“Even with my small chest?”
Gabe smiled. “Okay. So now I know you’re feeling better. You’re teasing me.” He took her hand. “You’re going to be late if we don’t move.”
She started walking but didn’t say anything.
“We have this incredible chemistry, but that’s not the only reason I like you.” He kissed her hand. “I like you because you’ve got this wonderful curiosity about everything. You approach everything with this wide-eyed innocence. God, so many girls out there are plowing headfirst into adulthood and you take such delight in being this wondrous girl. Absolutely nothing about you is forced.”
He slipped his arm around her waist.
“And of course, you speak music.”
“I do speak music,” Yasmine said.
“That’s a biggie for me. It’s hard to find someone my age who speaks music.” He stopped walking, pulling her body close to his. “I love you. You know that, right?”
Her eyes watered. “I love you, too.”
“I need to be alone with you again.” He growled out, “When?”
She lay her head on his chest. “We’re invited out for Shabbat this Saturday.”
“What about Sunday?”
“We have a cousin’s wedding.”
“Exactly how many relatives do you have?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “You must have a party every week.”
“About.” She looped her hands around his neck, entwining her fingers through his hair and kissed him hard. “I’ll think of something.”
He groaned with lust. “Man, you’d better or I’m going to do something drastic.”
She smiled. “The school’s a block away. I can take it from here.”
“Fine. And no more silly talk about why do I like you, okay? It makes me feel bad.”
“Okay.” She smiled broadly. “I love you soooooo much.”
“I love you, too.”
She kissed him, broke away, and started running.
Gabe watched her go. It was nice to see a spring in her step. It was also fun to watch her ass.
The secretary announced that someone was on line three. Decker punched in the blinking light and announced himself.
“Romulus Poe here.”
“What’s going on, Sergeant Poe?”
“Just wanted to tell you that we’ve had a few weeks of spring weather . . . beautiful out here—deep blue skies and purple mountains majesty. The waterfalls are particularly spectacular with all the runoff.”
“Thanks for the travelogue.”
Poe laughed. “If Garth Hammerling was able to make it through the winter in the national forest—and I have my doubts about that—we should be able to start looking for him provided we can slosh through the mud. We got waders but Lord knows, it’s slippery out there.”
“Any help you could give me would be appreciated.”
“Like I said, I have my doubts. Unless your guy was the survivalist type, I’d say he’s pretty much in a deep freeze by now.”
“Garth’s a nurse so he has some emergency medical skills.”
“Maybe it’d help him with the cold, but not with a mountain lion. On top of that, our bears just aren’t hibernating like they used to. Hungry critters could easily look at your prey as a mighty fine warm-blooded entrée. But there’s always that slim chance that we’ll find him.”
Decker said, “I’ll just keep the faith.”
“You can do that for both of us, Loo. I could use a little God in my life.”
The suicide scene had been ghastly. Since then Gregory Hesse’s bed had been removed and the walls, once covered with posters and personal effects, were bare after being scrubbed down, disinfected to remove any remaining biological matter spread by the shotgun blast, and then painted apartment white. The original carpet had been replaced by something brown and flat. The space felt vacant and haunted.
“I don’t go in here much.” Wendy Hesse’s eyes grew wet. She was wringing her hands, her complexion very pale. She wore a green blouse and black double-knit pants. “Not much left.” A statement applicable to her life.
Oliver looked around. Original to the room were a couple of nightstands, a desk and a dresser with nothing on top, and a bookshelf. The room had a sliding door closet. He remembered that he had wanted to go through the closet, but there had been so many people from the coroner’s office, it had been impractical.
Wendy said, “I wish I hadn’t gone through his drawers.” A pause. “I think I’ll wait in the living room. Would either of you like some water?”
“I’m fine for now, but thank you,” Marge said.
Oliver smiled. “I’m all right.”
The two detectives put on rubber gloves and went to work. First, they combed the bookshelf, which contained more CDs and DVDs than paper pages. There was a dock for an MP3 player with an iPod in the charge. They pulled out every single book and flipped through the pages hoping something significant would flutter out. They opened every single jewel box. They checked his iPod. Nothing looked even vaguely sinister.
They moved on to his drawers, slowly emptying out the contents and putting them back once they had gone through the items. Everything was organized and neatly folded: first drawer, socks and underwear; second, pajamas and gym clothes; third, shirts and T-shirts; and fourth, shorts and more gym clothes. The desk drawers held nothing. Neither did any of the nightstands.
The closet contained polo shirts and several white dress shirts, pants, jeans, jackets, coats. Shoes on the floor were carefully aligned. The open shelving held sweaters and sweatshirts. They sorted through the clothes in the closet. They didn’t find the camcorder. They didn’t find anything.
The top shelf appeared empty. Marge took the chair from the desk. “Make sure I don’t break my neck.”
“I can do that.” Oliver held the legs as Marge climbed atop the seat and peered across the space. “Find anything?”
“No.” She stepped off the chair and regarded the shoes. They were all around the same size except for a pair of smaller patent leather loafers—something left over from a bar mitzvah or a confirmation. She bent down, felt inside the formal footwear, and fished out a plastic bag. About an ounce of pot, which she put back in the shoe.
