Faye Kellerman
Blood Games

Published in the USA as Gun Games

Dedication

For Jonathan

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

About the Author

Other Books by Faye Kellerman

Copyright

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS BAD news walking through the door.

They were coming his way: five of them—three guys, two girls—all of them looking older than him by a couple of years but probably still in high school. The guys had some muscle, but none of them was steroidal, meaning he could take any of them one-on-one. Collectively, he didn’t stand a chance. Besides, Gabe wasn’t spoiling for a fight. Last time that happened, he messed up his hand—temporarily. He’d been lucky. Maybe he’d be lucky again. If not, he had to be smart.

He pushed his glasses up on his nose and kept his eyes on the book until the group was on top of him. Even then, he didn’t look up. Nothing was going to happen to him inside a Starbucks … staring at the page in front of him, his mind going a mile per sec.

“You’re sitting in my seat,” one of the guys said.

His dad had always emphasized that if he were about to be jumped, it was best to take on the leader. Because once the leader was gone, the others fell like dominoes. Gabe counted to five before he looked up. The guy who spoke was the biggest of the three.

“Excuse me?” Gabe said.

“I said you’re sitting in my seat.” And as if to emphasize the point, he pulled back his jacket, giving Gabe a five-second peek at the gun stuck into his waistband—positively one of the worst places to keep an unharnessed weapon. There were only two people in the world that Gabe would take crap from and he wasn’t looking at either one of them. To acquiesce would be a mistake. On the other hand, to confront would also be a mistake. Luckily, the dude gave him an out.

Gabe held up an index finger. “Do you mind?” Slowly and carefully, he pulled back the guy’s jacket with his finger and stared at the gun. “Beretta 92FS with some kind of a custom grip.” A pause. “Sweet.” He let the jacket drop. “You know the company just came out with an advanced model—a 96A or something like that. Same thing as the 92 series except it has a higher magazine capacity.”

Gabe stood up. Nose to nose, he was a couple of inches taller than the gunslinger, but the height differential wasn’t something he was about to flaunt. He took a half step back, giving them both some personal space.

“I like the plinkers … like the 87 Cheetah .22LR. First of all, it’s got great reliability. Second, it’s one of those ambidextrous pieces. I’m right-handed, but I got a real strong left. You know how it is. You never know which hand it’s gonna be convenient to use.”

They were locked in a staring contest, Gabe’s focus on the dude with the piece. As far as he was concerned, the other four didn’t exist. Then, with a sudden, fluid motion, Gabe stepped aside and held out his hand, magnanimously offering the dude his seat. “Be my guest.”

A few seconds ticked by, each waiting for the other to blink.

Finally, the guy said to Gabe, “Have a seat.”

“After you.”

The two of them eyed each other, then they both sat down at the same time with the dude taking up the leather chair that Gabe had formerly occupied. He kept his eyes on the guy’s face, never letting up for a moment. Dude was around five ten, one eighty, broad chest, strong arms. Brown hair past his ears, blue eyes, strong chin. Under his leather jacket, he had on a gray T-shirt and wore black, tight-fitting jeans. He was a good-looking guy and probably had a posse of admirers.

Dude said, “Where’d you learn about guns?”

Gabe shrugged. “My dad.”

“What does he do?”

“My father?” At this, Gabe broke into a slow grin. “Uh … actually, he’s a pimp.” The expected pause. “He owns whorehouses in Nevada.”

The dude stared at him with newfound respect. “Cool.”

“It sounds a lot cooler than it is,” Gabe said. “My dad’s a nasty guy—a real mean motherfucker. He also owns about a zillion guns and knows how to use every single one of them. I get along with him because I don’t cross him. Plus, we don’t live together anymore.”

“You live with your mom?”

“Nah, she’s in India somewhere. She took off with her lover and dumped me into the care of complete strangers—”

“Are you shittin’ me?”

“I wish I was shittin’ you.” Gabe laughed. “Last year was a total nightmare.” He rubbed his hands together. “But it worked out okay. I like where I am. My foster dad is a police lieutenant. You’d expect him to be the hard-ass, but compared to my own dad, the man is a saint.” He looked at his watch. It was almost six in the evening and night was inches away. “I gotta go.” He stood up and so did Dude.

“What’s your name?” Dude asked.

“Chris,” Gabe lied. “And you?”

“Dylan.” They fist-bumped. “What school do you go to?”

“Homeschooled,” Gabe said. “Almost done, thank God. Hey, nice to meet you, Dylan. Maybe I’ll catch you on the shooting range.”

He turned his back to the group and slowly swaggered away. It took all his energy not to glance back.

Once he was out the door, he ran like hell.

RINA WAS ARRANGING roses when the boy came in, flushed and panting. She said, “Are you all right?”

“Just out of shape.” Gabe tried to steady his breathing. He attempted to give his temporary mother a smile, but it probably didn’t come out too sincere. He could tell that Rina was scrutinizing him, her blue eyes concentrated on his face. She was wearing a pink sweater that matched the flowers. His mind was desperately trying to figure out small talk. “Those are pretty. From the garden?”

“Trader Joe’s. The roses in the garden won’t start blooming for another couple of months.” She regarded her charge, his emerald eyes flitting behind his glasses. Something was off. “Why were you running?”

“Trying to be healthy,” Gabe told her. “I really need to do something about improving my stamina.”

“I’d say anyone who can practice for six hours a day has a great deal of stamina.”

“Tell that to my beating heart.”

“Sit down. I’ll get you something to drink.”

“I can do it.” Gabe disappeared into the kitchen. When he came back, he was holding a bottle of water. Rina was still giving him funny looks. To distract her, he picked up the paper from the dining room table. The front page showed a picture of a boy, the caption stating that fifteen-year-old Gregory Hesse had committed suicide by a single gunshot to the head. He had a round face and big round eyes and looked much younger than fifteen. Gabe started reading the article in earnest.

“Sad, isn’t it.” Rina was looking over his shoulder. “You think to yourself, what on earth could have been so bad that this poor kid was willing to end it all?”

There were lots of reasons for despair. Last year he had gone through all of them. “Sometimes life is hard.”

Rina took the paper from him, spun him around, and gave him her serious eye-to-eye contact. “You looked upset when you came in.”

“I’m fine.” He managed a smile. “Really.”

“What happened? Did you hear from your dad or something?”

“No, we’re cool.” When Rina gave him a skeptical look, he said, “Honestly. I haven’t spoken to him since we came back from Paris. We texted a couple of times. He asked me how I was doing and I told him I was fine. We’re on good terms. I think he likes me a lot better now that my mom is out of the picture.”

He took a swig of water and averted his eyes.

“Did I tell you my mom IMed about a week ago?”

“No … you didn’t.”

“Must have slipped my mind.”

“Uh-huh—”

“Really. It was no big deal. I almost didn’t answer her because I didn’t recognize the screen name she was using.”

“Is she okay?”

“Seems to be.” A shrug. “She asked me how I was.” Behind his glasses, his eyes were gazing at a distant place. “I told her I was fine and not to worry … that everything was cool. Then I signed off.” He shrugged again. “I didn’t feel like making chitchat. Tell you the truth, I’d rather she not contact me. Is that terrible?”

“No, it’s understandable.” Rina sighed. “It’ll take a lot of bridge building before you get some trust—”

“That’s not gonna happen. It’s not that I have anything against her. I wish her well. I just don’t want to talk to her.”

“Fair enough. But try to keep an open mind. When she contacts you again, maybe give her a few more seconds of your time. Not for her sake, but for yours.”

“If she contacts me again.”

“She will, Gabriel. You know that.”

“I don’t know anything. I’m sure she’s busy with the baby and all.”

“One child isn’t a substitute for another—”

“Thanks for the pep talk, Rina, but I really don’t care. I barely think about her.” But of course, he did all the time. “The baby needs her way more than I do.” He smiled and patted her head. “Besides, I’ve got a pretty good substitute right here.”

“Your mom is still your mom. And one day, you’ll see that. But thank you very much for the nice words.”

Gabe returned his eyes to the newspaper article. “Wow, the boy was local.”

“Yes, he was.”

“Do you know the family?”

“No.”

“So like … does the lieutenant investigate cases like this?”

“Only if the coroner has questions about whether it was a suicide.”

“How can the coroner tell?”

“I really don’t know. You can ask Peter when he gets home.”

“When’s he coming home?”

“Sometime between now and dawn. Do you want to go out to the deli for dinner?”

Gabe’s eyes lit up. “Can I drive?”

“Yes, you can drive. While we’re there, let’s pick up a sandwich and take it to the Loo. If I don’t bring him food, he doesn’t eat.”

Gabe put down the paper. “Can I shower first? I’m a little sweaty.”

“Of course.”

Gabe could tell that Rina was still evaluating him. Unlike his father, he wasn’t an adroit liar. He said, “You worry too much. I’m fine.”

“I believe you.” Rina mussed his hair, damp with perspiration. “Go shower. It’s almost seven and I’m starving.”

“You bet.” Gabe smiled to himself. He had just used one of the Loo’s favorite expressions. He had been with the Deckers for almost a year and certain things just filtered in. He became aware of hunger pangs. It had just taken time for his stomach to calm down for his brain to get the message that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast and that he was famished.

It’s not that he had a nervous gut. But guns did strange things to his digestive system.

Completely unlike his dad.

Chris Donatti never met a firearm he didn’t like.

CHAPTER TWO

SINCE THE HAMMERLING case was aired on the TV show Fugitive, Decker had been getting calls, most of them dead ends. Still, he made it a habit to probe every single lead no matter how inane the tip. A serial killer was on the loose, and there was no such thing as half-assed investigation. The current tip was a spotting in the New Mexican desert in a small blip of a town somewhere between Roswell—known for its close encounters with UFOs—and Carlsbad, known for its network of underground caves. In the middle of nowhere was always a great place to hide out. Plus that region was in a direct line to Ciudad Juárez, Mexico, where, by some estimates, there had been more than twenty thousand murders in the past decade. The vast majority of the dead had been participants in vicious drug wars. But there was also a large minority of young female victims, possibly five thousand of them, called feminicidios, most between the ages of twelve and twenty-five, with no apparent connection to one another. The Mexicans’ penchant for violence would provide convenient cover for someone like Garth Hammerling if he could avoid getting killed himself.

Decker raked fingers through his thick head of hair, which retained some bright red highlights among the gray and white. Hannah said the streaks looked very punk. He smiled when he thought of his youngest daughter. She was away in Israel for the year and then after that would be starting college at Barnard. His children ranged from midthirties to eighteen and he had yet to experience an empty nest, courtesy of two very disturbed people who unwittingly enlisted his and Rina’s help in raising their child. Gabriel was a good kid, though—not a bother, but he was a presence.

Currently, Rina was teaching the fifteen-year-old how to drive.

I thought I was long past that one, she had told him. We plan and God laughs.

The good news was that his baby grandsons, Aaron and Akiva, from his elder daughter, Cindy, were almost three months old. They had been born three weeks early at five pounds, thirteen ounces and six pounds, one ounce. At the end of her pregnancy, Cindy had been carrying around more than sixty pounds of baby weight. But being athletic and working out almost every day, she had dropped the pounds and then some. She was currently on maternity leave from her position as a newbie detective with Hollywood. She planned to go back as soon as she found the right nanny. In the meantime, Rina and his ex-wife, Jan, were willing substitutes. The babies were way more work than Gabe.

Decker smoothed his mustache while studying the phone message.

The tip had been given by the New Mexico State Police. This was the fourth sighting of Garth Hammerling in New Mexico, and Decker was beginning to think that maybe he was on to something. He called up the 505 area code and after a series of holds and call switching, he was connected to CIS—Criminal Investigative Section—in Division 4. The investigator who was assigned to follow up the lead was named Romulus Poe.

“I know the guy who phoned it into the show,” Poe told Decker. “He owns a motel in Indian Springs located about forty miles south of Roswell. The man is what you might call an indigenous character. He sees and hears things that elude most of us mere mortals. But that doesn’t mean he’s totally loco. I’ve been out here for twelve years. Before that I was ten years in Las Vegas Metro Homicide. I’ve seen and heard my fair share of freak. The desert is no place for the fainthearted.”

“What’s the guy’s name?” Decker asked.

“Elmo Turret.”

“What’s his story?”

“He claims he saw a guy that looked like the picture of Hammerling shown on Fugitive. Elmo said he saw him a few days ago, camping out ten miles south from his motel. I’m just clearing out a drug bust. I spent the afternoon pulling out around an acre of mature MJ plants and I don’t mean Michael Jordan. As soon as I’m done with the processing of the local yokels who owned the land, I’ll swing by the area on my bike and see if I can’t find any veracity to the story.”

“Call me one way or the other. You know, this is the fourth spotting I’ve received from New Mexico.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. Ever been here?”

“Just Santa Fe.”

