Gun Games (12 page)

Chapter Twelve

T
he key to hungry males was getting them fed as quickly as possible. So Rina was really in a bind when they walked inside the deli and Sohala Nourmand waved to her. Should she go over and make pleasantries for a few minutes, or should she wave back and risk being thought of as unfriendly?

Of course, Rina had to come to the table and say hello. Sage had been in Hannah’s class, and the two of them were friends. Plus, Daisy and Yasmine were students at the high school.

“Don’t do it,” Decker growled out a whisper. “I’m starved.”

“Just for a moment.” She tossed him a look that said,
Be nice or there will be consequences.
Then she went over to Sohala with a smile on her face.

Gabe had turned away, burying his face in a hand, hoping to keep his panic under control. Peter mistook his alarm as crankiness because he was grumpy himself. He threw his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Just be very sure that you’re in love before you get married.”

Rina looked around. Peter and Gabe were in tow, her husband barely concealing his petulance. That was okay. Bakshar, the pater of the Nourmand clan, didn’t look too happy, either.

Rina gave Sohala a kiss on her cheek. “You look beautiful as always.”

“And you are gorgeous as well,” Sohala answered.

There were four Nourmand girls, each one as pretty as the next. Bakshar was considerably older than Sohala, always with a stern expression on his face. It couldn’t be easy raising four daughters. Rina turned to Rosemary, the oldest, noticing the rock on her finger. “So when’s the big day?”

“August second.”

Sohala said, “When Aaron finishes his residency.” Rosemary gave her a stern look that her mother ignored. “In dermatology.”

Rina smiled and said, “Congratulations, Rosie.”

“Thank you.”

Sage asked, “So how’s Hannah?”

“Loving Israel.”

“Of course.”

“And what are you doing?”

“I’m in Pierce College.”

“That’s great.”

Sage shrugged. “It’s school.” She looked up at Gabe. “Congratulations to you.”

Gabe had been hiding behind Peter. “Me?”

“You got into Harvard, no?”

Yasmine gave him a quick glance that he didn’t dare interpret before returning her eyes to her soup. Gabe knew he was blushing. “Uh, how’d you know about that?”

“Hannah posted it on Facebook.”

The teen looked pleadingly at Rina, who said, “I’ll have her take it down.”

“Why?” Sohala said. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You should be very proud.”

With his heart going a mile a minute, Gabe was desperately trying to maintain composure. He shuffled his feet, feeling like a dork. “Uh . . . I kinda got in by cheating.”

Why the fuck did he say that?

“Cheating?” Bakshar said.

“Uh, not really cheating, cheating.” His face was hot. “I mean my scores were good, but I got in because I play the piano.”

The father perked up. “Yasmine play piano.”

“No, Daddy,” Daisy, the sixteen-year-old, said. “He
really
plays the piano.”

Yasmine’s face darkened.
Poor girl,
Rina thought. Sohala and her girls were a happy lot, usually smiling . . . except for the youngest. Yasmine carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.

Sage said, “Daddy, he played for graduation, remember?”

“Ah . . . yes.” The father looked at Gabe with newfound respect. “You were very good.”

“Thank you,” Gabe said.
Can I go home and die now?

Rosemary said, “Yasmini, when you go to college, you should send them a CD of your voice.” She looked at Gabe. “The admissions board likes stuff like that, right?”

His eyes scanned Yasmine’s face for an explanation, but her focus was still on her soup. “Sure,” he answered. “Yeah, they like it a lot.”

“Yasmini has a beautiful voice,” Rosemary explained.

Sage said, “At least someone got Mommy’s talent.”

Daisy said, “Yeah, you can always tell when Yasmine is home. You can hear her down the block. What’s that new aria you’re always singing?”

Gabe regarded his love interest with new eyes. “You sing opera?”

“No,” she said without looking up.

“What’s the name of the aria again?” Daisy asked. “The latest one. She sings a lot of them. She’s got this whole repertoire and goes from one to the other to the other to the other.”

Yasmine had turned a strange color of red and brown—like finely polished mahogany. She kept her eyes on the table. Sohala patted her daughter’s arm. “I like it when she sings.”

Rosemary said, “You really should send in a CD, Yasmini. Who your age sings opera? It’s different. It’ll attract attention.”

“Yasmine doesn’t need singing to get into college,” the father said with finality. “She’s got brains. She’s going to be a doctor.”

