“Anything else?” Punsche made a show of looking at his watch. “I do need to go.”
Oliver said, “A few more little things. What do you know about Dylan Lashay?”
Punsche was taken aback. “What does Dylan have to do with any of this?”
Marge said, “We understand that he’s the leader of a group of boys who . . . well, they fashion themselves after the Mafia, complete with Dylan being the don and having a bunch of capos.”
“What?” Punsche made a disbelieving face. “I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous. Dylan is one of our star students—academic, athletic, and a terrific actor. He was accepted early decision to Yale.”
“Okay,” Marge said. “And that contradicts what we just told you because . . .”
“Well, that’s just preposterous! Dylan doesn’t have to play games to be a leader. He is a leader.”
Oliver said, “We’ve heard he has an unhealthy passion for guns.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Punsche said. “And furthermore, it is not my habit to talk about specific students to the police.”
“Except to say that he got into Yale,” Marge said.
“I think our business is done here.” Punsche got up from his chair. “Even though you’ve crossed some boundaries, I still invite you to talk to Mr. Hinton or any one of our staff here at B and W. We have nothing hidden here although I don’t know what Mr. Hinton or anyone on our staff could offer you.”
“I appreciate your openness,” Marge said. She could mentally hear Oliver snickering. “You never know what will turn up, so thanks for giving us free range with your teachers.”
“I didn’t say that!” Punsche shook his head as if he were dealing with two errant students. “Look, Detectives, I won’t presume to tell you how to run your investigation, but I will offer you a word or two of friendly advice. The school has undergone two terrible tragedies, two self-inflicted deaths. It makes no sense for you to go poking into other people’s affairs.”
“By other people do you mean Dylan Lashay?” Oliver said.
Punsche said. “The Lashays are wonderful people, and Dylan is no exception. They are very involved in the local community and charity, which includes support for the local police.”
Oliver grinned. “Good to know whose feet we’ll be stepping on.”
Marge nudged her partner. “We all have a job to do, sir. And I’m sure you respect the fact that we take our work seriously. Thank you for your help.”
Oliver wasn’t done. “I’m not quite sure I’d call your advice friendly, Dr. Punsche.”
Marge pinched him hard as Oliver threw her a dirty look. Punsche didn’t notice the interaction. “I’m just laying it out for you. What you do with it is your business.”
Saul Hinton was in his forties, tall and lanky with a sloping nose and a bad comb-over of gray unruly hair. With his spindly arms and elongated torso, he moved like one of those inflatable balloon tube men placed as come-ons in front of car lots.
The classroom was empty. The front wall had a blackboard, a whiteboard, and a mounted forty-inch flatscreen. Pinned up on the cork board was the most recent edition of the school newspaper—B and W Tattler—again emblazoned with the lion mascot. Hinton offered them a seat at any of the twenty built-in desktops, each one containing several Ethernet ports for laptops.
“Actually those are already out of date,” Hinton told the detectives. “The whole school went wireless six years ago. The ports are used only for backup.”
“What happens if the kid doesn’t have his own laptop?” Oliver asked.
“The school provides it for him or her,” Hinton replied.
“What’s the tuition?” Marge asked.
“Forty thousand a year. About twenty percent of our student body is on scholarship,” Hinton said. “The administration does what it needs to do to keep the quality up and balance the budget. Unfortunately we have to turn down a lot of otherwise great students to do so.” He sat on the edge of his desk. “What can I do you for? I wouldn’t think these deaths, as tragic as they are, are police business.”
Oliver said, “Technically, suicides are crimes.”
“And that’s ridiculous.”
Marge said, “Mainly, sir, we’ve here because we want to be sure that the suicides aren’t some part of a larger problem at Bell and Wakefield.”
Hinton looked at her with focused brown eyes. “What larger problem?”
“Do you remember a student named Kevin Stanger?”
“Of course. He transferred out at the start of tenth grade.”
Oliver said, “Do you know why?”
“Do you?”
“He was having some social issues,” Marge told him. “Is that what you heard?”
“Something like that.”
Oliver said, “Then you’re one step ahead of the VP. Dr. Punsche claimed he had no idea why Stanger transferred.”
Hinton was quiet.
“Or maybe he lied.”
Again, Hinton didn’t talk—a tactic of police interrogation as well as journalism. Marge said, “What do you know about crowding?”
“Was that what Kevin talked about?” Hinton asked.
Answering a question with a question. Oliver changed the subject. “Kevin told us that he and Greg Hesse kept up contact even after Kevin left. He also mentioned that Hesse had taken an interest in investigative journalism when he took your ninth-grade course.”
“Yes, that’s true. Greg was intrigued by Watergate.”
“Did Watergate inspire Greg to do some kind of investigation on his own?”
“Not that I know of and certainly nothing under my auspices.”
Marge said, “Kevin Stanger seemed to think that Gregory was involved in something secretive. Hesse was attached to his camcorder. Furthermore, he claimed he was onto something that would turn Bell and Wakefield upside down.”
“Would you know what Stanger is talking about?” Oliver said.
Slowly Hinton shook his head. “No, I really don’t.” Another pause. “Anything else you can tell me . . . maybe something will strike a chord.”