“That’s another country—civilized for the most part. Down here … well, what can I say? The Wild West is alive and kicking.”

PAPERWORK TOOK UP another hour, and by seven-thirty in the evening, Decker was about to call it quits when his favorite detective, Sergeant Marge Dunn, knocked on the sash to his open door. The woman was five ten with square shoulders and wiry muscle. She was dressed for winter L.A. style, wearing brown cotton slacks and a tan cashmere sweater. Her blond hair—and getting blonder by the years—was pulled back into a ponytail.

“Have a seat,” Decker told her.

“I’ve got a woman outside wanting to talk to you,” Marge said. “Actually, she wanted to talk to Captain Strapp but since he left, she settled for the next in line.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name is Wendy Hesse and she told me that her business is personal. Rather than push my weight around, I figured it would be easier to send her to you.”

Decker peeked at his watch. “Sure, bring her in while I go grab a cup of coffee.”

By the time he got back, Marge had seated the mystery woman. Her complexion was an unhealthy shade of putty and her blue eyes, though dry at the moment, had cried many tears. Her hair was cut helmet style—dark brown with white roots. She was a big-boned woman and appeared to be in her late forties. She was dressed in a black sweater and black sweatpants with sneakers on her feet.

Marge said, “Lieutenant Decker, this is Mrs. Hesse.”

He put the coffee cup on his desk. “Can I get you something to drink?”

The woman looked at her lap, shook her head, and mumbled something.

“Pardon me?” Decker said.

She snapped her head up. “No … thank you.”

“So how can I help you?”

Wendy Hesse looked at Marge, who said, “Maybe I’ll get some coffee. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some water, Mrs. Hesse?”

The woman refused a second offer. After Marge left, Decker said, “How can I help you, Mrs. Hesse?”

“I need to talk to the police.” She folded her hands and looked at her lap. “I don’t know how to start.”

Decker said, “Just tell me what’s on your mind.”

“My son …” Her eyes watered. “They say he … that he committed suicide. But I don’t … I don’t believe it.”

Decker regarded her in a different context. “You’re Gregory Hesse’s mother.”

She nodded as tears flowed down her cheeks.

“I am so sorry, Mrs. Hesse.” He handed her a tissue. “I can’t even imagine what you’re feeling right now.” When she started sobbing openly, Decker stood up and put his hand on her shoulder. “Let me get you some water.”

She nodded. “Maybe that’s a good … idea.”

Decker caught Marge at the coffeepot. “The woman is Gregory Hesse’s mom—the teen in the paper who committed suicide.” Marge went wide-eyed. “Anyone from Homicide at the scene yesterday?”

“I was in court.” She paused. “Oliver was there.”

“Did he talk to you about it?”

“Not really. It got him down. You could read it in his face. But he didn’t say anything about the death being suspicious.”

Decker filled up a wax paper cup with water. “Mrs. Hesse has her doubts about suicide. Would you mind sticking around? I’d like another ear.”

“Of course.”

Both of them went back to his office. To Mrs. Hesse, Decker said, “I’ve asked Sergeant Dunn here. She partners with Scott Oliver who was at your house yesterday afternoon.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Hesse,” Marge said.

Tears ran down her cheeks. Mrs. Hesse said, “There were … lots of police at the house.”

“Detective Oliver was in civilian dress. I don’t remember what he was wearing yesterday. He’s in his fifties—”

“That one,” she said, drying her eyes. “I remember him. Amazing … it’s still a blur … a nightmare.”

Decker nodded.

“I keep expecting to … wake up.” She bit her lip. “It’s killing me.” The tears were falling again faster than she could dry them. “What you can do for me is find out what really happened.”

“Okay.” Decker paused. “Tell me, what don’t you believe about your son’s death?”

Wet droplets fell onto her folded hands. “Gregory did not shoot himself. He’s never used a gun in his life! He hated guns. Our entire family abhors violence of any kind!”

Decker took out a notepad. “Tell me about your boy.”

“He wasn’t suicidal. He wasn’t even depressed. Gregory had friends, he was a good student. He had lots of interests. He never even remotely hinted at suicide.”

“Anything about him change over the last few months?”

“Nothing.”

“Maybe a little more moody?” Marge suggested.

“No!” She was resolute.

Decker asked, “Did he sleep more? Did he eat more? Did he eat less?”

Wendy’s sigh signaled exasperation. “He was the same boy—thoughtful … he could be quiet. But quiet doesn’t mean depressed, you know.”

“Of course not,” Decker told her. “I hate to ask you this, Mrs. Hesse, but how about past drug use?”

“Nothing!”

“Tell me a little about Gregory’s interests. What about extracurricular activities?”

She was taken aback. “Uh … I know he tried out for the debate team.” Silence. “He did very well. They told him to come back next year when there’s more room.”

Meaning he didn’t make it. “What else?” Decker said.

“He was in math club. He excelled in math.”

“What did he do on the weekends?”

“He was with his friends; he went to the movies. He studied. He was taking a full load including an AP course.”

“Tell me about his friends.”

She crossed her arms in front of her ample bosoms. “Gregory may have not been one of the popular kids.” She made air quotes over the word popular. “But he certainly wasn’t an outcast.”

“I’m sure he wasn’t. What about his friends?”

“His friends were … he got along with everyone … Gregory did.”

“Can you be more specific? Did he have a best friend?”

“Joey Reinhart. He’s been friends with him since grade school.”

“Any others?” Marge asked.

“He had friends,” Mrs. Hesse kept repeating.

Decker tried a different approach. “If Gregory had to fit into a high school category, what would it be?”

“What do you mean?”

“You mentioned the popular kids. There are other cliques: jocks, skaters, stoners, nerds, rebels, brainiacs, philosophers, hipsters, Goths, vampires, outcasts, artistes …” Decker shrugged.

The woman’s mouth was set in a thin line. Finally, she said, “Gregory had all sorts of friends. Some of them had some problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

“You know.”

“Problems to us usually mean, sex, drugs, or alcohol,” Marge said.

“No, not that.” Wendy kneaded her hands. “Some of his friends were a little slower to mature. One boy, Kevin Stanger … they picked on him so bad that he transferred to a private school over the hill.”

“He was bullied?” Decker asked. “And by bullied, I mean physical contact.”

“All I know is he was transferred.”

“When was this?” Marge asked.

“About six months ago.” The woman looked down. “But that wasn’t Gregory. No sirree. If Gregory were being picked on, I would have known about it. I would have done something. I’ll tell you that much.”

Precisely the reason why Gregory might not have told her. Decker said, “He never came home with unexplained bumps or bruises?”

“No! Why don’t you believe me?”

“I do believe you,” Decker said. “But I have to ask certain questions, Mrs. Hesse. You want a competent investigation, right?”

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.”

“The gun was stolen six years ago,” Marge said. “Gregory would have been eight or nine.”

“Right,” Oliver said. “So it probably passed through a few hands since then.”

“Was just her gun stolen or was it part of a larger burglary?”

“I don’t know. I just plugged in the serial number and there it was.”

“Where did the theft take place?”

“From her office,” Oliver said.

“Her office. Interesting.” Decker thought a moment. “Maybe she had problems with previous drug break-ins and felt she needed protection.”

“When I speak to her, I’ll ask her about it.”

“Okay. Also find out who knew about the gun and who had access to it.”

“Got it.” He stood up and looked at Marge. “Want to come with me?”

“I’ll go with you if you come with me to Bell and Wakefield. The Loo wants some phone numbers. Those kinds of things are easier to get if we show up in person.”

Decker said, “And while you’re at it, get Gregory Hesse’s class schedule. At some later date, we may want to talk to his teachers.”

“Sure, I’ll come with you,” Oliver said to Marge. He regarded Decker. “Is this Gregory Hess thing like a full-fledged investigation? I mean all signs point to the kid killing himself. Case closed.”

“A fifteen-year-old boy shoots himself with a mouse gun stolen six years ago from a doctor’s office. I’m a little curious. For now, let’s say case still open.”

THE BEEP FROM his cell distracted Gabe’s concentration … which was okay with him because he really wasn’t playing very well.

Some days you hit it, some days you didn’t.

He’d forgotten to turn off his phone. Why he kept it was still a mystery to him. Not many people called nowadays: the Deckers, his piano teacher who was usually switching times on him, and his father engaging him in thirty-second conversations. For the amount of minutes Gabe used per month, it didn’t even pay to keep the line going except that it was more expensive to cancel the service than to keep it current.

It was a text from a local number that Gabe didn’t recognize: i’m coming with u on sunday.

It was from the Persian girl. Yasmine. The smile that spread across his face was involuntary. He had been thinking about her the last couple of days. Not on-purpose thinking. That’s the kind of thinking when you longed to keep the image fresh in your brain—like the last time he saw his mother. It wasn’t like that … just that Yasmine had popped into his head from time to time.

His thumbs pecked across the keyboard of his phone.

g8. where do u want to meet?

She texted him back an address of where to meet her with the cab.

it’s 3 blocks from my house. what time?

The show started at three. A taxi wouldn’t take nearly as long as a bus, but he still wanted to allow a little breathing room because he was a stickler on punctuality.

is 1 ok?

a little early for me to get out. how about 2?

cutting it too close. 1:30 max.

ok.

A pause.

B there 1:30.

He wrote, looking 4ward. Bye.

bye.

He put down the phone. Then it beeped again.

Thx.

He smiled again. ur welcome.

This time he turned off the phone and went back to his piano. He stowed the Mozart piano sonata no. 11 in A major and instead chose Chopin—the polonaise in C-sharp minor, op. 26, no. 1, first movement—allegro appassionato.

His mood of the moment was very appassionato.

THE BANNERS HANGING across the two-story buildings announced that Bell and Wakefield was currently celebrating thirty years of excellence. It was built when Marge had just come on as a rookie detective in the Foothill Division with Decker. The school’s architecture had held up well because the style was classical: California mission with large leaded-glass windows, wood-trimmed doors, stucco walls, and red tiled roofs. The campus was set on acres of rolling lawns shaded by sycamores, eucalyptus, and California oak. Facilities included a library, a computer lab, and a faculty building along with a football field, a bank of tennis and basketball courts, plus an outdoor swimming pool. Cars in the student and guest parking included subcompacts, compacts, and lots of four-wheel drives from Ravs to Range Rovers. Faculty had their own dedicated lot.

Marge and Oliver arrived on campus at 11:30. The Administrative Building was the largest building on campus in size as well as height, and it hummed with activity. The walls were festooned with material—term papers that had received A+ grades, high-quality artwork, news articles, colored flyers, announcements, photographs, and one giant overstuffed complaint box. The Admission Offices took up the first floor. The largest of the rooms resembled a bank with a line of students standing on one side of the counter and the school employees sitting on the other side. Behind them was an open space of desks with computers. Lots of people were tapping on keyboards.

The two detectives waited in line and when they got up to the counter, Marge flashed her badge, asking a startled woman if she could speak to someone from the administration on a personal matter. Five minutes later, they were escorted into the office of the boys’ vice principal. Dr. Martin Punsche, they were told, would be with them shortly. His office was small—a desk with a computer, four chairs, a bookshelf, and not much else. It did have a window with a view of the lawns.

Punsche appeared with an outstretched hand, welcoming them to Bell and Wakefield. He was a man in his fifties, broad shouldered and bald with a broken nose. Put a white shirt on his body and a whistle around his neck and he could have been the football coach. Instead he wore a blue shirt, gold tie, and gray slacks.

“Maggie told me it was a personal matter,” Punsche said. “I hope it’s not trouble. The school has been going through some difficult times. Have a seat.”

The detectives sat down. “Difficult times?” Marge asked.

“You must know that one of our students met a terrible fate a couple of days ago.”

“Gregory Hesse,” Oliver said. “That’s actually why we’re here.”

“I figured as much. Terrible, terrible thing. We’ve already held a school assembly about it. We’ve been encouraging our students to talk about it. I’ve also scheduled several psychologists and doctors to come and talk about suicide prevention. Our student presidents, Stance O’Brien and Cameron Cole, have set up a student hotline. Around a dozen of our seniors have volunteered to meet with the freshmen for an informal rap session during lunch. I’m so proud of how our students have mobilized.”

Marge stared at him. The poor kid had just blown his head off, and the dude was a booster for school spirit. Did he ever turn it off?

Punsche placed his hands atop his desk. “So … how can I help you?”

Oliver straightened his tie. “We’re still tying up a few loose ends with the case.”

“What kind of loose ends?”

“Things that don’t add up just yet.”

Marge said, “They may add up later, but right now we’re investigating a few things at Wendy Hesse’s behest.”

Oliver shrugged. “For starters, we need a few phone numbers.”

“You mean phone numbers of our students?” When Marge nodded, Punsche said, “You know I can’t just give out numbers without asking the parents.”

