Faye Kellerman - Blood Games

“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.”