

Silence.

“Should I hire a private investigator? I mean, at least maybe he can find out where Gregory got the gun.”

“Where is the gun?” Decker asked.

“The police took it,” Wendy told him.

“Then it should be in the evidence locker,” Marge said. “It’s also in the files.”

“Let’s pull it out and find out where it came from.” He turned to Wendy. “Let me start with the gun, and we’ll work it from there.”

“Thank you!” A new fresh round of tears poured out of Wendy’s eyes. “Thank you for believing me … or at least thinking about what I said!”

“We’re here to help,” Marge said.

Decker nodded in agreement. The woman was probably in massive denial. But sometimes, even in these situations, parents really did know their children better than anyone else.

CHAPTER THREE

SITTING ON THE living room sofa, Decker pop-topped a can of Dad’s and basked in the warmth of his wife’s presence and the aftertaste of cured meat. “Thanks for picking up my dinner.”

“If I knew you were that close to coming home, we would have waited for you at the deli.”

“It’s better this way.” He took Rina’s hand. He had showered before he ate, changing from his suit to a sweatshirt and sweatpants. “Where’s the kid?”

“Practicing.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Seems to be okay. Did you know that Terry contacted him?”

“No, but it was bound to happen sooner or later. When was this?”

“About a week ago.” Rina recapped the conversation. “It obviously upset him. He wasn’t himself over dinner tonight. Whenever he gets uncomfortable, he talks about his upcoming competitions. Paradoxically, competition seems to calm him down. Renting him a piano is a lot cheaper than therapy.”

The baby grand was in the garage—the only place where they had enough room. Gabe shared his music studio with Decker’s Porsche, workbench, and power tools and Rina’s planting and potting station. They had soundproofed the space because the kid practiced at the oddest hours. But since he was homeschooled and was basically done with high school, they let him march to his own drummer. He wasn’t even sixteen and had already gotten into Juilliard and early action at Harvard. Even if they were his legal guardians—which they weren’t—there was really no guidance left to give him. At this point, they were just providing him with food, a safe shelter, and a little company.

“Tell me about your day,” Rina said.

“Pretty routine except for the last half hour.” Decker recapped his puzzling conversation with Wendy Hesse.

“That poor woman.”

“She must be really hurting if she wants a homicide over suicide.”

“Is that what the coroner ruled? Suicide?”

Decker nodded.

“So then … she just doesn’t want to believe it.”

“True. Usually the ominous signs are there but parents look the other way. I honestly believe that Wendy is dumbfounded.” He smoothed his mustache. “You know when we first met and you were adamant about sending the boys to Jewish day school, I thought you were nuts. For what we were paying in tuition, we could have sent the boys to Lawrence or Bell and Wakefield, not a school housed in a one-story dilapidated building that doesn’t even have a library and a computer lab.”

Rina smiled. “Many people would have agreed.”

“But I’ve gotta say, most of the kids we’ve met are nice. Granted, I’m seeing the worst of the prep school teens, but I don’t think those places breed healthy attitudes. On balance, you did the right thing.”

“The school, although disorganized and sorely lacking in resources, is a very kind place. Thank you for saying that.”

Decker leaned back. “You talk to any of the kids today?”

“Of course, the boys are busy as usual. I did Skype with Hannah this morning. She was just going to bed. She’ll probably be up in a couple of hours.”

“I miss her.” Decker looked sad. “Maybe I’ll give Cindy a call. Find out what she’s up to.”

Rina smiled. “Grandchildren are always the antidote to what ails you.”

“You want to take a ride over and see them?”

“You should ask Cindy first.”

“Yeah, I guess I have to do that.” Decker made a phone call and hung up grinning. “She said, come on over.”

“Then let’s go.”

“What about Gabe?”

“I’ll tell him we’re going,” Rina said. “He likes Cindy and Koby, but I have a feeling he’ll decline. He wasn’t himself today. Maybe it has to do with his mother. Anyway, when he gets like that, he retreats inward.”

Decker took in her words. “Should I talk to him?”

“He’ll just tell you everything’s okay.”

“I don’t want him to feel like a stranger,” Decker said. “But I don’t do much to make him feel like a member of the family. I’d feel really guilty if I came home one day and found him in the same condition as Gregory Hesse.”