She stood up. “He wasn’t as innocent as Mom thought, but it certainly doesn’t explain why he did what he did. I don’t see the point in bringing this to Mom’s attention.”
“I agree with you there,” Oliver said. “No camcorder.”
“No camcorder, no camera.” Marge thought a moment. “If Mom found naked printed pictures, I betcha he hid his camera.”
“You know we think of camcorders as big hulking things. They’re really mini these days. Easy to hide.”
Marge said, “I hope he didn’t hide them under his mattress.”
Oliver said, “If he did, the people who cleaned up would have found them and given them to the mother, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, probably.” Marge shrugged. “Want to do another round?”
“Why not?”
The next half hour of searching proved fruitless. Oliver said, “Unless there’s a secret compartment in the walls or floor, the camera and the camcorder aren’t here.”
Marge said, “Kevin Stanger told Decker that Greg was supposedly working on something that would turn Bell and Wakefield on its head. First thing that comes to mind is a sex scandal, considering he had pictures of blow jobs on his computer.”
“Yes, but Kevin also said that the next time Greg spoke to him, he was less enthusiastic about his secret project.”
“Maybe it was a student-teacher sex scandal. But then someone paid off Hesse with a blow job.”
“Even if that was the case, did it have anything to do with Gregory Hesse putting a gun to his head? And is any of this police business?”
“It is if we stumble across something illegal going on—like an adult having sex with a minor.”
“That’s true,” Oliver said. “What next?”
/>
“Someone stole Greg’s computer,” Marge said. “That’s really the only tangible crime we have. But I will tell you this. When the Loo and I were at Myra’s death scene, we couldn’t find her computer. Could be we missed it . . . or maybe not.”
Oliver drummed his fingers. “There were a couple of months between Hesse’s death and the theft. But the theft happened only two weeks after Myra Gelb’s death.”
“Yeah, they could be related,” Marge said. “Whatever the case, it’s time to pay Udonis Gelb a visit.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Two A.M. Thursday morning, Gabe was up, cruising Facebook, staring at Yasmine’s profile of course, but also looking at other sites just to prove to himself that he really did once have friends. It was interesting for Gabe to see who was doing who, who had done X or meth or crack or who had even tried skag—pretty ballsy. They posted in code so they couldn’t be called on it, but since Gabe read “innuendo,” he knew what the dudes were talking about. There were new pictures, the guys looking older and bigger. And while Gabe had grown taller, he was still thin and wiry. His arms and fingers were disproportionately long for his torso due to years of piano playing. He looked like an anorexic ape.
His buds were now displaying a good deal of body art and pierces. Gabe didn’t go for pierces, but he wouldn’t have minded a couple of tats. What really irked him was that a few of the older guys already had their licenses. He, being so young, was forced to take buses in a town built for convertibles.
With their driver’s licenses for the lucky few over seventeen came the cars. And with the cars came the girls—ergo the screwing. He knew he’d never contact any of them again even if he did go back east to Juilliard. Those days were long gone.
He used to sulk about all the sex he was missing. But now that Yasmine was part of his life, he didn’t think about the parties too often. They weren’t doing all that much, but since he really had the hots for her, everything they did do registered nuclear. As pathetic as it was, he’d rather do small shit with her than big shit with anyone else. He knew he was obsessed with her. And he knew he’d never get her. It was doomed from the start and he was in for a crash. He could take the heartache, but thinking of how it would affect her drove him crazy. He couldn’t bear the thought of her being sad.
An IM registered on his computer.
Hi.
Gabe groaned inwardly. He loved his mother, but he truly wished she’d stop bugging him. Her contact left him off balance. How’s my sister?
A little cranky. She’s getting a tooth.
Gabe cracked a small smile, thinking about the baby. He hated that his mother deserted him, but he did like the idea of having a sibling.
Give her a hug and kiss for me.
I will.
Can you send a picture of her?
Of course. A pause. Can you send me a picture of yourself?
He wanted to type like you give a shit, but deep down he knew that his mother loved him and missed him and probably felt bad about what she had done.
I don’t have anything recent. If you give me your cell number, I could take one of myself and send it to you.
Does Chris pay your phone bills?
Yeah, he does so it’s probably not a good idea.
Do you have Skype account?
Yeah. Do you want to Skype?
Does Chris have access to your computer?
Not really; if it makes you nervous, we’ll pass on Skype.
A long pause.
What’s your account name, Gabe?
He gave it to her. Five minutes later, his computer rang. He pressed Answer with Video and for the first time in almost a year, he saw his mother’s face. It made him suddenly furious, but he tried to keep his hot anger in check.
“Hey there, beautiful,” he told her.
“Hi.” Her voice was quivering. Tears were in her eyes.
“I have to keep it down,” Gabe said. “It’s two in the morning. Tell me about my sister.”
“Do you want to see her?” Terry asked him.