“We’re interested in Joey Reinhart, Gregory Hesse’s best friend,” Marge said. “We can get the number from Wendy Hesse—she’s the one who told us about Joey—but the lieutenant didn’t want to bother her. You can understand that.”

Punsche stroked his hairless chin. “Why did Wendy Hesse contact you?”

“Like my partner said, some things are not quite adding up. We take all crime seriously, and suicide is a crime.”

“It’s a crime in only the most technical sense.”

“That’s the LAPD,” Oliver said. “We’re very technical.”

Marge said, “We also found out some interesting things about another friend of Gregory’s. A boy named Kevin Stanger. He transferred from Bell and Wakefield around six months ago at the beginning of the sophomore year. I’m assuming that you’d still have his address and phone number.”

“Kevin Stanger.” Again, he stroked his chin. “I’m sorry. I can’t put a face to the name.”

Marge said, “Maybe you don’t know him, so I’ll clue you in to what I heard. Kevin Stanger transferred because he was bullied.”

Punsche shook his head. “If he were bullied here, I would have heard about it.”

“You didn’t hear about it,” Oliver said. “But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“Look, I don’t know everything, but I do know a lot. If we knew that a child was being bullied, we would deal with the situation quickly and efficiently. We have no patience for that kind of nonsense.”

“So bullying doesn’t go on here?”

“There are cliques. Although the school excels in academics, sports, and theater arts, it’s still a high school filled with teenagers. There are popular kids and I’m sure they’re not the most gracious to everyone. There are bound to be kids who feel like outcasts. But that’s a far cry from bullying.”

Marge tried a different approach. “I’m sure you’ve got an excellent feel for your students. Right now, all we’re looking for is a couple of phone numbers. Heck, all we want is to bring a little, bitty piece of comfort to Wendy by nailing down a few details. Help us with that.”

Punsche said, “I suppose I can get you the phone numbers. Kevin Stanger may take a few minutes because he’s not current and is no longer in the computer.”

“That’s okay,” Oliver said. “We can wait.”

“If you can get us Gregory’s class schedule, that would be helpful,” Marge added.

“Surely you didn’t come all this way just to get a few numbers and a class schedule,” Punsche said.

Marge said, “Actually we did. We were in the neighborhood anyway. But while we’re here, if there’s anything else you can tell us about Gregory that might be helpful, please feel free to talk.”

Oliver said, “Things like what he did, who’d he hang out with, what clubs he was in … what made him tick.”

“This is embarrassing but I’ll say it anyway.” Punsche’s cheeks pinkened. “I didn’t really know the boy. I never had any cause to become … involved with him. Usually, I deal with problems and problem boys. As far as I knew, Gregory fit in nicely.”

“Is that opinion based on something concrete or the absence of problems?”

The VP hedged. “I’m sure I would have gotten to know him better. But when all this went down, I was … unaware that he was troubled.”

Oliver said, “Since you didn’t know him well, maybe you can direct us to someone who did.”

Punsche seemed bothered. “Try some of his teachers. I’ll get you that class schedule, and then if I were you, I’d just go down the list.”

CHAPTER FIVE

I’D SHOOT MYSELF if I had to be in high school for nine hours a day, five days a week.” Oliver was looking over the class schedule. “Whatever happened to creative boredom?”

“That’s why Hollywood is mostly remakes of old stuff.” Marge was behind the wheel. They had finished up with Bell and Wakefield by one and were headed toward Dr. Olivia Garden’s dermatology practice in Sylmar. “No ingenuity. And I’m not even talking redoing the classics. It’s like sixties sitcoms or Charlie’s Angels. Lowbrow stuff.”

“There I disagree.” Oliver looked wistful. “Charlie’s Angels had redeeming virtues.”

Marge smiled. “I told Lee Wang to take the Ruger to ballistics and see if it’s been used in other crimes.”

“How do you think Hesse got hold of it?”

“Beats me.” Marge’s cell rang. “Can you get that for me?”

“You could use Bluetooth.”

“So you could hear all my personal stuff? No, thank you.”

“Picky, picky.” Oliver rooted through her purse and picked it up. “Detective Oliver.”

The voice on the other side was female and hesitant. “I’m returning a call from Sergeant Dunn.”

“She’s driving right now. Who am I talking to?”

“This is Nora Stanger.”

“Ah, thank you for calling back, Mrs. Stanger. I’m Sergeant Dunn’s partner, Detective Scott Oliver. We’re going over some details of Gregory Hesse’s tragic suicide and wondered if we could talk to you. I understand your son, Kevin, was a friend of his?”

“The boys hadn’t seen each other in a while.”

“Yes, I know Kevin transferred out of Bell and Wakefield. I was hoping that your experience could shed some light on what happened. Gregory’s mother, Wendy Hesse, is suffering, and any answers we could give her would be helpful.”

The voice over the line was baleful. “That poor woman.”

“She’s really in the dark about what happened. And we don’t know a lot about Bell and Wakefield. The administration, of course, is protective of the school. Maybe you can fill us in. My partner and I have an open schedule. What would work for you?”

“I … I have to talk to Kevin. At this age, I can’t make decisions for him.”

“You have Sergeant Dunn’s number. Let me give you mine.” Oliver rattled off some digits. “Le me know when it’s convenient for you to meet us. And thanks for calling back.”

“You’re welcome.” Nora cut the line.

Oliver stowed Marge’s phone back in her purse. “She has to ask Kevin.”

Marge nodded.

“What did you think about Punsche?”

“Glad-hander and a bullshit artist,” Marge said. “But I believe him when he said that he wasn’t aware about Kevin Stanger’s problems.”

“He must have known that the kid transferred.”

“Maybe he knew about the transfer, but maybe not why. If the kid was bullied, I do think the school would have reacted.”

“Maybe.” Oliver thought a moment. “I wonder how much Nora Stanger knows about her son’s problems.”

“Enough to pull him out of the school,” Marge said. “Kevin’s the one we really want to talk to. He’s the one who can name names.”

DR. OLIVIA GARDEN, M.D., and Dr. Gary Pellman, M.D., ASDP, was a medical corporation. The office was in a one-story strip mall that shared a parking lot with a doughnut shop, a sandwich shop, and a Laundromat. Marge found street parking and fed the meters.

Once inside the office, Oliver knocked on the sliding glass partition. The woman behind the door was in her sixties, with short gray hair, a round face, and brown eyes. She wore no makeup but her skin was baby smooth—a walking advertisement for the practice. She had on a white coat, and a stethoscope dangled from her neck.

“The office is officially closed until two, but maybe I can help you.”

“We’re looking for Dr. Garden,” Marge said.

“You found her.” After Marge presented her badge, the doctor said, “Come around the side.” She opened the door. “Let’s go into my office. I’m just finishing lunch.”

“We’re sorry to interrupt,” Marge said.

“No problem.” She ushered them inside her personal domain. “Pull up a chair.” She sat behind her desk and took a bite out of a half sandwich. “So what’s this about?”

Oliver said, “About six years ago, you reported your gun stolen—a .380 Ruger.”

“You found it?”

“Yes, we did. It was recently used in the suicide of a fifteen-year-old—”

Olivia Garden gasped. “The one in the papers?”

“Yes. His name was Gregory Hesse. Did you happen to know him or his family?”

“No.” The doctor shook her head. “Oh my, my, my. How’d that poor boy get my gun?”

“That’s why we’re here,” Oliver said. “We have a couple of questions about the burglary.”

Marge pulled out a notebook. “We understand that the gun was taken from your office.”

“Yes, it was—a long time ago….”

“Was it only the gun taken or was that theft part of a larger burglary?”

“No, I believe it was only the gun.”

Oliver said, “Why did you have a gun in your office?”

A pause. The doctor said, “As I recall, there had been a rash of medical office break-ins in the area. The police never arrested anyone, but we held some neighborhood watch meetings and we all thought that it was some hype looking for drugs. Anyway, the tipping point for me was when a nurse who was working late was knocked over the head and had to go to the hospital. She turned out to be all right, but I was shaken up. My husband suggested I get a gun because I often work late.”

Oliver said, “So how long did you have the gun before it was stolen?”

“Not too long at all. I’d like to say around six months.”

“Did you get another gun?”

“I did not.” She took another bite of her sandwich. “After the theft, I felt that I didn’t want to contribute to the vast arsenal of black market weapons. I figured I was better off with a baseball bat. But luckily, it never came to anything. The burglaries stopped, and we figured the thief went on to greener pastures.”

“Did you realize right away that your gun had been stolen?” Marge asked.

“Good question. I kept it in a lockbox in my bottom drawer and I didn’t open up the box very often. It could have been stolen months before I discovered it.”

“Who knew you had a gun?” Oliver asked.

“No one besides my family. I never did tell my employees. I didn’t want to frighten anyone.”

“What about your children?”

“My sons are thirty-nine and forty-four. They’ve been out of the house for years. I certainly wouldn’t have told them about a gun. They would have worried about me. We’re not a gun family. It’s just at that time, I felt vulnerable.”

Oliver said, “Is it possible that one of your employees might have stolen it?” When she looked skeptical, he said, “Did you have any problems with someone who worked for you?”

She shook her head no. “I’ve had the same people for years. I think the last time I actually had to let go of someone was a decade ago. It wasn’t someone I knew. It was a stranger. I’m sure of it.”

Marge said, “I would say that was probably true if the gun had been part of a larger burglary. But how would it be that a thief found the weapon, but took nothing else?”

She didn’t answer and finished her sandwich. “What are you going to do with the gun?”

“Right now, it’s regarded as evidence.”

“You can keep it. I don’t want it anymore, especially after what you just told me.” She munched a carrot and looked at the clock. “I have to make a few phone calls before the office reopens. I hope you don’t mind.”

The two detectives stood up. Marge said, “Thanks for making the time. I must say, Dr. Garden, that your skin is beautiful. Do you have a special secret?”

“I won’t tell you my guarded secrets.” The woman smiled broadly. “But I’ll give you a hint to one of my secret weapons. It starts with B and ends with X. And if you can’t figure that out, you’re probably a Luddite.”

“SHE SAID SHE bought the gun for protection and six months later found it had been stolen,” Marge said. She and Oliver were in Decker’s office. It was around four in the afternoon. “She’s positive that no one else knew about the weapon other than her family.”

Oliver asked, “Did Lee hear back from ballistics?”

“If he has, he hasn’t called me with anything,” Decker answered.

“I can’t believe a stolen gun would have been floating around for six years without it being used for something criminal.”

Marge said, “The bigger question is, how did it get into Gregory Hesse’s hands?”

“And we’re no closer to a solution on that one. Mrs. Stanger hasn’t called back. I don’t know if she will. She seemed reluctant to talk.” Oliver regarded Decker. “Maybe if someone with more authority called, she’d relent.”

“How close were her son and Gregory?”

“Don’t know,” Marge said.

“But we do know that Gregory and Joey Reinhart were best friends. Maybe we concentrate on him.”

Marge said, “We left messages on the house machine and Joey’s cell. No call back.”

“When did you leave a message?”

“About two hours ago.”

“Give me his address.” Decker stood up. “It’ll stop by on my way home.”

DECKER ALWAYS HAD reservations about working on Friday night. And with this case, there was no immediate urgency—just a desire to help out a distraught woman. There was no real justification to be parked across the street from Joey Reinhart’s house when he should be home inaugurating the Sabbath. He rationalized it by telling himself that it was only six in the evening. He had promised Rina that he’d be no later than seven. He was just about to get out of the car when a scrawny teen came out of the house, jiggling car keys. He was hunched over and wore a windbreaker and jeans. He opened the driver’s door of a blue Ford Escort, got inside, and began to inch out of the driveway.

One of the kid’s taillights was out.

Perfect.

Decker turned on the ignition and followed him several blocks until the kid turned onto the main street. A minute later, Decker pulled out the red light and stuck it onto the roof of his car. The kid dutifully pulled curbside. When Decker approached the Escort, the kid rolled down the window, regarding Decker with fear.

“May I take a look at your license?”

The boy’s hands were shaking as he handed over his wallet. “What did I do?”

Decker took the license and gave him back the wallet.

Joey Harmon Reinhart. Five eleven, one fifty (when pigs fly, Decker thought), brown eyes, brown hair. His date of birth put him at sixteen and three months. Decker gave the kid back his license and motioned him out of the car and onto the sidewalk.

The kid complied. He was so nervous, his knees almost buckled.

“Your left taillight is out.”

“I didn’t know. I’ll get it fixed right away.”

Decker studied him. “You know, Joey, if someone pulls you over in an unmarked car, don’t get out. Stay inside your car with the doors locked and ask for ID. I don’t care how belligerent the guy on the other side of the window gets. Any real officer won’t take offense. Getting out before you know what’s going on is dumb.”

The poor kid just nodded.