Rina nodded. “I think his music is and always was his salvation.”

“Is it enough?”

“I don’t know. All I can tell you is he’s functioning well. He takes the bus twice a week to USC for his lessons, he did all his own college applications even though I offered to help, he went for his own interviews and auditions even though I offered to come with him, and he booked his own flights and hotel rooms even though I offered to do it. He’s already guaranteed admission into Harvard and Juilliard. It seems to me like he wouldn’t be planning his future if he didn’t think he had one.” Rina paused. “If you want to do something nice for him, take him out driving. That excites him.”

“Okay, I’ll take him out on Sunday.”

“He really admires your Porsche.”

“Uh, let’s not carry this niceness thing too far. Being emotionally sensitive is one thing. The Porsche is quite another.”

THE COFFEE BEAN was about two miles from the Starbucks where Gabe had encountered Dylan and posse, hopefully out of their range of operation. Not that he expected to meet up with anyone else at six in the morning. The place was empty and that was just fine. He had chosen a padded leather seat in the back, after he bought a bagel and a large coffee as well as the New York Times. When he lived back east, he read the Post. It felt strange reading the intellectual paper when all he wanted to do was read “Weird but True” or “Page Six” to find out who was banging whom.

The café was about fifteen minutes away from his bus stop to USC. Tuesdays and Thursdays were lesson days with Nicholas Mark, and although he wasn’t scheduled to meet with his teacher until eleven, he decided to get a jump on the day. He had slept fitfully last night. His mother’s voice knocking around in his head …

He slathered cream cheese onto his bagel and started skimming through the news, which was even more depressing than his current life. A few minutes later, he felt the presence of eyes and looked up.

A kid in the Jewish school uniform. Not surprising since the place was a two-minute walk from the day school. She must have had mufflers on her feet since he hadn’t heard a thing until she was standing over him, clutching her backpack as if it were armor.

Her smile was shy. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he answered. Upon a second glance, he realized that she was probably older than he had initially thought. She had a mocha complexion, a small, pointed chin, full lips, and big black round eyes topped with black eyebrows carefully arched and shaped. Her hair was equally as dark, very long and tied into a ponytail. She was actually cute, although her body wasn’t much—two scoops of ice cream for a chest and not a curve in sight. “Did you need something?”

“Do you mind if I sit down?”

He was the only occupant in the entire place. He shrugged. “No, go ahead.”

But she didn’t sit. “I heard you play last year at graduation,” she told him. “My older sister was in Hannah’s class. You were …” She clutched her backpack to her chest. “Just … fantastic!”

Gabe said, “Thank you very much.”

“I mean it was like …”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Silence ensued. It was awkward.

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” Gabe picked up his coffee cup and sipped it, his eyes slipping back to his paper.

“Do you like opera?” she blurted out.

Gabe put down the paper. “As a matter of fact, I do like opera.”

“You do?” Her eyes got wide. “Well, that’s good. Then at least these won’t go to waste.” She put down her backpack and started rummaging through it until she found what she was looking for—an envelope. She offered it to him. “Here you go.”

He regarded her for a few moments, then took the envelope and opened it up. Tickets to La Traviata this Sunday at the Music Center. First row loge. “These are good seats.”

“I know. They cost me a lot of my own money. Alyssa Danielli is playing Violetta. She’s wonderful, so I’m sure it’ll be wonderful.”

“Then why aren’t you going?”

“I was gonna go with my sister, but she flaked on me. I just couldn’t compete with a pool party and the lure of Michael Shoomer.”

“So why don’t you find someone else to go with?”

“No one my age is going to want to spend their Sunday afternoon at the opera.”

“What about your mom?”

“She’s busy. She’s not interested anyway. The only reason my sister agreed to go is I told her I’d clean her room. So I guess now I don’t have to do it.” She looked wounded. “You might as well use them. Take your girlfriend.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Well, then take a friend.”

“I don’t have any friends. But … I certainly will use a ticket if you’re going to throw them away. Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Then thank you very much.” He handed her back the envelope with a single ticket.

“You’re welcome.” She heaved a big sigh.

Gabe tried to stifle a smile. “Would you like to go together?”

The kid got excited. “Do you have a car?”

“No, I’m only fifteen. But we can take the bus.”