“Of course.” She got up and he could hear her talking offscreen to someone. A moment later, she sat back down. He continued. “You look well.” She really did. Young and beautiful with a cascade of auburn hair and gold eyes. Of course, she was always young and beautiful with a cascade of auburn hair and gold eyes. He was just seeing her from a fresh perspective. His mother was simply a knockout. All his buddies used to salivate whenever she was around, but they wouldn’t dare say anything inappropriate. She was Chris’s wife. “Are you all right?”
Terry nodded, taking a swipe at her eyes.
“Is he good to you?” Gabe asked. “Does he treat you right?”
Again, Terry nodded.
“I’m glad, Mom. You deserve it.” Now her tears were flowing freely. So who was the parent and who was the child? “Please don’t cry. I’m doing okay. I’ve got a first-rate piano teacher and an agent. I’m going to play some summer chamber music festivals. It’s really exciting.”
“That’s wonderful.” Her voice was still unsteady.
“Yeah, it’s pretty cool.” A moment later, a baby filled the screen. She had a round face with a thick mop of black hair. She was drooling. Decker had been right. No way she could have passed this one off as Chris’s. Gabe felt his lips turn upward into a big smile. “Hi there, Juleen. I’m your big brother, Gabe.”
Juleen stared at the screen, then let go with a startling wail.
He did have a way with the ladies. “Did I scare you? I’m sorry.”
“She’s cranky because she’s teething.” Terry shifted her until she was over her shoulder. She patted her back. “Most of the time, she’s really easygoing.”
“She’s darling,” Gabe said. “Enjoy her, Mom. Before you know it, she’ll be giving you grief just like your other child.”
“You never gave me grief.” Her face crumbled. “I miss you so much, Gabriel.”
“Miss you, too.” Not.
“You look so . . . old.” The tears were back. “I’m so sorry, darling. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he told her. “You did me a huge favor.” Said with too much enthusiasm.
Terry said, “There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think about you.”
He rarely thought of her anymore. “It’s fine, Mom. I’m happy.” He grinned. “See?” He faked a yawn. “I have to get up early tomorrow . . . or rather today.” It was true. He was meeting Yasmine in the morning. “I need to sleep.”
Terry nodded, trying to smile away the defeat on her face. She was still patting Juleen’s back. “It’s wonderful to see you, Gabriel. I love you very, very much.”
“Same, Mom. Have a good night . . . or good day.” He waved and then quickly disconnected the line. He closed down his computer and slipped under the covers. In silence, his thoughts drifted from his mother to Yasmine. Whenever he wasn’t doing music, he compulsively thought about her. Usually that was enough to quell his angst. But tonight his mother’s sadness kept interfering with his peace of mind.
Two-fifteen . . . two-thirty . . . two-forty-five.
He gave up, stood up, and slipped on a T-shirt and jeans and loafers, heading out to his studio. He was a mess: anxious, lonely, depressed, furious at his abandonment, drowning in love, as well as obsessive/compulsive in thought and deed, and perpetually horny. On the plus side, he was good-looking and exceptionally talented. People were accepting of anything from a superstar.
The apartment appeared more spacious without the unwanted crowd of police and other officials. The living room had been neatened to the point of sterility, meshing with the antiseptic smell wafting through the hallway. Udonis Gelb wore a loose-fitting housedress and had slippers on her feet. She had taken some time to shower and make up her face—a little blush, a little lipstick. She had curly, salt-and-pepper hair and brown red-rimmed eyes with deep discolored skin that sagged under her lower lashes. She was holding a piece of paper—a to-do list from her son,
she told them.
“It’s my bible. It gives me organization so I don’t have to think.”
Marge and Oliver were sitting on the couch, drinking lukewarm coffee. It was a dark and chilly Thursday morning, menacing skies holding the threat of rain all week.
“What’s on the list?” Oliver asked her. When she handed him the paper, Scott’s eyes skimmed down the items. Most of the numbered chores were errands—grocery shopping, bank, laundry, and so on—but one entry leaped out.
Find Myra’s laptop.
He handed the paper back to her. “That’ll keep you busy for a while.”
“Maybe.” Silence. “The hardest part of my day is waking up.” She regarded her muumuu and slippers. “I should have put on something more respectable.”
“You look fine,” Marge told her.
“All things considered, I guess that’s true.” Udonis picked at her nails. “When I go back to work next week, I’ll have to dress like a normal person again.”
Oliver said, “I noticed item number fifteen—find Myra’s laptop. Have you found it?”
“I haven’t looked for it. I haven’t been in the room.”
Marge asked, “Has anyone been in the room?”
“Eric was here when the cleaning service came. I wasn’t home. I don’t know if Eric was actually in the room, but he took care of it for me.”
“My lieutenant and I were in Myra’s room on the day of the incident,” Marge said. “Would you mind if Detective Oliver and I had another look at her room?”
She nodded. “Go ahead.” Oliver thanked her, and then she said, “You took a couple boxes of her artwork with you.”
“Yes, we did,” Marge said. “We’re still looking at the pictures, but we can give them back if you want them now.”
“No, just when you’re done.” She kneaded her hands. “Why do you need them?”
Marge said, “They help us get to know Myra a little, give us a little peek into who she liked at school and who she didn’t like.”
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