Decker took out his wallet and showed him his badge and registration. “Even this could be fake. So the next step is to use your cell and call my name into LAPD. Because I could be anyone, right?”

The kid nodded like a bobblehead.

“Who does it say I am?”

The kid read the registration. “Lieutenant Peter Decker.”

“So then you call up LAPD and get my badge number.”

“You want me to do that now?”

Decker smiled. “Don’t bother. I am a police lieutenant.” He regarded the license. “Where are you going?”

“Just hanging out with some of my friends.”

Decker gave him back the license. “I’ll let you go with a warning, but get that fixed.”

“Yes, sir. Right away. I mean, first thing tomorrow. I think all the garages are closed—”

“Just get it fixed.” Decker took in the kid’s fearful eyes. “You know, Joey, I recognize your name.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, you were a friend of Gregory Hesse’s, right?” The boy didn’t answer. “One of my detectives left a message on your cell about Gregory Hesse. You haven’t called him back. Neither has your mom or dad. Any reason for that?”

The kid started shaking in earnest. Even in the dark, Decker could see the ashen complexion. The last thing he wanted was for some teenager to whine to his parents about police brutality.

“Don’t worry about it,” Decker said. “I’ll call your parents again.”

“No, no, don’t do that!” the boy implored. “I was gonna call, but it was already like Friday night and I figured no one was in.”

“The police do work on the weekends.”

“Yeah, of course. I know. That’s stupid.” He hit his head. “Greg was my best bud. We can talk about it. Not now. It’s not a good time, I mean place. I mean, place or time.”

Decker said. “Give me a time that’s good for you and your parents.”

“I’d rather leave my parents out of it.”

“Any reason why?”

“You know how it is … they know stuff, but they don’t know everything.”

Decker regarded the teen’s face. “Joey, do you believe that Greg committed suicide?”

The boy licked his lips. “I … I don’t know.”

“Was Greg upset lately?”

“Not upset. Different.”

“Can you define different?”

“Distracted. Something was on his mind.”

“Any ideas?”

“Nothing that I can put my finger on.”

Decker said, “How about we talk on Sunday? That way it doesn’t interfere with your schoolwork. Do you want to come to the station house?”

“That would work. Can we make it at eleven? No … sorry.” He banged his head. “I’m so messed up. That’s Greg’s memorial. It’s gonna last a while. You want to meet on Saturday?”

“That won’t work for me. How about later Sunday afternoon, four or five?”

“Five would be okay.”

Decker handed the boy his card. “If you get hung up, call this number. Where’s the memorial?”

“First Presbyterian on Tanner Road.”

“I’ll stop by.” Decker scribbled something down on his notepad. “Here.” He handed the boy a piece of paper. “This is for the taillight if you get pulled over again. It says I let you go with a warning and you’re going to get it fixed over the weekend.”

“Thank you, sir.” The teen looked at Decker, but didn’t say anything.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Um … did you really just happen to know my name or were you, like, following me or something?”

“Your taillight is broken, Joey.” Decker smiled. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

CHAPTER SIX

FROM THE BACKSEAT of a cab that reeked of tobacco, Gabe texted her at 1:23 in the afternoon.

I’m here.

A minute later, Yasmine texted back: running a few minutes L8. B there soon.

A few minutes stretched to five minutes. Compulsive and punctual, Gabe was particularly antsy when waiting.

As a young child, he was always waiting: for his mom to finish up at her school, for her to finish her homework, for her to cook for him, for her to read to him, for her to tuck him into bed. Mom was always busy, busy, busy.

The five minutes turned to ten, then to fifteen. At 1:45, he texted Yasmine again.

It’s getting L8.

sorry. B right there.

It was only in retrospect that he realized how hard his mother had been working. Every spare minute of her time was taken up with her education or making ends meet. He never knew when she actually slept because she was always up before he was and went to bed after him. When he was a preschooler, they lived in a shithole studio apartment in Chicago with minimal heating in the winter. He distinctly remembered being smothered under a pile of blankets while he slept. He hated the weight. It made him feel like somebody was on top of him. But as soon as he took off one or two blankets, he was freezing. He could vaguely remember the warmth of his mother’s body, sliding into their shared bed, all of it in a fog of childhood and sleepiness.

It wasn’t until he was around five that Chris came into the picture.

No matter how he now felt about his dad, Gabe felt gratitude for Chris’s intervention. As soon as he came on the scene, they moved into a two-bedroom apartment and life became livable. They not only had more food, they had better food—chicken, fruit and vegetables, and even cookies—a far cry from his previous diet of milk, white bread, peanut butter, and macaroni.

In the back of his mind, he remembered eating a lot of noodles before then. Sometimes he’d eat noodles for days. Most of the time, Mom joined him, but there were times where she fed him and just watched him eat. He realized even at the age of two or three that Mom wasn’t eating with him. He remembered thinking that maybe she was hungry and he should share. But he was so hungry himself. And before he knew it, he had eaten up his entire bowl and drank all of his milk. And his mom would kiss his head and tell him he was a good boy. And those nights, he never saw her eat anything except drink coffee.

He sighed.

After disappearing from his life for almost an entire year, she had reached out to him. And he had blown her off. He suddenly felt ashamed, and when he felt guilty, he became moody.

Where the hell was the little girl? This was a bad idea. He became even tenser.

After Chris appeared, they never went hungry again. They had heat, they had air-conditioning, and he had the greatest luxury of them all—a piano.

Chris had taken him to Paris six weeks ago for New Year’s. Being with his dad was always like being with a powder keg with a very long lit fuse. It would eventually go off, but you never knew when. Gabe had been polite and quiet and for once, his dad decided to behave himself. The two of them actually had a pleasant time.

Not that they were around each other all that much. Chris usually slept all morning while he was out taking in the city, long walks by himself, snapping iconic architecture on his camera. They’d usually meet in the afternoon and take in a museum and then they’d go to dinner and/or a concert. Then Gabe would go back to his room while his father trawled for women.

Trying them out one by one by one. The age of consent was younger in France, and Chris took advantage of the more liberal law, screwing girls that would have landed his ass in jail in the States. All in all, his dad went through around fifteen girls in ten days. Sampling the merchandise was how he put in. There was a tacit understanding that Gabe could take what he wanted, but that would have only led to complications. So he sequestered himself in his hotel room every night and looked at the varieties of porn offered on the French Internet.

In the end, Chris had offered only one girl a job. She was a beautiful but drug-addicted nineteen-year-old. He had bought her a coach ticket on the cheapest airline he could find while Gabe, Chris, and Chris’s current girlfriend, Talia, flew back first class on Air France.

“What are the chances she’ll actually come work for you?” Gabe asked him.

“Fifty-fifty.”

She showed up two weeks later. Such spoke to the power of Chris’s charm.

WHEN GABE’S WATCH read two, he became pissed. He had already racked up twenty dollars in waiting charges and she was nowhere in sight. He told the cabdriver to hold on for another moment and got out of the taxi, texting while pacing the sidewalk.

Where are u!!!!

Sorry.

Fuck! They were going to be late. He hated being late. It set his teeth on edge. Finally, at 2:20, he saw her running down the block. If he wasn’t so furious, he would have laughed because she was comical. Red faced, she was running on heels, wearing a mini black cocktail dress that was tight on her nonexistent hips, and a black sweater with an old-fashioned furry collar. Her hair was pinned up in a kind of formal ball gown style. She was holding a beaded evening bag. His dress? A denim shirt over a black cotton tee, khakis, and vans.

She waved to him.

He didn’t wave back.

When she got to the cab, she said, “I’m so sorry—”

“It’s really late. Let’s get out of here.”

She went in first, and then he slid in beside her and slammed the door shut.

Hard.

“Go, go, go,” he barked to the driver—a Russian who spoke with a thick accent. “Take the 405 to the 101 east that turns into the 134. Take that to the 5 south until you hit the 110 south. Get off at 1st.”

“Hokay.”

“We need to get there in a half hour.”

“That is impossible.”

“Do it and I’ll make it worth your effort.”

“You the boss.”

The driver punched the accelerator and pitched them backward. Yasmine let out a slight gasp, but he ignored her. He sat back in the bench seat, fuming inwardly, his folded arms across his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Yasmine told him.

He didn’t answer. Then he said, “What took you so long?”

“I told my mom I gave back the tickets. So I had to wait until my mom and sisters left for shopping and Michael Shoomer’s party. Then I had to get ready.”

Get ready for what?

He glanced at her. She was wearing a ton of makeup, stockings, and fucking pearls—like it was a coming-out party. Even those girls look so dorky. She looked like she was playing dress-up with her mother’s clothing. He glanced away.

Nervously, she fingered her necklace. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t matter to me,” Gabe told her. “I’ve seen opera. Although I hate to be seated late. Everyone looks at you and you’re climbing over people. It’s so rude to the performers.”

She was red faced and still panting. Her eyes swept over his body and she was quiet. When she spoke, her voice was filled with self-loathing. “I’m totally overdressed.”

Gabe said nothing and continued to stew. She turned and sat peering out the side window of the cab.

Traffic was light. They were making decent time.

Finally Gabe said, “Opera attracts a lot of different people. People dress anywhere from jackets and ties to jeans. Don’t worry about it.”

She continued to stare out the window.

They rode another five minutes in silence. Gabe suddenly softened. What was the point of being nasty? That was his father’s domain. He said, “You look nice.”

She started to say something, but changed her mind.

Gabe said, “Really, Yasmine. You look very nice.”

She faced him for the first time. Her eyeliner was slightly smudged. “I’m really sorry I’m so late. My family is always late. I should have warned you. If you wanted me to come at one, you shoulda said twelve. I thought going to the opera was a real fancy thing.”

“Sometimes it is.” Gabe said to the taxi driver, “Can’t you go any faster?”

“I already go sixty-five.”

“Go seventy-five. There’s no one in front of you.”

“You pay for my ticket?”

“Yes, I’ll pay for your ticket.”

“You the boss.”

Again the cab shot forward. Gabe checked his watch. They had about a half hour to go and were about a half hour away. “Nothing in L.A. is formal, especially a matinee.”

“Now I know. I’ve never been to the opera. I’ve never even seen any kind of live stage performance.”

“Your parents don’t believe in culture?”

“They have culture, just not American culture. In Iran, I’m sure my father was very cultured. He didn’t learn English until he was thirty. Why would he go to the theater here? All the nuances would be lost on him.”

“Point well-taken. That was rude. Sorry.”

She fidgeted with the beads on her evening bag. “I look ridiculous.”

He tried out a smile. “No one’s going to be looking at you because we’ll be stumbling through the dark when we come in.”

“Sorry I made you miss everything.”

“We won’t miss everything. We’ll just have to wait until there’s a natural interlude before they’ll seat latecomers. It’s no big deal to me. I’ve seen La Traviata before.”

“You have?”

“Yeah, I saw it about four years ago at the Met.”

Her made-up eyes got wide. “You did?”

“Yeah. I used to live in New York.”

“Oh golly.” She sat back and sighed, closing her eyes. “That’s my dream.”

“To live in New York?”

“No, to go to the Met.” She sat up. “Who sang Violetta?”

“I’ve got to think. It was a while ago … I think I saw Celine Army.”

“She’s great!” She faced him, her eyes not quite meeting his. “But Alyssa Danielli is better.”

“I don’t know about better. They’re different.”

“Well, I like Danielli’s voice better. It’s sweeter.”

“I’ll go with you on that one.” He regarded her made-up face with her smeared eyeliner. “How does someone who’s never heard a live concert come to have such a discerning ear?”

She shrugged. “I’m an alien.”

Gabe held back a smile. “Liszt used to introduce Chopin by saying that he was from another planet, so maybe that’s not so bad.”

“Maybe.” Yasmine pulled out a mirror and lipstick from her purse. When she saw her face, she became horrified. “Oh, my God! I look like a freak!”

“You look fine—”

“I’m totally embarrassing … like I came off a binge in Intervention.” She pulled out a premoistened lotion wipe from her purse and started blotting her eyes. All that did was make it worse. Her lower lip began to tremble. “God, I’m a mess.”

She began to attack her face with the towelette, taking off gobs of gook. With each swipe, she smeared more and more makeup. Tears began to trickle down her cheek.

Gabe rolled his eyes. “Stop, stop, stop.” He took the wipe from her. “Just calm down. You look fine. Hold still.” Carefully, he started removing the paint from her skin until it was gone. “There you go.”

With trepidation, she looked in the mirror and said nothing.

“I don’t know why you’d want to cover your face in all this shit,” Gabe told her. “You’re much cuter without it.”

“I told you Persians dress up for occasions. Besides, now I look around ten.”

“But a very cute ten.”

She finally smiled and then carefully applied some lip gloss. “Thanks for bearing with me.”

Gabe shrugged. “You know, as long as you’re making changes, you should take your hair down. No one our age wears their hair like that unless they’re in a bridal party.”