She looked horrified. “A bus?”

“Yeah, a bus. That’s how you get around if you don’t have access to a car.” Her complexion darkened, and Gabe pointed to a chair. “Why don’t you sit down? I’m getting a pain in my neck looking up at you … although it’s not that far.”

“I know. I’m a runt.” She sat down and glanced over her shoulder, speaking softly as if they were conspiring. “Do you know how to get to the Music Center by bus?”

“I do.”

“Where do you find a bus?”

“At a bus stop.”

She bit her lip. “You must think I’m a doofus.”

“No, but you’re probably a pampered pooch who’s been carted around her entire life.”

Instead of taking offense, she nodded. “Carted everywhere except where I really want to go.” She sighed. “I love Alyssa Danielli. Her voice is so … pure.”

Gabe sat back in his chair and gave her face an honest appraisal. He admired passion in any form, but classical music was something he could relate to. “If you want to go to an opera so bad, just go.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t understand Persian culture.”

“Is there something in Persian genes that make them not like opera?”

“My father wants me to be a doctor.”

“I’m sure there are doctors who are opera fans.” He took a bite of his bagel. “You want some coffee or something?”

“I’ll get it.” She stomped away, but left her backpack behind. A few minutes later she was back with something foamy. A sheen of sweat coated her forehead. “People are starting to come in.”

“That’s good. It’ll keep the place in business.”

“I mean it’s …” She glanced at her watch and sipped her coffee. “Is taking the bus dangerous?”

“I wouldn’t go in the wee hours of the morning, but this is a matinee.” Gabe rubbed his neck. “If you’re going to continue to talk to me, could you please sit down?”

She sat.

He said, “Look … whatever your name is. How about if I give you directions by bus? If you’re at the bus stop, then we’ll go together. If not, I’ll buy you a CD and write you a review.”

She sighed. “Maybe we can go by cab.”

“A cab is like twenty times the money.”

“I’ll pay for it.”

Gabe stared at her. Who was she? “I’m not pleading poverty. I’ll pay for the cab if you definitely go. Otherwise, I’m going to go by bus.”

“How about this?” the girl said. “You’ll pay for the cab if I go, and if I don’t go, I’ll pay you back.”

Gabe shook his head. “This is getting very complicated.”

“Please?” she implored.

“Fine.” He rolled his eyes. “You’ll pay me back for the cab if you crap out … which doesn’t make any sense because I have to pick you up anyway and by that time, you should know whether or not you’re going.”

Her big eyes got even wider. “You can’t pick me up at my house. I’ll meet you a few blocks away.”

“Aha.” Gabe got it. “You’re sneaking around your parents.”

“Sorta.”

“Jeez, it’s not like you’re going to a rave; it’s a freakin’ opera.” When she didn’t say anything, he said, “It’s not just the opera; it’s going with me to the opera. Because I’m not Jewish.”

She stared at him. “You’re not Jewish?”

“Nope. I’m Catholic.”

“Oh God. My dad would kill me just for going with a white boy.” She leaned over and spoke softly. “Why were you in a Jewish school if you’re not Jewish”?

“It’s a long story.” He paused. “This isn’t a good idea. I don’t want to be responsible for getting you into trouble. Would you like your ticket back?”

“No, of course not. If you don’t use it, it really will go to waste.” She blew out air again. “I mean, it’s just going to the opera, right?”

“Yes, it’s just going to the opera. It is not a date.” He studied her face again. “How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

“You look around ten.”

“Thank you very much,” she snapped. It was clearly something she heard all the time.

“You look young, but you’re very cute.” Gabe said it to mollify her, but he actually meant it. “This is what I’m going to do. I’m going to give you my phone number and you call or text me if you can make it.” He waited a moment. “You have a cell, right?”

“Of course.”

“So Persians can have cell phones—”

“Ha, ha!”

“Take down my cell number. Do you know my name?”

“Gabriel Whitman.”

“Excellent.” He gave the girl his number. “I’ll take your phone number now. But to do that, I first need to know your name.”

“Yasmine Nourmand.” Pronounced Yaz-meen. She spelled it and then gave him her phone number.

“That’s a very exotic name. What is your older sister’s name?”

“I have three older sisters.”

“The one that was in the class with Hannah.”

