Faye Kellerman - Blood Games

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.”

THE 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.

THE 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.