She made a sour face and started pulling bobby pins out of her hair.

“Need help?” he asked.

“I think you’ve done quite enough, thank you—”

“You’re gonna tear your hair if you keep yanking on it like that.” He reached toward her, but she backed away. He rolled his eyes. “Hold still. I’m trying to help you, okay?”

She suddenly stopped, and her shoulders sagged in defeat. “Do whatever you want.”

Never say that to a guy. He stifled a smile. “You’ve got a lot of hair.”

“I can see you know nothing about Persian girls. We all have lots of hair and much of it in unwanted places.”

He let out an unexpected laugh. “Ever think about stand-up?”

“Glad I’m amusing.”

“Hold still.” He closed the distance between them as he carefully picked bobby pins out of her hair, one by one by one. His face was inches from her. He could taste her breath. He inhaled her perfume. Her dress was a scoop neck that had exposed her collarbones. After he took out all the clips, he pretended to smooth out her hair, letting his fingers dance over her bony protrusions. He raked his fingers through the long strands—downy soft, black and wavy. He pulled out a few loose tresses from the back of her sweater, feeling the nape of her neck.

And there it was: that all-too-familiar jolt below his waistline. Not that his pants were tight, but he was tall and, lucky him, he was proportional. All she had to do was look down to see it. Thankfully, she was too naive to notice. It was going to go to waste, but it did feel good to get a buzz from something other than porno.

“There you go.” He laid the strands over her shoulders and sat back. “Now you look hot.”

“Yeah, right!” Yasmine turned away. It was hard for her to look at his face without blushing. He was the most gorgeous boy she had ever seen in her entire life.

Gabe checked his watch and became irritated again. Which was good but it was hard to be aroused and angry at the same time. He tapped his foot as the taxi sped to its destination. He checked his watch as they approached the Music Center. By the time the taxi pulled over, they had five minutes to go.

They were at the Ahmanson Theatre side of the block instead of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion where the opera was. Rather than redirect the cabbie, it was quicker to run it.

Gabe peeled out five twenties for a sixty-two-dollar bill. “Thanks.” He threw open the door. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.”

He began to run across the pavement, assuming she was with him. But a moment later, when he looked over his shoulder, she was twenty paces behind. Her dress was too tight to allow unrestricted movement and her heels too high for her to run with any speed. He stopped and grabbed her hand, dragging her along, hearing the click, click, click of her heels.

“How much did you tip that guy?” she asked.

“I dunno. Who cares?”

“I’m splitting the bill with you so I care.”

“I said I’d pay for it, if you came … even though you were forty-five minutes late.”

She was panting. “I said I’ll pay half—”

“Forget it!” He pulled her forward. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

They made it to the entry at 3:04.

The lights were giving their final on and off blink, indicating that the show was about to start. Over the speakers, he could hear the orchestra tuning.

He started bounding up the steps, taking two at a time with Yasmine in tow, but her weight was dragging him down. He turned around and saw the problem. Her mouth was agape. She was gawking upward. “Look at the size of those chandeliers!”

“Yeah, they’ll still be here at intermission.” He yanked her forward. “C’mon!”

They made it inside just as the lights were dimming. He ran past the usher telling her he knew where their seats were.

Stepping over people.

Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, excuse me.

Finally, he found the seats.

“Turn off your phone,” he told her.

“Right.”

Gabe slumped backward in his chair and exhaled out loud. He glanced at Yasmine who was unfazed by their in-the-nick-of-time arrival and seemingly unscathed by his churlish behavior. As soon as the orchestra launched into the overture, she sat at attention with her knees pressed together, her hands gripping her beaded purse, her body pitched slightly forward as if there was something to see besides a velvet curtain.

Unbelievable!

After several breaths, he rolled his shoulders and started to relax. They were in the first row of the loge so he had the luxury of a little more legroom for his six-foot frame. He sat back, spread his legs apart, and dropped his hands into his lap.

By accident, his knee touched hers. He pulled his legs together.

She glanced at his face and gave him an ear-to-ear grin, mouthing a silent thank you before returning her eyes to the stage.

He raised his eyebrows, a small smile of his own settling across his lips. He made himself comfortable in the seat, slouching back with his arms folded across his chest. Slowly his legs fell open until once again his knee found hers.

This time he kept it right where it was.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SINCE THE STATION house was quiet, Decker was planning to rip through some of last week’s paperwork, but he couldn’t concentrate; his mind was still on Gregory Hesse’s memorial service. A giant blowup of the boy’s face had been strung across the altar, young eyes without a hint of the disaster to come. To a packed church, the minister delivered wrenching prose about a life cut short by the deepest secrets of the heart. He had to stop several times to compose himself. Then friends and family spoke, dredging up memories about a child too young for the past tense.

The service ended at twelve, and the reception lasted another hour. Decker did note that there were a lot of kids in attendance. After waiting in line to offer condolences to the parents, Decker figured he made the right move by coming to the service because Wendy Hesse squeezed his hand.

Please don’t forget about my son.

“Knock, knock.” Rina was at his door, holding a paper bag. “Room service.”

“Sit down.” He grinned. “What’d you bring me?”

“Cold roast sandwich on rye with horseradish and mustard. I have a meeting at school in twenty minutes. In the meantime, I thought I’d do what I do best and that’s feed you.”

“You do a lot of things extremely well, including feeding me.”

She sat down. “And you will be home by seven, right?”

“Yes, I’ll be there.” Koby and Cindy were coming over with the babies for dinner. “Are you sure you don’t want to go out?”

“If we went out, none of us would be able to eat. So I cooked. Even if none of us eat, it’s still more cost-efficient than going out.”

“No one cooks as good as you do. What are you making?”

She gave him the menu: roasted veal breast stuffed with rice pilaf and dried fruit, green beans, whipped yams, and peach pie for dessert. His mouth was watering even as he ate his sandwich. “Try to be on time.”

“I will not try, I will be on time. Look around this place. I’m the only one crazy enough to be here Sunday afternoon. Where’s Gabe?”

“He went to the opera. He said he’ll be home by dinner.”

“The boy is an enigma, but he knows a good meal.”

“How’d the memorial service go?”

Decker gave her a recap. “Actually I’m here to talk to Gregory’s best friend. He’s a little odd. Or maybe I made him nervous when I pulled him over.”

“Y’think?” When Decker made a face, Rina said, “What struck you as odd?”

“He’s holding back.”

“That’s not odd, that’s cautious.”

“Since when have you been hired as his defense attorney?” The intercom beeped, the receptionist informing Decker that Joey Reinhart was on line two. “Hi, Joey, this is Lieutenant Decker.”

“Uh, I could make it a little earlier.”

“Sure. What time?”

“I’m actually right outside the station house.”

“Go inside and I’ll come get you.” Decker put the receiver back in the cradle and stood up. “My interview showed up early.”

“I’ve got to go anyway.” She stood up and gave him a peck on the lips. “Today we’re discussing whether to install a vending machine or to set up a snack bar and sell our own food to the kids.”

“What’s the issue?”

“Well, if we let a vending machine company provide the food, there could be potential problems with kashrut. But the pro is that they handle everything and just send us a check. Plus we don’t have to have someone manage it. If we sell our own snacks, we make more money and kashrut isn’t a problem. But then we have liabilities issues and health department issues and we have to find someone to run the snack bar. Yes, it seems trivial, but these kinds of niceties go a long way with the kids.”

“I get it. Ever since we put in a professional coffee/cappuccino machine to go along with our candy dispenser, everyone’s been much happier.”

“So there you go.” Rina smiled. “Just goes to show you. Never underestimate the power of caffeine and sugar.”

EVEN LAYERED IN a bulky, hooded sweatshirt and baggy jeans, the kid was all limbs and bones. Decker took the boy into an interview room, setting him up with a glass of water and a candy bar. The kid said, “I got the taillight fixed.”

“Great.”

“Thanks for not giving me a ticket.”

“No problem. Glad you got it taken care of.” Decker pulled out a portable tape recorder. “Do you mind if we record the conversation? It’s standard procedure. No one has a perfect memory.”

“Sure, go ahead.”

Decker gave the introduction, the name of the person he was talking to, the time and the date. “Thanks for coming in.”

“Sure.” Joey interlaced his long fingers and shrugged. “What’s there to say?”

“Gregory’s mom is completely in the dark about what happened. It caught her off guard.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You didn’t see it coming, either?”

The boy looked doleful. “No.”

Decker said, “Tell me about Gregory Hesse. What was he like?”

Joey’s eyes darkened. “It’s hard to describe a person that you’ve known forever. Greg was Greg.”

“What did you two do together?”

Another shrug. “We hung out … went to movies, played video games. We always got along. We’re both kinda nerdy … like you can’t tell. I’m more the typical math/science guy. Greg was great in math also, but he liked English. Reading and writing came easy to him. He used to help me with my essays.” Joey bit his lip. “He was a smart dude.”

“You have other friends in common?”

“Yeah, we have group—Mikey, Brandon, Josh, Beezel. If you’re going to survive at B and W, you need buddies.”

“What happens if you don’t have buddies?”

“You’re screwed. B and W is not a nice place. But if you don’t come across as desperate, you can get by and get a good education.”

“What happened with Kevin Stanger?”

“Oh man, poor Kev.” He shook his head. “Survival of the fittest, you know. Kev couldn’t hack it.”

“Why not?”

“You know, not all nerds are smart. That was Kevin’s problem. He was dorky without having any brains to back him up. It made him a target.”

“Guys were beating on him?”

“Nah, it’s more subtle. They just crowd you, man. Like you’re walking along and suddenly there’re a dozen of them walking next to you, flicking the back of your head or groping you or asking for money, which you give them. But even afterward, they don’t let up. With Kevin, it went on day after day after day.”

“He didn’t go to the administration with his problems?”

“You do that, it gets worse. Best thing to do is ride it out and hope they find some other target. Crowding is especially anxiety provoking because inside you’re thinking that any moment, it’s gonna turn violent.”

“That’s what they call it? Crowding?”

“Yeah, a group of guys and girls just get in your face.”

“How many?” Decker asked.

“Anywhere from four or five to upward. And since they’re not really hurting you, who are you going to whine to? It’s just all about mastery—like who’s the boss.”

“Who are they?”

“Just jerk-offs,” Joey said. “It’s stupid for me to name names because once you become a target, it’s like the word gets out and you’re fair game for everyone. I get by just fine. No offense, but I’m not going to screw myself over.”

“They wouldn’t know the source, Joey. We could keep it private.”

“Find someone else. It wouldn’t help you anyway, because Greg didn’t have a problem. He could work it.” Joey appeared lost in thought. “We both do tutoring—which is also why I’m not naming names. I have to pay for my car, and gas is expensive. Tutoring brings in good money.”

“I understand. Tell me about Greg and his tutoring.”

“I wouldn’t swear to it, but I think Greg was doing some heavy tutoring.”

“As in writing papers for some seniors?”

“Nah, he couldn’t get away with that. It was more like … filling up the space. Senior theses are a minimum of thirty pages. That’s a lot of writing for most people.”

Decker nodded.

“There’s nothing evil with that. I mean most of the kids at B and W have been getting tutored for years: from professional teachers, SAT tutors, college kids. It’s well known that if you do a term paper at school, like forty million people have already looked it over before you turn it in. B and W has strict grading policies. You’re expected to perform at a college level—which never made sense to me. Why do you need high school if you’re already at a college level? But you know how it is. The competition is fierce.”

Decker scratched his head. His own kids were past the rat race, but he remembered all too well the stress associated with getting into top-tiered universities. Gabe was the only teen Decker knew who wasn’t nervous about college. So basically it took a musical genius to go through the process without anxiety.

“If Greg was doing well, Joey, why do you think he took a gun to his head?”

Joey’s eyes watered. “It’s a mystery.”

“You told me he was acting different lately.”

The kid paused. “Just that the past couple of months, he became obsessed with his video camera. At first, it was okay, but then it gets annoying to have a camera in your face while you’re eating a hot dog.”

“What was Greg recording?”

“He claimed he was just documenting the lives of typical teenagers.”

Decker thought a moment. “When Greg started filming, did he start distancing himself from you and your group? Did he start hanging with different friends?”

“Not that I could tell. I mean he didn’t start hanging with the bohemians.”

“Who are the bohemians?”

“Ah, you know the type—artsy-fartsy, weird dress, and soooooo intellectual. They give you this crap about how formal education is worthless and the real education is on the streets. Which means they’re stupid. I mean, give me an effing break! Anyone who goes to B and W is a spoiled brat. I mean all those so-called tough guys wouldn’t last a day on the streets.”

“Who are the tough guys?” When Joey waved him off, Decker said, “Did you ask Greg why he started videotaping?”

“He said it was fun … that it took the tedium out of high school.” Joey didn’t speak for a moment. “I don’t know why, but I got the feeling that maybe the hobby had to do with a girl.”

