Faye Kellerman - Hangman

“How many days are we talking about?” Hannah asked.

“I’m hoping to locate one of his parents soon.”

“So let him stay.” Hannah smiled. “Even if he is a psycho, there isn’t a lot here to steal.”

Decker said, “A couple of days won’t make that much of a difference. If it drags on longer than that, we’ll reevaluate.”

Rina said, “He should be in school.”

“Not our school,” Hannah said.

“Why not?” Decker said. “It’s filled with misfits anyway.”

“It’s an Orthodox day school, Abba, and I don’t think he’s Jewish.”

“Neither are half the kids in the school.”

“That’s not true,” Hannah said. “Look, I can take him to school. He’s real cute and I’m sure all the girls will fall madly in love with him. Just don’t blame me if the rabbis have a fit.”

Rina said. “Sitting around here is only going to make him feel worse.” She turned to Hannah. “Go in and tell him that you’re taking him to your school.”

“You want me to tell him?”

“Yes, I do,” Rina ordered.

“I have choir practice tonight. I won’t get home until late.”

“Take him with you,” Decker said. “I seem to recall that he plays the piano. Maybe he can accompany you guys.”

“Right!” Hannah snorted and went in to fetch Gabe from her brothers’ bedroom.

When she was gone, Decker said, “I hope this doesn’t come back to bite us.”

“It might,” Rina said. “But even God judges us for our present actions only and not on what He knows we’ll do in the future. How can we mortals do anything less?”

“That’s a nice little speech, but we mortals have to use the past to judge the future because we’re not God.” He shook his head. “What kind of a teenager doesn’t want to live with his young irresponsible aunt who parties and dopes?” “A kid too mature for his age.”

HE SAT ONone of the twin beds, his backpack at his feet, staring at nothing while other people talked about his fate. A position he had been in umpteen times before. The room was filled with athletic trophies, paperback books, comic books, CDs, and DVDs, mostly from the nineties. There were posters of Michael Jordan and Michael Jackson, one of Kobe Bryant when he was about seventeen years old. The CDs included Green Day, Soundgarden, and Pearl Jam.

An utterly normal room in an utterly normal house with an utterly normal family.

What he would give to live an utterly normal life.

He was tired of dealing with a psycho for a father, a totally unpredictable maniac with a violent temper. He was sick of having a psychologically beaten-down mother—recently a physically beaten mother. He feared his dad, he loved his mom, but he was sick to death of both of them. And although he was sincerely passionate about his music and the piano, he detested growing up a prodigy. It drove him to do more and more and more and more.

All he wanted was to be fucking normal. Was that so hard of a wish to grant?

He heard the knock on the door and wiped his eyes. He looked in the mirror and noticed they were red-rimmed. Fucking-A great! The girl probably thought he was a real wuss.

Mom, where the fuck are you? Chris, what the fuck did you do with Mom?

He answered the door. “Hey.”

“Hey.” She smiled. “You know if you want to hole up here for a few days, you’re more than welcome.”

“Yeah, your dad already told me that. Thanks. I really mean that.” He bit his lower lip. “I’m sure things will sort out by then. Tell your parents I won’t be any trouble.”

“I’m enough trouble for the both of us.” She smiled. “Hate to tell you this, bud, but my mom wants you to go to school with me.”

“School?”

“Don’t shoot the messenger.”

“Right.” He laughed. What else was there to do? “Sure. Why not?”

“It’s a religious school.”

“What religion?”

“Jewish.”

“I’m Catholic.”

“It’s fine. You won’t have to do anything against your beliefs.”

“I have no beliefs except in the innate evil of human beings.” He looked at her. “Except your parents.”

“If it’s too much for you to handle, I can probably talk my mom out of it.”

“No, it’s okay.” A pause. “I’ll deal. Do I need a notebook or something?”

“I’ll get you an extra one. You’re in tenth grade, you said?”

“I was.”

“Algebra two or pre-calc?”

“Pre-calc.”

“I’ll take care of it. I also heard you play the piano.”

His eyes showed a twinkle of animation. “Do you have a piano?”

“My school does. Are you good?”

For the first time, Hannah saw a genuine smile. He said, “I can play.”

“Then maybe you can stay after school and accompany our choir. We’re terrible. We could use some sort of a lift.”

“I probably can help you out there.”

“C’mon.” She motioned him forward. “I’ll guide you through it. You may not know it, Gabe, but you’re looking at a BMOC.”

B Y THE TIMEDecker broke for lunch, he had done enough phone work and legwork to ascertain that there had been no activity on Terry McLaughlin’s cell since four o’clock yesterday afternoon. Her major credit cards hadn’t been used other than daily charges put through by the hotel, and even those had been earlier in the day. Her name hadn’t appeared on any American or United flight manifest—either domestic or international—but Decker certainly hadn’t the means and the wherewithal to check every single airline and every single local airport. If the woman had wanted to sneak out, she could have done it in a thousand ways. More to the point, her car hadn’t been spotted. All he could do was wait for news and hope it wasn’t bad news.

Donatti wasn’t picking up his cell, either. According to Gabe, his father switched cells, often using throwaways. It could be that the number that Decker was given wasn’t the cell phone he was currently using. Decker did discover that Donatti had arrived on Saturday morning in LAX via Virgin America Airlines, the day before his meeting with his estranged wife. There was no record of his picking up any rental car. As far as locating where he had stayed before he had met with Terry, Decker started calling hotels, beginning on the west with the Ritz-Carlton in the Marina and slowly working his way eastward ho. When he was about to call the Century Plaza, there was a knock on his office door. He put down the phone. “Come in.”

Dressed in a wheat-colored shirt, brown pants, and rubber-soled flats, Marge entered his office. Her brown eyes were wide and her face was ashen. Decker felt his heart sink. “What?”

“A foreman at a construction site just found a homicide victim—a young woman hanging from the rafters—”

“Good Lord!” Decker felt sick. “Hanging?”

“From cable wire…at least, that’s what I’ve been told.”

“Any identification?”

“Not so far. The uniforms are at the scene, cordoning off the area.”

“Has any one cut her down?”

“No. The foreman didn’t touch her. He called 911 and the uniforms came quickly enough to preserve the scene. The coroner’s office has been notified.”

Decker looked at his watch. “It’s two in the afternoon. And the foreman just discovered the body? How long had he been at the site?”

“I don’t know, Pete.”

“What’s the location?” When Marge told him the address, Decker’s heart started racing. His brain flashed to Terry’s face with a noose around her neck. “That’s not far from where Cheryl Diggs was murdered.”

“I realize that. That’s why I’m telling you this.”