Marge said. “That’s all Stanger knows. We were just wondering if this had something to do with the school paper.”
“Gregory wasn’t on staff for the paper.”
“Did he ever write a guest column maybe?”
Hinton bit his bottom lip, stood up, and went to his desk, booting up his computer. “Hold on a moment.” It took him around five minutes of searching. “He actually did write a column . . . just one and at the beginning of the year.” His eyes scanned over the screen and then he pressed the printer button. “I remember this now. It was advice on how to survive ninth grade. Humorous but informative.”
He pulled the sheet from the printer and gave it to Oliver.
“It’s coming back to me. Greg was a very good writer. But he never signed up to join the paper. I don’t know why.”
Marge said, “Were there conflicts with other students?”
“I don’t recall that.”
“Who’s the student editor of the paper?”
“We have a junior editor and a senior editor.”
Marge took out her notebook. “Could I have the names?”
“I can give you the names because you could find that out easily enough. But no one is going to give you permission to talk to these kids without their parents.”
“Point taken,” Marge said.
“Junior editor is Heddy Kramer; the senior editor is Kyle Kerkin.”
“Kyle Kerkin,” Marge said. “He’s a friend of Dylan Lashay, isn’t he?”
Hinton paused. “Why are you asking me irrelevant questions?”
“Lashay’s name keeps popping up when we talk about the suicides,” Oliver said.
Marge switched topics before Hinton could respond. “Heddy Kramer was a good friend of Myra Gelb. We know that from Myra’s brother, Eric.” She held up a finger. “You know, Myra was an excellent artist.
And with one of her good friends editing the Tattler . . . Do you know if Myra ever did work on the paper as a staff artist?”
“She wasn’t on staff, but she did some freelance. Cartooning, I believe.”
Oliver said, “Maybe Myra met Gregory through the paper.”
Hinton shook his head. “I wouldn’t think so. Neither was a regular contributor.”
Oliver said. “Myra Gelb didn’t like Dylan Lashay much. She drew a few derogatory caricatures of him.”
Hinton glared at him. “You know, the police, like journalists, should be impartial when conducting an interview. It’s clear to me that you two have an agenda. I don’t know what your investigation has to do with Dylan Lashay and frankly, I don’t care. I think we’re done.”
“Exactly what Dr. Punsche said when he didn’t like our questions,” Oliver said.
Marge got up. “Thank you for your time and help.”
“I hope I didn’t help you at all,” Hinton said.
Oliver smiled. “Sometimes it’s what you don’t say that helps us more than what you do say.”
Chapter Sixteen
Decker said, “Myra Gelb’s gun came back as stolen.”
Oliver said, “Why am I not surprised.”
He and Marge were in the Loo’s office. She was standing, he was sitting across from Decker’s desk. It was three in the afternoon.
Marge said, “How long ago?”
“A year.”
“Who was it pilfered from?”
“Lisbeth and Ramon Holly.” Decker handed Oliver the address and phone number. “They live in the area. Give them a call and find out the details.”
“I’ll set something up.” He walked out of the office.
To Marge, Decker said, “So what’s going on?”
“We’ve got bits and pieces about the two kids but nothing that you can sink your teeth into. Plus, I don’t think the school likes us that much. Not nearly as much as they like Dylan Lashay.” She recapped the morning to the boss. “Myra and Greg did some freelance work on the paper, but we still don’t have anything to tie them together.”
“Is Heddy Kramer the Heddy from Myra’s contact list on her phone?” Decker asked.
“Yes. She’s also the junior editor.” Marge shrugged. “Maybe she was a contact point between the two kids. The journalism teacher doesn’t remember them knowing each other, but he wasn’t helpful, especially after we mentioned Dylan Lashay’s name.”
“Dylan the Mafia don.”
“His parents must have made the school an offer they couldn’t refuse.”
Decker smiled.
Marge said, “It’s possible that Myra and Greg met through the paper. Maybe they started talking about some unsavory things that were going on in the school. Neither one was an outcast, but they certainly weren’t in the popular crowd.” A pause. “Or maybe a suicide is just a suicide.”
“What intrigues me is that both guns were stolen. Gregory Hesse is puzzling enough. Why would Myra Gelb have a stolen gun?”
“Beats me,” Marge said. “I can interview Heddy Kramer if you want?”
Decker thought a moment. “Myra’s memorial service is tomorrow at eleven. Let’s wait until that’s over before you talk to Heddy or any of Myra’s other friends. The shock needs to wear off before they can talk coherently.”
“I’ll try to set something up for next week.”
Oliver came back. “No one’s home at the Hollys. I left a message.”
Marge said, “Myra’s funeral is tomorrow afternoon. I’m going to set up an interview with the friends early next week.”
“Try to talk to the Hollys sooner than that,” Decker said. “If you can’t get them on Friday, do it over the weekend.”
Marge turned to Oliver. “I’m okay this weekend. What about you?”
Oliver said, “You know my number, sweetheart. Call me anytime.”
