Faye Kellerman - Blood Games

“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.”

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.