“Did you ask Greg about it?”

“I did. He denied it, said if he had a girlfriend I’d be the first to know so he could lord it over me.”

“Girls can lead you in all sorts of directions,” Decker said. “Is your theory a guess or are you thinking of someone specific?”

“I’ve gone through the roster of possibilities in my head. I can’t come up with anyone.”

“What about your sister?” Decker said.

“My sister?” He made a face. “You mean Tina?”

“His mother once picked him up from your house. She said there were girls there and when she asked Gregory about it, he said they were friends of your sister.”

“Tina’s like a kid.” When Decker didn’t say anything, Joey said, “Nah … impossible. And even if they did flirt—which I never saw—she certainly wouldn’t be the reason why Greg did what he did. She couldn’t possibly inspire that much passion.”

“What about her friends?”

“I can’t see it.” Joey shook his head. “If you want me to ask her, I will.”

Decker thought a moment. He really didn’t have any good reason to start questioning a bunch of thirteen-year-old girls. “Whatever you’re comfortable with.” He focused in on Joey’s eyes. “So again, what do you think is the reason behind the suicide?”

“I dunno, Lieutenant, and that’s a fact.”

“Do you think Greg could have gotten into drugs?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Did you guys light up together?”

Joey turned bright red. “Occasionally on weekends, and nothing heavy. Maybe a joint between, like, four of us.”

Decker nodded. “Could Greg have gotten in deeper?”

“Greg never acted like he was out of control with anything.” He regarded Decker’s face. “Don’t you test the blood for drugs in an autopsy?”

“Absolutely, but it takes a couple of weeks. Let’s go back to Greg and the possibility of a girl. I’m curious as to why you’d throw that out as a possibility.”

His eyes were doing a dance. “He smelled better.” A sip of water. “You know how it is when it gets a little chilly and the heat’s cranked up. A bunch of dudes get together and eat and hang out and sometimes …” He turned red again. “You know you watch some stuff that you can’t watch when your parents are around. It gets a little rank.”

“I get it,” Decker told him.

“Greg had always carried some extra pounds. He sweated a lot. The past month or so, I think he started showering more often.” He averted his eyes. “And when a dude starts showering that often, it means to me that there’s some girl involved. Plus …” A long pause. “How do I say this without sounding like a perv? We watched stuff. I think Greg finally discovered he had a dick, if you know what I’m saying.”

“Understood. Was Greg addicted to porno?”

“We’re all addicted to porno. We’re teenaged boys.”

Decker thought a moment. “Could he have been filming material that he shouldn’t have been filming? Maybe secretly filming the girls’ gym lockers?”

Joey gave him a wide-eyed look. “If he did, he never showed anything to me.”

“How do you think Greg might have reacted if he got caught doing something like that?”

“Well, for starts, the school would have kicked him out.”

Decker nodded, thinking: What would have happened if a quiet, bookish kid had been caught secretly filming a popular girl in the nude? What kind of number could she have done on him: embarrassed him, humiliated him, blackmailed him, or worst of all, threatened to go to the principal? And if the kid would have been faced with torment and expulsion … who knew what he might have done.

Joey’s mind was still on the question. “I think he would have showed me something like that. Not that it’s nice, but it’s the way dudes are.”

“Did you ever see what was on Gregory’s camera?”

“Sometimes he’d show us a playback, but I don’t have any idea of the totality.”

“Does his mother have the video camera?”

“I would think so.”

“Okay, Joey. This gives me a little bit of a start.”

The boy nodded. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Why are you doing this?” Joey looked pained. “I mean if Greg was doing something bad, why dig it up?”

“That is a very good point. Originally, his mom asked me to help her understand her son’s motives for doing something so terrible. But if it is something distasteful, I’m going to be doing some serious editing.”

“Yeah, I think that would be a good idea. Not that I think he was doing something bad.”

Decker regarded the kid’s face. He looked sincere. “Do you think your pals would mind if I talked to them?”

“Nah, they wouldn’t mind. I don’t know what they’d tell you. I probably knew Greg better than any of them.”

Decker gave him a pad of paper and a pen. “Could you write down names and phone numbers for me?”

“Sure.”

While he was writing, Decker was figuring out his next move. Get the camera, get the kid’s computer, and look around the room. Joey was right about one thing. How much did Wendy Hesse want to know? After Joey handed him back the pad, Decker said, “I do have one other important question. Do you have any idea where Greg could have gotten hold of a gun?”

“Not that specific gun, no.” Joey exhaled. “But I can tell you this much. It isn’t hard to get weapons at B and W. You can get guns, you can get booze, you can get dope, you can get porn, and you can get good grades and test scores.”

“That easy, huh?” Decker said.

“That easy,” Joey answered. “All you have to do is pay for it.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

DURING THE FINAL duet—“Gran Dio, morir si giovane”—Gabe’s eyes wandered to Yasmine, whose face was buried in her hands. Her eyes were visible through splayed fingers, tears streaming down. The entire time he had been concentrating on pitch, voice timbre, sound mixture, and volume. But the little girl next to him was sobbing because Violetta was about to succumb to tuberculosis.

So who was really getting the most out of the afternoon?

As she blinked, a new batch of tears poured out of her eyes. In a protective motion, Gabe put his arm around her shoulder and she simply melted, fat saline drops soaking his shirt. When Violetta finally died and the curtain came down, she sat up, took a tissue from her bag, and wiped her face. Curtain calls took another five minutes, and then the house lights went up.

It was five-thirty by the time they actually made it out of the building. The sky held the afterglow of a dazzling sunset—pinks, oranges, and purples. The ground was wet, and the air was chilly.

Yasmine hugged her body. Her voice was still shaky. “How do we get a taxi?”

“We don’t.” Gabe checked his watch. “By the time we call it in and the guy gets here, it’s easier to take the bus.”

“How long will it take to get home?”

“About an hour plus.”

“I told my mom I’d be home by six.”

“That’s not going to happen even with a cab. We’ve got to hustle. The bus is due in five minutes, and it’s a half-hour wait if we miss it.” He took her hand and pulled her along. They arrived a minute before the bus pulled up. She was jumping up and down, massaging her arms. “Cold?” he asked.

“I’m always cold.”

“It’s cold outside.” He rubbed her shoulders with his hands.

When the bus came, she said, “I’m sorry I got emotional. I hope I didn’t embarrass you.”

“It’s theater. You’re supposed to be moved. We performers live for people like you.”

They boarded the bus, and he paid for the tickets. The inside was stale smelling, but at least it was warm. Gabe found two empty seats toward the back. He gave her the window seat and took the aisle—better for his legs and his body would shield her in case some gangbangers decided to board. In L.A., rapid transit didn’t really exist. Buses were the primary transportation of those too poor or too young to have cars. She took out her phone and began to talk in a foreign language—presumably Farsi. A few minutes later, she hung up.

“Everything okay?”

“My friend said she’d cover for me. I’m supposed to be at her house anyway.”

“Nice friend. Why didn’t you just take her to the opera?”

“She would have come with me, but she would have hated it. It’s not fun to go with a person who’s looking at her watch all the time.”

“Gotcha.”

“Thanks so much for doing this for me.”

“Honestly, the pleasure was mine. I’ve never heard Danielli live. She was great.”

Yasmine brought her hand to her heart. “Oh my God, it was like being transported.” She took in a deep breath and let it out. “This might be terrible, but I didn’t think the guy who played Alfredo did her justice.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, he hit a few clunkers.”

“Like right at the end … oh my God, wasn’t he embarrassed? I mean how can you sing like that when you’re singing with Alyssa Danielli?”

Gabe regarded her face. “You really do have a great ear. Is your family musical?”

“My mom used to sing.”

“Opera?”

“No, just like sing at parties and stuff. She doesn’t do it anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s married. I mean, she still sings, but just not professionally.” Yasmine looked deep in thought. “She has a lovely voice.”

Gabe nodded. “And your parents didn’t give you any music lessons?”

“Oh sure. We were all given piano lessons. It didn’t take. I’m terrible.”

“How long did you play for?”

“Technically, I’m still playing, but I’m hopeless. I don’t want to talk about it. Especially not with you.”

They rode for a few minutes in silence. Gabe took a Balance Bar out of his pocket and as soon as he did, Yasmine’s eyes glanced to his snack. Wordlessly, he offered it to her.

“Do you have another one?” she asked.

“Take it.”

“We’ll share.”

“Take it.”

She took it and broke it in half.

Gabe kept his hands in his lap. “I’m really fine.”

“Then why did you take it out if you didn’t want to eat it?”

“Force of habit. Sometimes I need a sugar rush.” He regarded her face. “You look tired. Did you have anything to eat today besides the Diet Coke at intermission?”

“I had coffee.” When Gabe rolled his eyes, she said, “I didn’t have time.” Carefully, she took a nibble at the bar.

Gabe waited a moment, then said, “Do you like piano music?”

“Of course I like piano music. I like the way you play it, just not massacred—which is the way I play it.”

He smiled. “The reason I ask is that SC is having a concert next Saturday afternoon.” He paused. “Wait. Are you Shomer Shabbat?”

“We go to shul in the morning, but we drive and stuff.” She looked at him. “For a Catholic, you know some pretty obscure expressions.”

“You live with the Deckers, you pick up a few things.”

“Anyway …” She averted her eyes and bit her lip. “What were you saying?”

“Oh, yeah. Anyway, the pianist is a guy I know from competitions. Paul Chin. He’s a student at SC, and we have the same piano teacher. He’s pretty good.” A beat. “I’m definitely going. If you want to come with me, I’ll be happy to take you.”

“I would love to come. What time?”

“Same time, three o’clock.” She didn’t talk, her eyes calculating something unknown. He said, “Why don’t you just tell your parents?”

“They wouldn’t let me go.”

“Yasmine, it’s not a date—”

“I know that.”

“You obviously have a love of classical music and it’s a shame to stifle it.”

“My parents are old-fashioned. Especially my dad. He doesn’t allow me to go out, period, even with Persian Jewish boys.” A pause. “I know it’s not a date and you’re just being nice, but …” She sighed.

Gabe said, “Well, the offer is open. If you change your mind, just show up at the bus stop.”

She nodded, looking thoroughly dejected.

“Finish your bar.”

“I’m not hungry.” She offered it back.

“Eat it. Don’t be one of those ridiculous anorexic girls.”

“I’m not anorexic.”

“Then prove me wrong and eat.”

She took another lackluster nibble.

“Hey, don’t fret.” He gently nudged her arm. “You’ll have plenty of time to hear concerts when you get to college. Besides, it’s probably better not to sneak around your parents.”

She didn’t answer. Then she said, “What is the pianist playing?”

“It’s all Saint-Saëns. I think the orchestra’s doing some golden oldies like ‘Danse Macabre’ and ‘Bacchanale.’” He thought a moment. “When I was a little kid, I saw Samson and Delilah. My father took me. I inherited my ear from him. Anyway, it wasn’t like a Met opera, it was one of these experimental things that the New York avant-garde just love to do. So when the company did the ‘Bacchanale,’ they started stripping until they were nude and started simulating you know what.” He grinned. “Man, I don’t think I heard a note of music.”

She giggled. “How old were you?”

“Around nine.”

“What did your father do?”

“I dunno. I was too embarrassed to look at him.”

She giggled again. “So you got your talent from your dad?”

“Yeah, only I’m better than he is and we both know it. It’s funny. My father is an absolute tyrant. I’ve never, ever talked back to him except in music. It’s the one area where I can tell my dad that he’s full of shit in that language and he’ll just laugh or agree with me. It’s weird.”

“You’re probably living his dream.”

“Nah, my father likes what he does just fine.”

“What does he do?”

It took a few moments for him to speak. “He owns brothels.” Yasmine’s face was blank. Gabe said, “Brothels. You know. Whorehouses.”

“Whorehouses?”

“You don’t know what a whorehouse is?”

Her complexion darkened. “I know what a whore is. I didn’t know there was a special house for them.”

Gabe said, “Eat your Balance Bar.”

She took another bite. “Like how does that work? Do all the whores just decide to live together?”

“Change the subject.”

“No, I’m curious.”

“A brothel is a place where whores work.” A pause. “So instead of having to go out on the street and hustle for guys, they just stay in one place and the guys come to them.”

“To have sex?”

“That’s the idea.”

“So your dad owns like a big motel or something?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Wow.” Her eyes got big. “Is that even legal?”

“In certain parts of Nevada, it is.”

“And the whores pay him rent?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.” He tapped his toe. “Yasmine, you can ask me any question you want, but I’d appreciate if you kept this between us. It’s a little embarrassing.”

She shrugged. “My dad owns all sorts of properties. I’m sure he rents to some unsavory characters.”

Gabe laughed. “Okay.”

“But I don’t think he owns any whorehouses.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t. Don’t ask him about it.”