“That’s Sage. My other sisters are Rosemary and Daisy. Yasmine is the Hebrew of Jasmine.”

“So Mom had sort of a botanical thing going.”

Yasmine smiled and checked her watch. “I have to go. School starts at seven-thirty.”

“I remember that. Why were you here so early?”

“Sometimes I come early to listen to my CDs.” She pulled out six operas—two Verdi, two Rossini, and two Mozart. “I mean, I really love my parents. And I love my sisters. They’re gorgeous and wonderful and everything. And I enjoy the regular pop stuff, too. But sometimes when I listen to my music—that no one else seems to like—I like being alone.”

Her eyes were far away.

“It’s my dream to see a real-life opera. And to hear someone as good as Alyssa Danielli.” She hefted her backpack. “Thanks for offering to come with me.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

“And thanks for not making fun of me.”

“Well, I kinda did.”

“Yeah, you kinda did.” She gave him a wave and was off.

He returned his eyes to the paper, knowing full well that this was a mistake. But in talking to her, he suddenly realized how lonely he was.

She had awakened a sleeping lion.

Girls.

CHAPTER FOUR

AUTOPSY REPORTS INVOLVING self-inflicted gunshot wounds were always grisly. The damage done by an up-close-and-personal weapon was horrendous. Details were even harder to read when the victims were young like Gregory Hesse. As Marge scanned the lengthy police file as well as what the coroner’s examiner had to say, she didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. All the signs of suicide were there: single bullet in the head, close-up burn mark on the temple, the position of the body with regard to the gun, stippling on the boy’s right hand. She got up from her desk and knocked on Decker’s open door. “Did you want to see Gregory Hesse’s file?”

“Yeah, that would be great.” He motioned her inside. Marge wore a light knit brown sweater and black slacks—much more comfortable than Decker’s gray suit. Today he was wearing a thin black turtleneck so at least he didn’t have to wear a tie. The captain had given his attire the once-over, asking if he was going Hollywood. “Anything I should be aware of?”

Marge sat down and laid the paperwork on his desk. “Most of it was plain depressing.”

“What about the gun?”

“The files say it was a Ruger LCP .380.”

“A mouse gun,” Decker said.

“Mouse gun, ladies’ gun—whatever it was, it did the trick. Oliver told me it was an older-model Ruger.”

“How old?”

“I don’t think he said. He’s pulling it out of the evidence locker sometime today.” She paused. “If everything seems consistent with a suicide, what’s our next step?”

“Well, I can make a phone call to Mrs. Hesse and tell her there’s nothing for us to pursue. Or I can make a phone call and tell her that I’ll talk to some of Gregory’s friends and teachers and try to find some clues as to what happened.”

Marge nodded.

Decker said, “What’s on your mind?”

“I know that she lives in the community we serve. So we are her employees in a very broad sense. But is that really our job—a psychological autopsy? Not that I mind doing it, but I don’t want to get into areas that we’re not familiar with.”

“Valid point, so let me put it this way. When we do an investigation, we try to find the motive behind every crime. Technically suicide is a crime.”

“I suppose every crime starts with a weapon,” Marge said. “I’ll see where Oliver is on that.”

“Could you also get me a couple of phone numbers?” He flipped through his notes. “For Joey Reinhart and Kevin Stanger. You probably can get those by calling up Bell and Wakefield. I don’t want to contact Wendy Hesse until we have something to say.”

“The school might be more cooperative if I added a personal touch.” Marge checked her watch—eleven. “I can go there right now.”

“Sure. And while you’re there, try to get a feel for the place.”

Oliver knocked on the door and came in. “I just got some information on the Ruger used in the suicide. The gun was stolen from Dr. Olivia Garden who, according to our computers, is a sixty-five-year-old dermatologist practicing in Sylmar.”

Decker pointed to the chair next to Marge, and Oliver sat down. Scott, always the dandy, was appointed today in a black shirt and tie, gray trousers, and a herringbone jacket. His shoes were black buffed leather loafers. “Did you contact the doctor?”

“I put a call into her secretary. Doctor was with a patient. Her lunch hour is from twelve-thirty to two. I’ll just pop in and try to catch her then. Maybe Gregory Hesse was her patient. You know teenagers and acne. Could be he lifted it from her desk.”