Faye Kellerman: Blood Games

“I know. I’m a runt.” She sat down and glanced over her shoulder, speaking softly as if they were conspiring. “Do you know how to get to the Music Center by bus?”

“I do.”

“Where do you find a bus?”

“At a bus stop.”

She bit her lip. “You must think I’m a doofus.”

“No, but you’re probably a pampered pooch who’s been carted around her entire life.”

Instead of taking offense, she nodded. “Carted everywhere except where I really want to go.” She sighed. “I love Alyssa Danielli. Her voice is so … pure.”

Gabe sat back in his chair and gave her face an honest appraisal. He admired passion in any form, but classical music was something he could relate to. “If you want to go to an opera so bad, just go.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t understand Persian culture.”

“Is there something in Persian genes that make them not like opera?”

“My father wants me to be a doctor.”

“I’m sure there are doctors who are opera fans.” He took a bite of his bagel. “You want some coffee or something?”

“I’ll get it.” She stomped away, but left her backpack behind. A few minutes later she was back with something foamy. A sheen of sweat coated her forehead. “People are starting to come in.”

“That’s good. It’ll keep the place in business.”

“I mean it’s …” She glanced at her watch and sipped her coffee. “Is taking the bus dangerous?”

“I wouldn’t go in the wee hours of the morning, but this is a matinee.” Gabe rubbed his neck. “If you’re going to continue to talk to me, could you please sit down?”

She sat.

He said, “Look … whatever your name is. How about if I give you directions by bus? If you’re at the bus stop, then we’ll go together. If not, I’ll buy you a CD and write you a review.”

She sighed. “Maybe we can go by cab.”

“A cab is like twenty times the money.”

“I’ll pay for it.”

Gabe stared at her. Who was she? “I’m not pleading poverty. I’ll pay for the cab if you definitely go. Otherwise, I’m going to go by bus.”

“How about this?” the girl said. “You’ll pay for the cab if I go, and if I don’t go, I’ll pay you back.”

Gabe shook his head. “This is getting very complicated.”

“Please?” she implored.

“Fine.” He rolled his eyes. “You’ll pay me back for the cab if you crap out … which doesn’t make any sense because I have to pick you up anyway and by that time, you should know whether or not you’re going.”

Her big eyes got even wider. “You can’t pick me up at my house. I’ll meet you a few blocks away.”

“Aha.” Gabe got it. “You’re sneaking around your parents.”

“Sorta.”

“Jeez, it’s not like you’re going to a rave; it’s a freakin’ opera.” When she didn’t say anything, he said, “It’s not just the opera; it’s going with me to the opera. Because I’m not Jewish.”

She stared at him. “You’re not Jewish?”

“Nope. I’m Catholic.”

“Oh God. My dad would kill me just for going with a white boy.” She leaned over and spoke softly. “Why were you in a Jewish school if you’re not Jewish”?

“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.

AUTOPSY 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.