Hangman

“The thing is…” He bounced his leg up and down. “If my mom remains missing, my dad’s not gonna stick around to raise me. Even when he’s home, he does his own thing. I’m like a nuisance to him. Besides, I don’t need anyone to raise me. All I need is a place to live, access to a car and driver, and a piano teacher. Chris will give me money.”

“You have other options, Gabe.”

“I barely know my grandfather and I’m not living with my aunt. She’s a slob and I’m obsessive-compulsive. Her habits bother me way more than my dad’s temper. At least he’s as neat as I am.”

“Okay,” Decker said. “If you need anything, just give me a call. You’re certainly welcome to stay here a flew days to figure it all out.”

“Thanks.” He took off his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt. The boy mustered a smile even though his eyes were on the brink on tears. “Thank you very much. I take it you haven’t heard anything about my mom.”

“You’ll be the first to know.” Decker stood up. “We’re about ready to eat. Lots of food. I hope you’re hungry.”

“I am. Be there in a few.”

Decker closed the door and gave the kid his privacy.

He pretended not to hear him cry.

CHAPTER TWELVE

HANNAH KNEW SOMETHING was going on when Cindy didn’t drink the wine and Eema kept pushing food on her.

“How about some more cobbler?” Rina asked.

“If I eat another bite, I will explode,” Cindy answered.

“Then how about a care package for later. I’ll also give you some paella.” Rina got up from the dining-room table and went into the kitchen before her stepdaughter could protest. Cindy looked at her watch. It was after nine.

“That went fast. We’ve got to go. I’ll go help her pack up.”

“I’ll help you pack up.” Hannah raced after her sister and met up with her in the kitchen. She said, “Are you sure you don’t have anything you want to tell me?”

Cindy felt her face go hot. “Aren’t you nosy?”

“Yes, no, maybe?”

Rina said, “Hannah, you’re acting entirely inappropriate.”

“Puh-leeze?”

“Keep your voice down,” Cindy said. “The answer is yes, but I couldn’t very well say anything in front of the boy.”

Hannah clapped her hands with the tip of her fingers. “When?”

“End of December.”

“Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

Rina said, “Hannah, that’s enough!”

She turned to her mother. “How long have you known?”

“As long as Cindy’s wanted me to know. And keep your voice down, please.”

Cindy said, “Your mom is right. Let’s keep it low-key.”

“Can I come shopping with you for cribs?”

Rina said, “You can shop with me for a crib. We’ll keep one here.”

“I can’t believe you and Abba kept it from me.” Hannah paused. “I can believe that you kept it, but not Abba. He must be so happy!”

“That’s an understatement,” Rina said. “It hasn’t been all that hard because you two rarely intersect with your busy schedules.”

Hannah couldn’t keep the grin off her face. “I’ll help Eema pack up for you. You go sit and relax.”

“I’m feeling fine, I’m not a cripple. You go sit. Every time you leave the table, that poor boy looks like he’s swallowed lye. Do him a favor and ask to be excused so he can be excused.”

“Okay.” Hannah gave her sister a giant hug. “I love you.”

Hannah pranced back into the dining room, where she exchanged wide, knowing smiles with her father. Gabe didn’t appear to notice. He and Koby were talking about music. It turned out that Gabe played a zillion other instruments. He said to Decker, “I noticed that your sons have a couple of cases in the closet. Mind if I have a look?”

“It’s a guitar and a bass,” Decker said. “I don’t think either one of them has been played much. Knock yourself out.”

“None of us have any musical talent,” Hannah said. “Koby has a beautiful voice, but that’s only because he isn’t a blood relative. Can I be excused?”

“I still see dishes on the table,” Decker said.

Hannah sighed impatiently and started gathering the dessert dishes. When Gabe got up to help, Decker said, “You’re a guest. She can do it.”

“I don’t mind, Lieutenant. It makes me feel normal.”

Decker nodded his assent. Fifteen minutes later, the couple was gone and the door to his son’s room was shut. Actual music was coming from behind the walls even though the amp was turned way down. Decker listened for a moment as notes few out in rapid succession—bent, twisted, warped. Atonal riffs, but interesting. When Decker knocked softly, the music stopped. Gabe opened the door a crack. “Too loud?”

“Not at all. I just want to tell you my schedule if you need me. Your dad’s due in around three hours from now. I’ve still got a little work left to do. I’ll be back here around eleven. I want to be here when he comes to pick you up. I’ve got to talk to him anyway. If you need to reach me earlier, give me a call on my cell, okay?”

“Thanks. I’ll be okay.”

“You’re all packed up?”