Decker had had enough chitchat. “Rina, we need to sit down or we won’t get a table.”

Sohala said, “You want to join us?”

Gabe’s heart went into overdrive.

Rina said, “Thank you, but I’m afraid I have to tend to the boys or we’ll all be in trouble. Nice seeing you all. Enjoy your meal.”

Sage said, “Tell Hannah I say hello. Is she coming in for Passover?”

“Absolutely,” Rina said.

“I’ll give her a call.”

Decker took his wife’s arm. “Have a good dinner.” He led her to the single unoccupied table. The rest of the place had filled up with diners. Menus were already on the table, and Gabe conveniently hid his face, pretending to peruse his options. His stomach was rumbling from hunger, but he had to calm down before he could digest anything.

“I understand that you have to be nice,” Decker said to Rina. “But you don’t need to carry on a lengthy dialogue when you know I’m starving.”

“Are you getting an appetizer?” Rina asked him.

“So just ignore me,” he said.

“How about soup?”

“I’m getting chopped liver,” Decker grumped.

“I’ll get cabbage soup. We can share.” She turned to Gabe. “Do you want an appetizer?”

I wanna get out of here.
The menu was still in front of his face. “I’ll have meatballs.”

“Maybe I’ll get meatballs, too,” Decker said.

“That sounds like a great idea,” Rina said.

“Aren’t you perky?”

“Someone has to be,” Rina told him. “And don’t give me those looks. At least I said no when she asked us to sit with them.”

“Under penalty of death.”

Rina said, “Peter, I understand your position. But truly, you need to eat before you say another word, okay?”

“Got it.”

“You, too,” Rina said to Gabe. “You’re looking very pale.” The waitress came over and brought pickles and bread. “Let’s wash.”

Decker sneered, got up from the table, and ritually washed his hands. Then he said the blessing over the bread before diving into the basket. Everyone ordered and five minutes later, the appetizers came, which the boys wolfed down. Gabe didn’t taste much. In truth, he didn’t even know what he was eating.

To Gabe, Rina said, “Sorry about Hannah posting your private life.”

“It’s okay.” He was more rattled than he’d been before any competition. “I just don’t like the attention. I mean I don’t dislike attention . . . I wouldn’t perform if I disliked attention. So sometimes I like attention. But some attention is better than other attention . . .” He knew he was rambling.
Make a point, Gabe
. “I’m auditioning for an agent on Thursday.”

“Really,” Decker said.

“That’s exciting,” Rina said.

“Yeah, my teacher set me up with this hotshot guy who staffs all the summer chamber music festivals. I’m hoping to pull a few slots on some of the lesser vetted programs. I think it would be fun.”

“So that means you’ll get paid to perform?” Decker said.

“Yeah, I guess,” Gabe said.

“Good deal.”

The sandwiches came. At that point, the Nourmand family got up from their table. Sohala waved good-bye and Rina waved back.

A smile formed on Decker’s lips. To Gabe, he said, “She likes you, you know.”

The boy felt his face go hot. “What?”

Decker turned to Rina. “Which one of the girls was the wise guy who was making her little sister miserable?”

“Daisy,” Rina said. “She’s a junior, and she is a wise guy.”

“Yeah, she likes you.” Decker wagged a finger at him. “Don’t fall for it.”

“You’re in a mood,” Rina said. “Stop teasing him.”

“I’m not teasing him. I’m telling him the truth.” He looked at Gabe. “The father would cut your head off. Then he’d probably go after me and cut my head off.”

“Stop it,” Rina said.

“He’s a dour guy.”

“Bakshar is in his late sixties with four daughters and now he has to pay for a big wedding. How would you be?”

“Dour.” Decker chomped on his sandwich, then chomped again. “Good.”

Rina looked at Gabe. His sandwich was hardly eaten. “You’re not hungry anymore?”

“I think I filled up on meatballs.” He looked at Decker who had polished off his dinner. “You want some of mine, Peter?”

“If you’re not going to eat it.”

“Take it.”

“See, that’s why you’re skinny and I’m fat.” Decker caught Gabe looking at his watch. “You need to go?”

“I have to prepare for the audition.”

Decker put his sandwich down and called for the check. He looked at the teen with sudden concern. “Gabe, do you feel comfortable working at such a young age?”

“In this business, I’m not so young.”