“No, that wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“It would be a very bad idea.” He pointed to the rest of the Balance Bar. “Eat.”

Yasmine took a small bite. “So what’s the piano music?”

“Piano music?”

“For the concert on Saturday.”

“Oh yeah.” The conversation was meandering all over the place. “Paul’s playing a piano concerto called ‘Africa Fantasie.’ It’s not particularly hard but I happen to like it a lot. And I like to show support.”

“I’ve never heard it.”

“It’s a good one. Several versions are on YouTube.”

“So … like what time are you going?”

Gabe regarded her. “The bus leaves at one. That puts you into SC at around two-fifteen, two-thirty.”

She nodded. “How much are the tickets?”

“Not much. Like fifteen, twenty bucks. I’ll buy you one. If you show up, fine. If you don’t, that’s fine, too. No pressure. But if you do want to come, you can’t be late. I’m not waiting around.”

“Understood.” She sat back and closed her eyes. “This day was magical … just magical.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Gabe said. “You should probably buy your friend something for covering for you.”

“Ariella?” Yasmine smiled. “I’ve covered for her like a zillion times. This doesn’t even make a dent in the list. Now that girl is a real sneak.”

“So you’re the good girl?”

She shrugged.

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Gabe said. “You’ll do fine.”

“I’m sure somewhere out there is a perfect twenty-four-year-old Persian Jew just waiting until I grow up.” She looked at him. “Persian girls tend to marry older guys. I mean, not always, but that’s the tradition. My oldest sister is engaged to a thirty-one-year-old. She’s twenty-three.”

Gabe nodded. “Interesting.”

They rode the remaining time in silence, Yasmine nodding off until she slumped to the side and slept with her head on his shoulder. Her face was turned upward, her full lips slighted parted. He could feel her breath warm against his neck. Her hair tickled his face.

He was tired as well, but he couldn’t tear himself away from watching her sleep.

A real cutie. Too bad.

A few minutes before their bus stop, he gently shook her awake. She inhaled a deep breath and let it out, sat up, and rubbed her eyes. “I fell asleep?”

“It happens.” He got up and pulled the string. A moment later, the bus lurched to a stop. “Let’s go.”

It was a moonless night—cold and dark.

“I owe you money for the cab.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“I insist.”

“I won’t take it. C’mon. I’ll walk you home … or a few houses away from home, I guess.”

“I’m supposed to be at Ariella’s.”

“Where does she live?”

“Just right around the corner, so I’m fine.”

“I’ll walk you to the house. She’s covering for you anyway, so she must know about me, right?”

“Sort of.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“More like mysterious.” Yasmine started walking … very slowly. She didn’t want the night to end. “Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome.”

They strolled for a few moments in silence, the only sound made by her clacking heels.

“No, really thanks.” Yasmine stopped. “It was the most wonderful, special day of my life. I’ll never, ever forget it.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, running away and disappearing up a sidewalk, her heels clapping against the pavement until he could hear a door open and close.

Then all was still.

Gabe stood for just a few seconds, then turned around and started home, his cheek still burning with the feel of her lips.

CHAPTER NINE

FROM A DETECTIVE’S standpoint, suicide was a strange crime. There was a victim, but the perpetrator wore many faces: depression, psychosis, humiliation, overwhelming debt, rage, self-loathing, or that tragic combination of teenage angst paired with a firearm. Reconstructing Gregory Hesse’s mind at the moment of impact was impossible. All Decker was looking for was a hint of why.

The week following Hesse’s memorial had been busy, the station house humming with crimes of every stripe. Most of his detectives were in the field, attempting to gather enough evidence to bring in bad guys who were at current, walking the public streets. Marge and Oliver seemed to be in and out of court, testifying on cases that took over a year to bring to trial. Thursday afternoon, Decker received a call from Romulus Poe of the New Mexico State Police.

“It appears that your serial killer, Garth Hammerling, was in fact around my area. I’ve been trying to retrace his movements, but I’ve got gaps. The last I heard, he had bought a bunch of camping equipment and was headed for the National Forest in northern New Mexico. The area is the southern tip of the Rockies and it’s easy to disappear there. Around this time, it’s also real easy to get lost and freeze to death. You’d have to be a real good survivalist to make it through the winter, especially the one we’re having now.”

Decker said, “I don’t know anything about Hammerling’s survival skills. I know he’s done some camping in the past.”

“Camping in the Rockies in wintertime isn’t Yosemite in summer with power hookups and porta-potties. It’s rigorous and it’s dangerous.”

“Good thing for Hammerling that he knows how to kill,” Decker said.

“Maybe he’s good with drunken women. A mountain lion is another beast altogether. And let me tell you, in the winter, they’re hungry. I myself live off the grid—been doing it for decades. But even I wouldn’t camp up north in wintertime.”

Decker said, “If you flew over the area in a helicopter, could you see anything?”

“The area is filled with pines so even in the summer you can’t see much from up top except green. At this time of year, it’s all white, and after a few minutes you get snow blindness. I suppose if you got extremely lucky, you might see some smoke or something. Best to wait until he comes down to civilization. If we don’t hear from him, we can start looking when the thaw comes in March and we’d be just as likely to find a body as a live person. I’ll apprise the park rangers and let you know if we get any action. If he was smart, he’d realize that it’s cold outside and shimmy back down to warmer temperatures.”

“Okay. Just don’t drop your guard. He is a very dangerous guy.”

“Understood. If I get a bead on him, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Poe, we’ll keep in touch.” Decker hung up the phone just as Marge Dunn was coming into his office. She said, “My schedule just cleared up. Anything you need?”

The clock read ten after three. “I’m sure I can come up with something.” He checked off items on his to-do list and was left with Gregory Hesse. “Could you run an errand for me?”

“Pick up your dry cleaning or wash your car?”

“Everything I have is wash and ruin, and my car is hopeless.” Decker pointed to a chair and Marge sat down. Today she was dressed in brown slacks and a pink sweater. Color looked good on her. “I’m still looking into a motive behind Gregory Hesse’s suicide.”

“How’s that going?”

“I’m still waiting for the tox report. I keep thinking that maybe the kid was high on something, because every one of his buddies seems to be in the dark as to why.” He gave her a recap of his conversations, especially the one last Sunday with Joey Reinhart. “Why don’t you go to Wendy Hesse’s house and pick up Greg’s laptop and his camcorder. Videotaping seemed to be Greg’s passion. Also ask Mrs. Hesse if you can look around his room. Greg’s best friend, Joey Reinhart, implied that maybe there was a girl in Greg’s life.”

“And if we find her?”

“Ask her about the relationship and if it went south. Maybe that was the reason behind the act.”

“We don’t want to make anyone feel guilty,” Marge said.

“No, of course not. For Greg to do this, he was clearly disturbed. Most guys can get over girls pretty quickly. Even if their brains are still sad, their gonads are still heat-seeking missiles. But there are those rare sensitive types that can’t see a future beyond a broken heart. Did we find anything new with the gun?”

“We ran it through ballistics. Now we have to pull up cases where we have shells from a .380 Ruger. It’s going to take time.”

“Think the gun has been sitting around doing nothing for five years?”

“It could have been doing something but we may not know about it. The obsession with a camera is intriguing. Maybe he filmed something he shouldn’t have.”

“I was thinking about the same thing.” He handed her an address. “I hope Wendy Hesse is still cooperative. I haven’t talked to her since the memorial service.”

“She hasn’t called you up?”

“No, and I’ve called her several times. All I’ve gotten is the machine. So maybe she changed her mind about poking into Greg’s personal life.”

“So why stir up things?”

“You know how it is with an investigation. The damn thing takes on a life of its own.”

GABE HADN’T HEARD from her since Sunday evening. She had texted to say her final thanks, and he had texted back, anytime, which he had meant. Then his phone had gone cold.

During the week, he thought about contacting her, but what was the point? She’d either show up on Saturday or she wouldn’t, and the way things were going, wouldn’t looked like the likely option. It was affecting him and his playing. Even his teacher noticed.

Especially his teacher noticed.

You’re distracted. Then Nick graced him with one of his famous withering looks. Gabriel, you’re a good professional-quality pianist. You’ll always be a good professional pianist. But if you want to be great, you’re going to have to be one hundred percent focused on what you’re doing. In this business, good isn’t going to cut it.

For Chrissakes, he was fifteen. Most dudes his age were smoking dope and sniffing girls. What did the man want from him? Instead, Gabe told Nick that he was right and he’d try harder.

It’s not your hands, Gabe, it’s your brain. Get your head wrapped around the music.

He had meant to take the advice to heart. He really had meant to do it. Plus, Nick had given him some composing assignments that ordinarily he really liked. But instead of making progress in his chosen field, he was alone in the house, sitting on his bed at four in the afternoon, surfing Facebook.

Chopin would just have to fucking wait.

Distracted.

His Facebook account was still active, but his pictures were old. There were several snapshots of him and his buddies when he had buddies. There were a couple of him and his mom when he had a mom. There was one old picture of his dad who happened to be the only one still in his life. He hadn’t answered anyone’s mail or posted any comments in over a year. Wistfully he surfed the pages of his old buddies, looking at updated photographs. His friends had grown taller and broader, and some of the more swarthy ones had sizable clumps of facial hair. His own cheeks and chin had sprouted stubble, but it was hard to see because it was growing in blond.

Anyway he wasn’t really interested so much in his old friends—just his new one.

For the fifth time in an hour, he pulled up Yasmine’s profile. She had accepted his invitation to be her friend, but that was as far as their contact had gone.

He stared at the pictures of her (gorgeous), her three sisters (gorgeous), her mother (the original gorgeous), and her dad who was bald and square faced and looked to be in his late sixties. Yasmine resembled her sisters (who in turn resembled the mother) except that she was still childish whereas the other three were closer to being women. He got a clear idea how she’d mature, would love to take a bite out of her two years from now. Even as is, he wouldn’t mind a nibble. He continued to gape at her face, wishing she’d never approached him. He had even gone to Coffee Bean several times in the past week at six in the morning, hoping to catch her, but she didn’t show.

As a last resort, he thought about hanging around her school, acting surprised when he saw her. He had a legitimate excuse. Rina was a teacher there. But he nixed the idea because it was clearly stalking.

So he stared at the same dozen pictures that he had stared at a few minutes before.

His computer broke in with an IM.

Are you there?

The screen name was different from the last time, but he suspected who it was.

Mom?

A long pause.

How are you?

He felt his eyes blur and his throat close up.

I’m fine. His brain was awhirl. She never told him about her pregnancy—the reason why she had abandoned him. He decided to jump the gun and let her know that he knew. How’s my sister doing?

Another break from the text. It was taking her a while to answer. What time was it in India? It had to be in the wee hours of the morning.

She’s fine. Did Chris tell you?

Gabe wrote: Yes, he told me. But Decker figured it out also. We’ve all known for a while. What’s her name?

He waited for her to respond.

Juleen.

I like it. Someday I’d love to meet her.

I would love that, too. Maybe sooner than later?

His heart felt very heavy. The moment was awkward.

We’ll see how it shakes out. Give her a kiss for me. And don’t worry too much about Chris. I’ve seen him a few times. I think he’s moved on to other things.

Another pause.

I love you, Gabriel. I love you and miss you very much.

A very, very heavy heart. He wasn’t angry anymore. His rage at her desertion had been replaced with engulfing sadness. The piano seemed to be calling his name.

I miss you, too. I’ve got to go practice, Mom. Don’t worry about me. I’m really fine.

He shut off the computer before she could respond and walked over to the garage where the Deckers had set up a piano studio for him. They were wonderful people—just the best. But they weren’t his flesh and blood.

Focus, Gabe, focus.

The subtleties of Chopin never sounded so good.

AFTER GIVING THE door a firm knock and receiving no answer, Marge stuck her business card in the space between the door and the frame. She was just about to turn around when the door opened and the card fell onto the ground.

Wendy Hesse looked bleary eyed, dressed in blue sweats, with socks but no shoes on her feet.

Marge bent down to pick up the card. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hesse, did I wake you?”

Her expression suggested confusion. “What time is it?”

“Four o’clock.”

Wendy rubbed her eyes. “I was watching TV and I must have fallen asleep.” Several seconds ticked by. “Four o’clock?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ve got to pick up my kids from school.” She put her hand over her mouth. “Is it Friday?”

“Thursday.”

“Oh …” She regarded Marge’s face. “You look very familiar.”

“Detective Dunn, LAPD.” She handed the woman her card. “I was wondering if I could come in.”

“Of course.”

Marge crossed the threshold. It was a cool February day in the Valley, but the house was as hot as a foundry. It had been a long time since the interior had experienced fresh air. The place was tidy especially considering the circumstances. Wendy Hesse sat down on a red sofa, and Marge sat next to her.

“Do you need anything?” Marge asked her.