“I will be. Not much to pack.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m fine. Thanks.” The teen paused. “Thanks for everything.”

“Gabe, if you want a few days to think about things, I can make that happen. You don’t have to go with him right away.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Just so you know, all right?”

He nodded.

Decker said, “I haven’t heard anything bad about your mom or her car. Maybe she just needed a few days to think by herself.”

Gabe swallowed hard as he nodded.

Decker put his hand on his shoulder. “You’re a tough kid. But even tough kids need help every now and then. Don’t be shy about calling.”

“Okay.”

“See you later.”

“Sure. Bye.” The door closed gently.

The music that followed was soft and melancholy.

THE PORT HOLE was a waterfront restaurant/grill/sports bar boasting free hors d’oeuvres during happy hour, weekday specials, and local sports games broadcast on a ten-foot flat screen. True to their ad, the ginormous TV was airing the Lakers-Nuggets game with Kobe Bryant at the line, his magnified sweaty face revealing every open pore. There was such a thing, Marge thought, as too much high resolution.

Sela Graydon’s description of Crystal Larabee was as follows: blond, blue-eyed, good body, probably garbed in sexy clothes, and she drinks cosmopolitans. There were three candidates, all of them at the bar: a blonde in the sequined tank top and jeans, another blonde in the red tee and lamé miniskirt, and lastly, a blonde wearing a strapless black tube and low-rise jeans whose thong was visible.

“My gut says number three,” Oliver said.

“I’m with you, partner.”

The two of them snaked their way into the three-deep crowd at the bar until Marge was looking over Crystal’s shoulder on the right and Oliver was on her left. She was practically falling out of her tube top and her mascara was as thick as tar. She was talking animatedly to a bullnecked block of man who had his hand on her lower back, a finger slipped under her thong. He looked a good ten years older than his prey.

“Crystal?” Oliver said.

“Hey…” She slowly turned to face him. “Who’re you?”

Her voice was slurred. A dollop of drool sat at the corner of her mouth.

Oliver took out his badge. “Police. I’d like to talk to you.”

Her heavy lids were halfway closed. “Wha’s goin’ on?”

“Yeah, what’s going on?” Block Man echoed.

Marge took out her badge. “We need a little privacy. Give us a couple of minutes and we’re out of your hair.”

“S’right,” Crystal said. “I’m tired anyway.” She tossed on a black sweater and slung her purse over her shoulder. “I’m outta here.”

She slid off her bar stool and tripped. Oliver caught her before she hit the ground. “How about we take a little walk?”

“I don’ need a walk…” She fished out her keys.

Marge gently took them away. No resistance. “I really think you need a walk first.”

She stared at Marge, blinking several times. “Who’re you?”

“We’re the police,” Marge said. “We need to talk to you about Adrianna Blanc. You remember her. She’s one of your best friends.”

Immediately, Crystal burst into tears.

Marge put her arm around her and Crystal leaned her head against her chest and sobbed. “I know, honey. It hurts.”

“It hurts so bad!” Crystal wailed.

A sleek, dark Latino bartender looked up. “Can you get her out of here, please?”

Oliver took one arm and Marge took the other. Together, they led Crystal out of the restaurant, crossed over the asphalt parking lot, took her down a half-dozen steps until they reached the boardwalk. It was an overcast night and the sporadic streetlamps emitted muted yellow light haloed by fog. They schlepped her along the rickety wooden esplanade, passing boat slip after boat slip after boat slip, the spaces holding everything from medium-size motor cruisers to mega-size yachts with antennas and satellites. There was a gentle saline breeze coming off the ocean.

In her wedgies, Crystal was having trouble standing erect. “Why, why, why!”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Oliver said. “And you can help us, Crystal. But you’ve got to focus.”

“I don’ wanna focus.” She wiped her eyes on her arm, tattooing the skin with a black ribbon of mascara. “I wanna go home. I wanna sleep!” She sniffed and began rooting through her purse for her keys.

“Where do you live?” Marge already knew the answer. She and Oliver had gone by the place earlier in the evening.

“In the Valley.”

“How convenient! I live there, too. Why don’t I take you home and Detective Oliver will drive your car for you.”

“I’m…okay.”

“I know, honey, but this way you can rest.” Marge was already steering her back to the parking lot. “Where’s your car, honey?”

She squinted. “I think…” She tottered and stopped.

Marge said, “What car do you drive?”

“A Prius. Gotta be like…econonological.”

There were a number of them in the lot. “What color?”

“Blue.”

“I see it.” Marge tossed Oliver the keys. “See you later.”

“Good luck.”