“But in real life, you are.” Decker suddenly realized he was looking at a child—very talented, very smart, but still a little boy. “I’m serious, Gabe. I know you’ve been . . . led in this direction your entire life. But make sure it’s what you want. Keep an open mind.”

Gabe nodded.

“I mean it, son. Only you can live your life.”

He smiled. “I think that’s the first time that anyone has ever told me to consider options other than music.”

“See, I’m an original,” Decker said.

Gabe picked up his half-eaten sandwich and took a bite. He suddenly regained his appetite.

Decker said, “You want your sandwich back?”

“Nah, this is fine.” He felt okay. “I actually like what I do. I can’t see myself doing anything else.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Decker had just finished paying the bill when his cell phone went off. “It’s Marge. I should take this.”

“Absolutely.”

“Can I call you back?” Decker said. “I’m just finishing dinner.”

Marge said, “All right.”

She sounded grave. “Two minutes.” He hung up.

Rina got up and so did Gabe. She kissed her husband’s cheek. “We’ll meet you at home.”

“Maybe.”

“One of those calls?”

“I think so.”

“Good luck.” She tossed the keys to Gabe. “Yes, you can drive.”

Decker accompanied them to Rina’s Volvo and watched Gabe back out of a tight spot and pull away in one swift motion. Like most boys, he had a good sense of spatial relations. Hannah was constantly bumping into things—poles, bushes, mailboxes. Was that being sexist? Maybe, but he was too set in his ways to be upset about it.

Decker called his favorite sergeant back. “What’s going on?”

Marge said, “Just got a call from one of the patrol officers. There’s been another suicide.”

That got his attention. “One of Gregory’s friends?”

“I don’t know yes or no, but she was a teenager. Myra Gelb—an eleventh grader at Bell and Wakefield.”

“Good Lord.” Decker put the key in the ignition. “What’s the address?”

Marge gave him the numerals. “This is just . . . horrible.”

He turned on the ignition and put the car in drive. The phone hooked up to Bluetooth. “I’m on my way. Did you call the coroner’s office?”

“Everyone’s on his way.”

“How’d she do it?”

“Single gunshot to the head?”

“Like Gregory Hesse?”

“Eerily like Gregory Hesse.”

Chapter Thirteen

T
wo cruisers were nose to nose, blocking the street to through traffic. An ambulance stood about fifty feet away. Decker trotted over to the scene, nodding at the two officers stationed outside the yellow tape before ducking under the ribbon. The apartment building was made from plaster and wood, each unit having a balcony and a view of the street below. The Gelb family lived on the second floor of a four-story building.

He walked through the unlocked door, finding the paramedics treating a dazed woman sacked out on the sofa. She wore gray slacks and a red blouse, the right sleeve rolled up to accommodate a blood pressure cuff. Next to her stood a young man in his twenties, dressed in jeans and a UCLA sweatshirt, holding her hand.

The living room led to a dining room and then into a kitchen. Decker found Marge leaning against the counter, her notepad open but she wasn’t writing anything.

She spoke softly. “It happened in her bedroom.”

“How many bedrooms?”

“Two. One for the daughter, one for the son. He goes to UCLA but he lives at home. The mother sleeps in the living room on a pull-out bed.” Marge’s eyes were just shy of wet. “I’ll show you where it happened if you want.”

“Who’s guarding the death scene?”

“Hosea Nederlander. He’s waiting for the CIs.”

“Let’s hold off on viewing the body for a moment. I want to get a feel for the family first.”

Quietly, they returned to the living room. The paramedics, speaking in low tones, were conversing among themselves. The mother was in her late forties, eyes red-rimmed but dry. She sat stiffly as one of the men continued to check on vitals.

A paramedic named Lanie spoke to the young man. “Her pressure is still sky high. She really needs to come down with us.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” the woman insisted. Her eyes suddenly fixed on Marge and Decker. “Are you the police?”

“Yes, we are.” Decker introduced himself.

Lanie said, “She should go to the hospital.”

“I don’t want to go!”

“Mom—”

“No. I can’t leave her alone! I can’t do that!”

“I’ll stay here and take care of things,” the son said. “But I can’t do anything if I have to worry about you.”

“I’m not going!” The woman’s complexion was one shade short of ghost.

Marge said, “Would you like some water, ma’am?”

The son said, “That’s a good idea.”