At 6:30 in the morning, Gabe sat at the bus stop, head in hand, cursing the hour and the singing birds whose current cacophony was giving him a headache. He knew that the upcoming audition was important to his future, but his mind was elsewhere, and his focus was scattered. If he was going to get up this early, at least he should be spending time with Yasmine. They saw each other on Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday mornings (they had up the count by one more day) and it pissed him off that he had to miss seeing her even though he knew that Nick had worked hard to set this thing up. He continued to mope over the situation, in his own world, so he vaguely noticed a figure walking by. He didn’t even hear the voice until she was right on top of him.
“Chris?”
Gabe looked up.
The girl was truly gorgeous: long blond hair and silky blue eyes, tall and leggy. Her boobs were big and perfect, probably from surgery even though she was young. Surgery or not, it didn’t matter. She was the perfect ten.
His thoughts had been concentrated on Yasmine, so it took him a while to realize that she was addressing him. He started to say that she had made a mistake, but then it clicked who she was.
“Do you remember me?” She flashed a blinding white smile.
“ ’Course,” he said. “You were one of the girls with Dylan.”
She sat down next to him on the bench. “Dylan’s an asshole.”
That was definitely true. Gabe said, “If he’s an asshole, why do you hang with him?”
She cocked her head to the side. “He has some . . . hidden attributes.”
Flirtatious little wench. Gabe laughed. “Good for Dylan.”
“I’m sorry if he was a jerk to you,” she said.
“He was irrelevant to me.”
“He was impressed with you. I could tell.”
Gabe shrugged it off.
“You sure know a lot about guns.”
“My dad collects guns.” On the sly. The man still technically had a record. Not that any law had ever stopped any felon from owning guns. “Frankly, I’d rather he collect cars or guitars—something less lethal.”
“Is your father really a pimp?”
“Yes.”
“Wow, that’s pretty . . . weird.”
“I ain’t gonna lie. It is weird when I think about it. So I don’t think about it.” He turned to her. “What are you doing out so early?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“You go first.”
She opened her purse and showed him a baggy filled with vegetative matter.
“Ah . . . stuff any good?”
She regarded his face. “We could find out together. I live six blocks from here.”
Gabe let out a small laugh. “You have very liberal parents.”
“I have workaholic parents who have left for the day.”
“Ah . . .” He studied her face and it all came back to him. He knew the type backward and forward. In New York, there was always a party every Friday and Saturday night if you were in the right crowd. And being that he was Chris Donatti’s son, he was always in the right crowd. Even though he was a year younger because he had skipped a grade, the guys accepted him. He was labeled as the smart, talented one who knew how to keep his mouth shut when shit went down. And because he was tall and good-looking enough, the older girls also accepted him, too.
It was same old, same old. You go up to a room, take a couple of hits, and within ten minutes the girl was going down on you. But that wasn’t what he wanted now. Well, not the going down part. He would have loved a blow job, but not from this weirdo stranger, as stunning as she was. He could hear his father’s voice calling him an idiot. And maybe he was an idiot. Because it scared him sometimes, that he was so obsessed with a skinny little virgin with small boobs and a very big personality. He couldn’t shake Yasmine from his mind. He kept picturing her naked, which proved to be embarrassing because when he did it, he always got aroused.
Just thinking about her for a couple of seconds and he was already semierect. The blonde was looking at his groin. She took the discernible shape in his pants as a sign of inter
est. “I take it that’s a go?”
“I can’t.” Gabe threw up his hands. “I’m meeting my bandmates. We have an audition at a studio for a major record company at eight in the morning, and they’ll kill me if I’m late.”
“It’s only six-fifty.”
“It takes a while to go by bus.”
“You don’t have a car?” she asked.
“I don’t have a license,” he said. “I’m fifteen.”
She was taken aback. “Really?”
“Really.” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t lie about that.”
She looked him up and down. “Why aren’t you in school?”
“I think I told you . . . or maybe I told Dylan. I’m homeschooled. It’s great because it gives me lots of flexibility to play with my band. And being that I don’t drive and I have to take the bus everywhere, it gives me time to do things.”
Her eyes were on his face. She said, “We could walk back to my house and I could drive you to your audition.”
“You don’t have school?”
“This is what I think of school.” She pointed her middle finger up in the air. “Besides, I already got accepted to college.”
“Where?”
“Reed . . . or should I say weed.” She grinned. “C’mon, Chris. It’ll relax you.”
She wasn’t a girl who’d take no easily. His brain was reeling on how to get out of this without pissing her off. “I’m a little amped about this audition. It’s just not the right time.”
She leaned in closer and began to massage his neck. Her touch was cold. “You sure you wouldn’t like a little good-luck toke? It’ll probably relax you.”
“Maybe, but I’m . . .” He tried to look sincere. To truly get her off his back, he probably should kiss her or something, but it didn’t seem right. “You really are gorgeous. I’m probably a huge moron right now, but I know myself when I get like this. Another time, okay?”
“Your loss.”
“Believe me, I know.”
She took her hand from his neck. “What do you play?”
He could have said keyboards, but he didn’t feel like telling her anything about himself. Since he wasn’t carrying a guitar or a bass, he said, “Drums.”
Gun Games Page 13