Marge helped her into the passenger seat of the unmarked and buckled her seat belt. “Comfy?” No answer. Marge started the motor and drove toward the freeway.

Crystal snored all the way home.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ADRIANA MADE HER home in a block-long complex of three-story dun-colored buildings, planted with ferns and palms, illuminated at night by colored spotlights. Her apartment number was 3J, and Decker walked quietly through the two-bedroom, two-bath unit. She might have been a wild party girl, but she had kept her place tidy. Maybe that was the nurses’ training. When he was a medic in the army, he found that organization was not only handy, it was imperative. Lives depended on it.

It was an open-concept design. The living room/dining area was furnished with the basics—a sectional couch with a chaise, a couple of end tables, and a trunk for a coffee table. There was a square dining table and four chairs. The kitchen was tiny with beige tiled countertops and newer white appliances. A flat screen had been mounted to the wall opposite the couch. The place could have belonged to anyone USA except for the only revealing item in the space—a bookshelf.

Not many books but lots of DVDs. More important were the framed pictures of Adrianna in life. She’d been an attractive woman with long brunette hair and a wide smile. She stood on the slopes holding her skis with a goofy grin, she posed with her girlfriends at a restaurant holding up a margarita glass, she stood tall in a cap and gown, with her parents on either side. There were several shots of her with the same man—average height, spiky sandy-colored hair, light eyes, and several piercings in each earlobe. Good-looking guy. Probably Garth Hammerling. Decker placed one of his pictures in his briefcase.

He moved on to the bathroom—OTC analgesics, face creams, birth control pills, and a nice-size bag of weed. He left everything as is and went on to the spare bedroom, which Adrianna had set up as an office. There was a cheap desk that held a Dell laptop and a printer, a rocking chair, and a foldout sofa bed.

A computer was a valuable thing. He unplugged the laptop, closed the lid, and gently slid it into a carrying case. Then he began to rifle through her desk—pencils, papers, receipts, paper clips, rubber bands, tape, Postits, and dozens of loose photographs.

He flipped through some of the pictures.

Adrianna had an orderly mind. On the backs of most of the photos, she had labeled the people and dated them. The same names and faces kept coming up: Sela Graydon, Crystal Larabee, Mandy Ko walski, Garth Hammerling—the cute guy in the framed, living-room picture—and a few of Garth’s friends, Aaron Otis and Greg Reyburn. Again, Decker selected several pictures and stowed them in his attaché.

Not much else inside the desk. One drawer was dedicated to printing paper; another contained a tangle of cable cords. He got up and surveyed the clothes closet. It was used as a spare, holding heavy winter coats, a set of skis, a boogie board, six black party dresses, and a set of luggage.

Her bedroom was also neat. A pink paisley comforter sat atop a queen bed. Two night lamps on either side sat on two identical nightstands, which held a clock radio, a land phone, and a pad and pencil. Decker picked up the blank pad of paper and the pencil. Using a light touch, he rubbed the side of the pencil tip against the pad, the indentations revealing a former grocery list. He put the pad down.

A flat screen had been placed atop an open console. Her clothes closet, on the other hand, was jammed. It was neatish but not compulsive. Different sections for blouses, shirts, skirts, pants, and dresses, but not colorcoded. Formal wear sat with casual wear. She had lots of shoes and lots of running shoes. Dozens of purses, belts, and scarves, and ten pairs of sunglasses. Nothing designer, just megaquantity.

Decker checked his watch. It was time to get back, just in case Donatti decided to be a speed demon and come in early. He didn’t want Chris picking up Gabe without his being there. He gave the bedroom a final onceover. On impulse, he walked over to the right nightstand and pulled out the small top drawer. It was crammed with a Sudoku book, several mechanical pencils, a nail file, several Tampex, and a pad of Postits. The left night-stand drawer had a wheel of birth control pills, the remote control for the TV, and a latched leather-bound book. Decker picked it up

A diary.

Didn’t come across those too often. How lucky is that?

He stowed the diary in his briefcase.

His bedtime reading.

CRYSTAL LARABEE’S APARTMENT was a two-story white stucco building of sixties vintage. She was on the second floor and Marge pitied the person who lived below her. It was amazing how much noise she could make wearing cork-sole wedged shoes. As soon as she kicked them off—with a thud—Marge realized that Crystal was a very petite woman, about five feet tall. The cuffs of her jeans dragged along the floor. She plopped down on her couch and threw her legs on a glass coffee table.

“What time is it? I wanna go to sleep.”

“It’s not late,” Marge lied. “We’ll only be a few minutes.”

She yawned. “I’m tired.”