Marge went into the kitchen. Decker said, “Do you have a doctor that I could call?”

The son said, “Mom, do you still use Dr. Radcliff?”

The woman didn’t answer.

“Brian Radcliff,” the son said. “I don’t know his number.”

“I’ll get it,” Decker said. “I could have him meet your mother at the hospital.”

“I’m not going!”

The son’s eyes were desperate. “Please call him.”

Decker said, “Maybe he can come here.”

Marge returned with a glass of water. She slowly brought it to the mother’s lips. Decker made the phone call, then walked back to the living room. “He’ll be here in about ten minutes.”

“Thank you,” the son said.

Decker said to Marge, “Stay with her, okay?”

“Absolutely.”

To the boy, Decker said, “Can I talk to you for a few minutes?”

The young man followed Decker into the kitchen. “First of all, I am so sorry for your sister’s death.”

“Thank you.” He swiped at his eyes, brimming with tears.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I didn’t catch your name.”

“Eric Gelb.”

“The victim is your younger sister?”

Eric nodded.

“And your mother’s name?”

“Udonis.”

“Gelb?”

The boy nodded.

“Divorced, widowed?”

“Divorced.”

“And your father?”

“Dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged.

“Were you here when it happened . . . with your sister?”

“No.”

“Was your mother here?”

“At work.”

“So you came home or she came home . . .”

“I found her . . . Myra.” He clamped his hand over his mouth. “She was already . . .”

Decker nodded. “And then what did you do?”

“I called my mom but didn’t tell her what happened. Then I called the police.” Tears streamed down his cheeks. “The police got here before my mom. They stopped her from going into the room. When they—the police—told her that my sister had passed on, Mom fainted. So I called the paramedics.”

“So this all happened about a half hour ago?”

“Maybe an hour. I have no sense of time.”

Decker nodded. “Are you up to answering a few more questions?”

Eric nodded.

“First of all, how old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Okay. And you’re at UCLA?”

He nodded. “Second-year law.”

“Okay. Is it just you and your sister?”

“Yes.”

“So you two were pretty close or . . .”

“There’s an age gap. I’m not home a lot. But when we saw each other, we got along.”

“Are you from the same mother and father?”

“Yeah. My parents separated, then reconciled and had my sister. But eventually they got divorced when I was eighteen.”

“So Myra was ten?”

“Yeah. Right after that, my dad came down with cancer. He died two years ago. My dad and I weren’t very close—no animosity, but nothing in common. Myra and Dad were very close. The divorce hit Myra very hard. My dad’s death was devastating to her.”

“Depression?”

“Major. She was put on medication.”

“Is she still on medication?”

“I think so.”

“Did the medication help her?”

“I wouldn’t know. She was also seeing a psychiatrist.”

“Do you know the name?”

“My mom knows.”

“Had your sister ever made any suicide attempts in the past?”

“Yes. Right after my father’s death. She seemed to be getting better . . .” He threw up his hands.

Decker said, “She went to Bell and Wakefield?”

Eric nodded. “Scholarship. We both were scholarship students.”

“How was that for you?”

“For me?”

Decker nodded.

“It was okay. I got a good education.”

“Socially?”

“Not the warmest place, but I had my friends. I didn’t have problems.”

“What about your sister?”

Eric blew out air. “I don’t know. She never complained. I know that she has a few friends.”

“Do you know their names?”

“First names only. Heddy . . . Ramona . . .” He shrugged. “That’s as much as I can recall.”

“Has anything about your sister changed over the last couple of months?”

“Not that I noticed. But I wasn’t home a lot.”

“Did you see a deepening of her depression?”

“No . . . not really.”

“Do you know if your sister had any outside activities?”

“She painted and drew,” Eric said. “She was a great artist. I think she did some cartooning for the school paper.”

“Anything else?”

He exhaled. “She might have had other interests, but I don’t know. I’m not here most of the time. It was just a fluke that I . . .” His eyes watered. “I’m either at school or in the library. I also have an internship after school and on the weekends. Mostly, I just sleep here. I told my mother to switch beds with me—I don’t need my room anymore—but she’s stubborn. I guess you can see that.”

Decker heard voices from the other room. Marge peeked her head in. “The doctor’s here.”

“Good.” To Eric, Decker said, “Thank you very much for answering the questions. Again, I’m very sorry.”

Eric nodded and they returned to the living room.