“No, I’m …” She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ears. “People have been kind. Some are a little shy about approaching me, but for the most part, it’s been … Thank God for friends.” She needed her hands. “It’s Thursday?”

“Yes.”

“Almost two weeks.”

“Have you gone into his room yet?” When Wendy shook her head no, Marge said, “Would it be possible for me to look around his room? We’re still searching for a reason … all of us. It would be helpful if I could take Gregory’s laptop to headquarters and probe its contents.”

Wendy looked nervous. “Maybe I should ask my husband about this.”

“Sure.” Marge waited a beat. “Have you looked at Gregory’s laptop?”

She shook her head no.

“Do you know his screen name and password?”

“I know his screen name. I used to know his password, but I think he’s changed it.”

“Should we go to his room and see if your password works?” Wendy bit her thumbnail. Marge said, “Or I can bring his laptop out of the room if you’re not ready to go in yet.”

“I really should talk to my husband about this.”

“Whatever you want,” Marge told her. “I know that you’re interested in finding a reason—”

“I don’t know about that anymore.” She inhaled and let it out slowly. “What difference will it make? It won’t bring him back.” Fat tears rolled down her cheeks. “Maybe it’s best to just let it go.”

“Whatever you think is best.” Marge proffered the woman her card and she took it. “Call if you change your mind.”

The woman stood and her sorrowful eyes met Marge’s. “Thank you for coming.”

“Sure.” Marge hesitated, but decided to ask the question anyway. “I understand that videotaping had become Gregory’s favorite hobby. Was he interested in making films?”

Wendy said, “Gregory was always the one that recorded family events.”

“So he’s had the interest for a long time.”

Wendy was silent.

“Just curious,” Marge said. “Do call if you need anything.”

When the woman still didn’t talk, Marge turned around and let herself out the door.

CHAPTER TEN

RINA LOVED THE quiet of Shabbat morning, when the neighborhood was without construction noise and leaf blowers. Through her kitchen window, she could actually hear birds chirping. Last year there had been a nest of finches in one of her bushes. She had heard a racket of squawks several times every day when the parents had returned to feed the young. Food was primal, and with a big family, much of her life revolved around meals.

She had been dressed for shul since eight, but Peter was taking his time. So she sat at her kitchen table, sipping coffee and reading the paper—a rare moment of alone time that proved to be short-lived. Gabe came in, dressed in a black long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Behind his wireless specs sat sleepy green eyes.

“Hey,” he said.

“You’re up early.”

“Yeah, I thought I’d catch up on a few things. Get a jump on the day.”

“Would you like some breakfast?”

“Yeah, that would probably make sense.” The boy took down a mug from the cupboard and made himself a cup of instant coffee. He was comfortable enough to open pantry doors and raid the fridge without asking permission. He fixed himself a bowl of cereal and began shoveling food into his mouth.

Rina said, “We’re eating lunch here today if you’re interested.”

“Thanks, but I’m going out.” He looked at her. “A guy I know is playing a piano concerto at SC. I thought I’d show him support.”

“That’s very nice. Is he good?”

“He’s very good.” Gabe gave her a sly smile. “But not as good as me.”

“That goes without saying.” She smiled back. “When’s the concert?”

“Three. But to get there on time, I’ve got to take a one o’clock bus, which means I have to leave here around 12:30.”

“Sorry I can’t take you.”

“That’s fine. I don’t mind walking. If I didn’t walk to bus stops, I’d get absolutely no exercise.”

“We’ve got a treadmill.”

“Yeah, my life’s already too much of that.”

“Poor Gabe,” Rina said. “It’s hard being a genius.”

He let out a laugh. “I like when you do that. It means that you’re not pitying me.”

“You, my boy, are anything but an object of pity. In fact, you’re overloaded with assets. You should lend a few out to those less fortunate. What time are you coming home?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Paul and I will go out to dinner. I suppose it depends on how well he performs.”

“Call and leave a message on the machine. Not that I have to worry about a big independent guy like you, but I’m a mother and I’ll fret if I don’t know where you are.”

“That’s okay. It’s nice to get a little mothering every now and then.”

The room went quiet. Rina studied his face. “She contacted you again?”

“Yeah.” Gabe plunked the spoon in his cereal and pushed the bowl away. “I found out that my sister’s name is Juleen.”

“Pretty name.” Silence. “What else did she say?”

“Nothing much. I told her that Chris knows about the baby and she shouldn’t worry too much about him.”

“Is that true?”

“Mostly. I mean he still likes her. He’s told me that he’d take her back, baby and all. But he certainly isn’t chasing her down. I think he likes being a martyr for a change. After all the misery he put her through, he’s happy with the role of the aggrieved spouse.”

“I’ve got an aunt and uncle; they’re about ninety now. For forty years, they lived in two separate houses and got together only on Shabbat. People used to ask, are they separated, are they divorced? Nope. Just didn’t want to live together all the time. For them, it worked.”

“As long as they’re okay, I’m okay.” He wiped his glasses on his T-shirt. “I think she wants me to come to India.”

“That would be an interesting trip.”

“Yeah, maybe in the future.” When I’m fucking ready, which isn’t now. Gabe put his glasses back on. “I should get started. What’d you make for lunch?”

“Corned beef and turkey.”

“Oh man!” He made a face. “Please save me some.”

“I will take some aside and hide it in the refrigerator where no one will find it.” Rina kissed the top of his head. “Thank you for the compliment.”

Gabe stood up and spontaneously gave her a small hug, then pulled away self-consciously. His face was warm, and he knew he was blushing. “Thanks, Rina. Not only did I land in the home of two of the nicest people in the world, you cook better than anyone I know.”

“You’d better believe it.”

He gave a small laugh and headed for the garage, the one place where he felt totally at ease—his piano, his music, his solace. Once in a while, when no one was home, he sat in the driver’s seat of Peter’s Porsche, his hand gripping the clutch, his eyes looking out the windshield and imagining an open road that led to anyone’s guess.

ARRIVING AT THE bus stop at ten to one, but Yasmine was nowhere in sight.

Oh well.

He sat down on the bench and opened his composition book, playing his piece in his head, correcting and editing until the bus pulled up at five after. He stood and when the doors swung open, he stepped up, his brain still focused on his music. In the background, he heard a scream.

“Waaaaaiiiittt.”

He held up his hand to the driver, stepped down, and saw her running toward the bus. She was a block away with her hair flying like a stallion’s mane. His heart leapt out of his chest. To the driver, he said, “Could you hold on a minute? My friend’s coming.”

“I got a schedule and a route to do.”

Gabe took out a ten. “Please?”

The driver pushed the money away. “I still got a schedule. I’m gonna count to ten.”

Stepping back out, he waved her on. On the count of eight, she had made it, completely winded and doubled over. Gabe paid for their tickets, the door closed behind them, and the bus jerked forward. She pitched backward and Gabe caught her before she fell. Her face was bathed in sweat. It didn’t help that she was wearing a quilted pink puffy jacket. At least her attire—jeans and flats—was more appropriate than last time.

She was panting … gripping her side. Gabe led her to an open row and gave her the window seat. He sat next to her and for the first five minutes, all he did was listen to her wheeze.

“You okay?” he finally said.

She nodded.

He started to say something, but just laughed instead.

“I … had … to change … from shul.”

“You look very nice, Yasmine,” Gabe said. “Maybe you want to take off your jacket?”

She nodded, and he helped her pull it off. Underneath she was wearing a pink scoop-necked sweater that exposed those lovely collarbones. She said, “I brought … food.” She held up a purse slightly smaller than a shopping bag. “Hungry?”

He was. His half bowl of cereal had been digested hours before. “What do you have?”

“Cookies … and fruit.” She was still holding her side.

“You have a cramp?”

She nodded and pulled out an apple. “Okay?”

“Sure.” He took it and she fished out another one for herself.

“Sorry … I’m late.”

He took a bite. The apple was big, juicy, and tart. “No prob.”

“At least I made it.”

“Barely.” Another chomp. His thigh was touching hers. “Who’s covering for you today?”

“Ariella.”

“Again?”

She nodded and nibbled her apple.

“You better hope she stays your friend. She’s got dirt on you.”

Yasmine gave him a thousand-watt smile. “Oh my God …” Still breathing audibly but slower. “It’s like she is so keyed up about all this.”

“What?”

“That I’m sneaking around my parents to meet up with you.”

He smiled. “Like I’m evil boy?”

“More like forbidden boy. At least I hope you’re not evil. I think the only thing that would excite Ariella more is if you were a vampire.”

Gabe laughed as he inched closer to her. “Sorry to disappoint.”

She was talking to him, her speech going a mile a minute. “She’s a little nuts!”

And closer still.

“I keep telling her it’s not a date, that you’re just being nice …”

Until he could smell her sweat …

“… that we just have common interests …”

Sweat mixed with her perfume.

“… that it’s nothing romantic and it’s just a concert and …”

He turned and faced her.

“… no big deal …”

Eye to eye, he lifted her chin with his index finger and gently brushed his lips against hers. When she didn’t resist, he did it again. Did it a third time, making it last longer, nibbling her juicy lower lip, tasting the salt on her skin. She was sweet, sweaty, soft, and fragrant.

Man oh man!

He sat back in his seat, putting his hands behind his head, closing his eyes, his erection jammed between his leg and his jeans. “I’m sorry, Yasmine, I got distracted.” He turned to face her. “What were you saying?”

She didn’t answer him. Instead, she sat stock-still with sweat pouring off her forehead and hands in her lap, her eyes on her hands. She was still holding her apple. Her mouth was slightly open, and she was breathing rapidly.

He knew he had blindsided her. Not nice, but at least she knew where he stood. Gently, he nudged her arm. She looked up, and he raised his eyebrows. She looked down again.

Maybe he had misread her. Maybe he had wanted to misread her. Even if he had, surely she couldn’t be that freaked out by a couple of chaste pecks on the lips even if it was her “first” kiss.

Slowly she unfolded her hands. The fingers on her right hand spider-walking across her thigh onto his until her hand rested about four inches away from the danger zone.

His brain screamed: higher, baby. Instead he took her hand, brought it to his lips, and then placed their entwined fingers back on his thigh, a comfortable distance from his boner. His body relaxed and so did she.

They rode in silence for a while, every so often exchanging glances while holding hands. Finally, she dropped her apple in her purse and then let out an audible sigh. “I give up!” In a swift motion, she threw her arms around his neck, weaving her fingers in his hair, and mashed her lips against his.

Whoa!

Sweet!

Time passed muy rapido. Hot and sweaty and dizzy with arousal, he kept reminding himself that she was innocent and they were in public. But he couldn’t help himself. They kissed and kissed and kissed, and it took all his willpower to keep his hands from slipping under her sweater. Her mouth was soft and warm, her breath smelled like apples, her perfume was something floral, and her sweat was musty. He was practically swooning. He became so enrapt that he almost missed their stop, jumping up from her embrace at the last moment to pull the cord. The bus lurched and they pitched forward. He felt heat coursing through his face and knew he was beet red. This time, he was breathing hard. “We get off here.”

She nodded and picked up her purse, and they stepped off the bus, avoiding the disapproving looks of some of the older ladies. As soon as the bus pulled away, he threw his arms around her body, lifting her way off the ground until she wrapped her legs around his waist. He carried her for a block or so, the two of them kissing as he walked. Over and over and over until he felt like he was going to explode. He put her back onto her feet. “Oh God,” he told her. “I need to calm down.”

She giggled. He held her hand and they strolled in silence.

“Are you okay?” she asked a minute later.

“No,” he said. “I’m a little light-headed.”

“Want a cookie?”

He grabbed her by the waist and spun her around. “I want you.” He put her down, took her face in his hands, and planted a wet kiss on her mouth. He looked at his watch and his eyes went wide. “God, we’ve got about ten minutes to get across campus.” He took her hand and they started speed-walking.

“Did you buy a ticket for me?”

“Of course I bought a ticket for you. I was hoping you would come.” Pulling her along. “It would have helped if you had told me that you might come.”

“I didn’t know until the last minute.”

“Well, you could have at least texted me a maybe. I didn’t hear a peep from you.”

“Well, that’s because I didn’t hear a peep from you.”

“What are you talking about?” Gabe said. “I asked you to be my friend on Facebook.”

“And I accepted.”

“But you didn’t write back.”

“The boy writes first.”

Gabe rolled his eyes. “Since when is that the rule?”

“I dunno. But it is the rule.”

“You know I came to Coffee Bean looking for you.”

“You did not.”

“I did so.” Gabe was offended. “I came on Tuesday and Thursday.”

Yasmine said, “I came on Monday and Wednesday.”

“Ooh, psych!” He took her hand and started running. “If you would have texted me, I would have met you. I mean I can’t exactly call you.”

“Why on earth would I assume that you’d want to meet me?”

“Why wouldn’t you assume it? I asked you to the concert.”

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