The doorbell rang.

“Who the hell is that?” Crystal said.

“My partner.”

“The guy?”

“Yeah, the guy.” Marge got up and opened the door. “This is Detective Oliver. He drove your car home from the Port Hole.”

“He did?” Crystal rubbed her eyes and noticed black on her fingers. “I gotta wash my face.” She ran her tongue over her teeth and grimaced. “My mouth is yucky. I don’ feel so good. Can’t this wait?”

“How about if you wash your face, I’ll put on some coffee,” Marge said. “You do have coffee, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So I’ll make some coffee, okay?”

“Whatever.” She disappeared into a bedroom.

Oliver rolled his eyes. “How much do you think we’ll get out of her?”

“At this point, I’m just aiming for the name of the hunk that Adri-anna was flirting with. Or maybe he was flirting with Adrianna .”

The two detectives took in Crystal’s living space. The carpet hadn’t been vacuumed for a while and the blinds were speckled in dust. Copies of Cosmo, People, and Us magazines were strewn on tabletops and littered the floor. Furniture was simple: sofa, an ottoman, end tables, a dinette set, and a flat screen on a stand. Messy but not filthy.

The kitchen was another story: dishes in the sink, sticky countertops, grit on the floor, and an overflowing garbage can under the sink. Marge found some coffee in the fridge and milk that was fortunately not beyond its expiration date. She brewed up a pot of strong coffee, found some clean mismatched mugs—she rinsed them out anyway—and poured a cup for Oliver and for herself.

It was taking a while for Crystal to make her appearance. Marge got up from the couch. “Let me see what’s going on.”

She found Crystal in her bedroom, stripped to her skivvies and fast asleep atop her comforter.

“Oh boy.” Marge gave her a gentle shake. “Crystal, we need a few minutes.” Another shake. “Wake up, honey.”

Crystal opened her eyes. “Wha?”

“Last night, honey,” Marge said. “We need to talk about last night.”

“I was at the Port Hole.”

“Not tonight, Crystal, last night. At Garage…where you were working.”

Crystal rolled over. “I took the day off.”

Marge shook her. “I want to talk about Adrianna, Crystal. She was flirting with a man at Garage. I want to talk about that man.”

Crystal turned over and faced Marge. “Huh?”

“Last night at Garage. You were comping them both free drinks. You could get into trouble for that.”

That got her attention. She sat up. “You’re not gonna say something?”

“Not if you talk to us,” Marge said. “Put on a robe, come out into the living room, and let us talk to you for a few minutes. Then you can go to sleep.”

“Okay.” Crystal blinked several times. Her lids, freed from the crushing weight of the mascara, could move. With a scrubbed face and no makeup, she looked far more vulnerable. “I’ll be out in a sec.”

“We’ll be waiting in the living room.”

A sec was fifteen minutes, but she did come out, and when she did, Marge gave her a cup of coffee. “Drink.”

Crystal obliged. Her voice was shaky. “You can’t tell my boss…about the drinks.” She rubbed her eyes with her right fist. “If he finds out, I’ll get fired.”

“For comping a few drinks?” Oliver asked her.

“It wasn’t like…the first time.” Another sip of coffee. “It’s not like it’s such a big deal. Jeez, they dilute the shit anyway. I’m mostly comping them water.”

“You’re a good friend,” Marge said.

Crystal’s eyes swelled with tears. “I wasn’t expecting her last night. She just popped in, but I shouldna been surprised. She does that a lot when Garth isn’t around.”

“Does what?” Marge asked.

Crystal appeared to be deep in thought. “When he’s gone, she gets lonely. She likes a little fix of company. She usually doesn’t come to Garage because it’s expensive—the bar is. But she knew I was working and she knew I’d give her a break.”

“Do you know the guy she was flirting with?”

“Don’t recall knowing him,” Crystal said. “He’s not a regular.”

“Did you get a name?”

She thought hard. “I mighta heard someone calling him Farley.”

“Is that a first or last name?”

She shrugged.

“What does he look like?” Oliver asked.

“I dunno. Medium height, medium weight…real big shoulders.”

“Good-looking?” Marge asked.

“Not too bad.”

“Kind of a hunk?”

“More like the Hulk…’cause of his shoulders.”

Marge nodded. Sela Graydon said that Crystal had referred to him as a hunk. Maybe she misheard “hunk” for “Hulk.” Or maybe Crystal had reassessed in the light of day. “Were the two of them hitting it off?”

Crystal took another sip of coffee. “Maybe he thought so. Adri-anna wasn’t serious about a hookup that night. She had to work.”

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