Radcliff was in his fifties with gray hair. He was dressed in a sweater over an oxford shirt and jeans. He patted Eric’s shoulder. “We decided to meet up at the hospital.”

“Thank you very much,” Eric told him.

Marge got off her cell. “We’ve got two CIs downstairs. Maybe we should wait until Mrs. Gelb leaves for the hospital.”

Decker agreed as Udonis Gelb was helped onto a wheelchair. Dr. Radcliff said, “I’ll let you know what’s going on, Eric. Can I have your cell number?”

He gave it to him. “Thank you, Doctor.”

As soon as the mother left, the two coroner’s investigators—Jamaica Carmichael and Austin Bodine—came into the apartment.

Decker said to Eric, “I have to check out what happened. Lots of people coming in and out. You don’t have to stay.”

“I promised my mother.”

“You can wait in the living room.”

Eric nodded.

Marge led the CIs to the death scene. Decker took out his notebook. An average-looking bedroom—blue walls, white furniture, and a white silky cover splattered with blood. The gun—a .22 Taurus revolver—still rested atop the duvet, but the body was on the floor, crumpled at the foot of the bed. Her face lay sideways in a pool of congealing blood, a blackened hole dripping blood down her cheek and skull, clotting into her short, dark hair. Her right hand had a lot of stippling from powder burns. She’d been dressed in a gray T-shirt and dark jeans. Her feet were bare.

Decker said, “Did you take any trajectory measurements?”

“I took measurements from the gun to her hand and from the gun to her head, but she was on the floor when I came in. I’ve been looking around the room. I haven’t found a bullet.”

Coroner investigator Austin Bodine carefully turned the head. “You didn’t find any bullet because it’s still inside. No exit wound.”

Marge checked her notes. “To me, it appears that she was sitting on the edge of the bed when she did it. The gun shot back onto the bed, but she slid down to the floor. The comforter is satiny material . . . slippery.”

Decker said, “Are you sure it’s just one shot?”

“So far just the one to the head.” Jamaica carefully turned the body onto its side. “Everything else appears intact.”

Bodine bagged the hands. “You want to check her clothes before we take her?”

Marge said, “Yeah.” Meticulously, the two detectives went through the clothing looking for foreign objects—hair, fiber, anything to suggest the presence of another person in the room. Blood had splattered everywhere. It looked like a self-inflicted gunshot to the head, not unlike Gregory Hesse. But at least in this case, there were some answers as to the why.

When Marge and Decker had finished with the clothes, the CIs began the arduous process of wrapping and transferring the body, sliding the remains of Myra Gelb onto a steel gurney and wheeling her out the door. Eric sat on the sofa while all this was happening, head down, with his hands in his lap. It took a while for the young man to speak even after the investigators had left. Finally Eric said, “What now?”

“My partner and I would like to go over the room thoroughly. Open drawers, go through the closet, look under the bed . . . Do you have any objection to that?”

“No.”

Marge said, “Do you have any idea where Myra got the gun?”

Eric looked up and stared at her. “That’s a very good question.”

“Could it be your mother’s?” Decker said.

“Not likely. She never said anything about it to me.”

“We’ll ask her,” Marge said. “We’re going to take the gun with us to make sure that everything matches.”

“Okay.” Eric was very pale. “What happens after you go through the room?”

Decker handed Eric a card. “Once we clear the area, you can call up this woman. She and her son will come into the room and dispose of what needs to be cleaned up.”

“God, I never thought of that.” His head sank in his hands. “I guess you just don’t call up the cleaning lady.” Tears trickled down his cheeks.

“It has to be done by a professional. There are other people who do this, but we’ve found that this woman is very sensitive.”

Eric took the card. “Thank you, Sergeant . . . Lieutenant.”

“She’s the sergeant, I’m the lieutenant.” Decker and Marge gave Eric their cards. “Call us if you need anything.”

“What about the body?”

“After the autopsy, someone will call you to pick it up.” Decker gave him another card. “This is a contact at Forest Lawn. I don’t know if you have a cemetery, but at least here’s a name. I also have the name of someone who does cremations, if you want that. Once the body is released, the professionals will do the rest.”

Eric took the cards. “Thanks for the direction.” He looked up. “I’m totally lost.”

“We understand,” Marge said. “We’re going back to the room if that’s okay with you. In the meantime, do you have someone you want us to call?”