Gun Games (4 page)

“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

A
utopsy 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.”

T
he 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.

T
he 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.”