Hangman. Faye Kellerman

she’ll make you come to orchestra while you’re here.”

      “So I’ll come. As long as I don’t have to solo.”

      “Got it. But you might want to reconsider about orchestra. We are truly bad! Worse than the choir.”

      “It’s fine, Hannah. I’ve gone through a lot hairier things than a few bad notes.”

      “If it were just a few, I wouldn’t say anything.” She wagged a finger at his face. “And stop looking so cute. You’re distracting the entire soprano section. And in case you haven’t noticed, they have enough trouble staying on key.”

      AFTER THE BLANCS had left his office, Decker felt as if he had taken off a winter jacket in an overheated room: twenty pounds lighter and he could finally take a deep breath. Kathy Blanc had told him that her daughter’s apartment appeared in order, but she admitted that she hadn’t looked too closely.

      Decker started working on scheduling his time. He’d manage a quick stop at home for dinner and then he’d go over to Adrianna’s place…or maybe he should go down to St. Tim’s and see what Marge and Oliver were doing. His mind was elsewhere when his cell rang and he neglected to pay attention to the caller ID number. Didn’t matter because the number was blocked, but the voice told him who it was in the single word.

      “What?”

      Sounding more annoyed than anxious, but that was typical Do-natti. Decker’s heart started jogging. “Your cell out of order, Chris? I’ve been calling you for the last twenty-four hours.”

      “You know how it is, Decker. Sometimes you just don’t want to be disturbed.”

      “Where have you been?”

      “Where have I been?” A laugh over the phone. “What difference does it make?”

      “Just wondering what could have kept you so preoccupied that you wouldn’t bother checking your phone calls.”

      Another laugh. “You sound pissed.”

      “Where have you been?”

      “Now you sound like you’re interrogating me. I don’t like your tone. Matter of fact, I don’t like you. You’ve got two seconds to tell me what you want before I hang up.”

      “You don’t want to call me back, fine. But I would think you’d answer your son’s calls. He was so upset that he called me.” There was the expected pause. It could have been real or staged. “We’ve got ourselves a big problem, Chris. Terry’s missing.”

      This time the pause was much longer. “Go on.”

      The anger was gone, but his voice remained flat. Decker said, “That’s it. Terry’s missing.”

      “What do you mean, missing?”

      “We can’t find her—”

      “I fucking know what the word ‘missing’ means. What do you mean that she’s missing?”

      Donatti had gone from zero to sixty in five seconds. He was clearly agitated, but that could be staged as well. The veracity of his emotions was impossible to read over the phone. “You need to come into the station house, Chris. We need to talk.”

      “Not until you tell me what the fuck is going on?”

      “Your son called me yesterday around nine in the evening. He was distraught. When he got back to the hotel at seven, Terry was gone. She wasn’t answering her cell phone, so he called you. When he couldn’t get hold of either of his parents, he called me. So I took him in for the night because he didn’t want to sleep at his aunt’s house. So now I’m responsible for your kid until you get here. Where are you?”

      “I’m in Nevada. My receptionist told me you called.”

      “You need to come to L.A. We need to talk.”

      “What the hell happened?”

      “I don’t know and that’s why we need to talk—”

      “So fucking talk!”

      “Not over the phone,” Decker said calmly. “In person. You’ve got to come here anyway. Your son is here, remember?”

      “Okay, okay, lemme think a moment.” He was muttering to himself. “When did she…I mean how long has she been missing?”

      “Long enough that there may be a problem—”

      “Is her car gone?”

      “Chris, I can’t tell you over the phone. How soon can you return to L.A.?”

      “Shit! What time is it?”

      “Around six.”

      “Fuck!” The sound of something crashing over the line. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! When did this happen? Yesterday?”

      “Yes. Chris, I’ll fill you in once you’re in L.A. How soon can you get here?”

      “I’m two hours out of Vegas. I drove in, so I don’t have my plane. By the time I get to McCarren and into LAX, I wouldn’t make it before eleven or so. Driving would take five to six hours…fuck! Let me see if I can lease something at the local airport. I’ll call you back.” Donatti disconnected the line.

      Decker put down his cell and drummed his fingers on his desk, waiting for further information. But his mind was on a particular thought.

       I drove in, so I don’t have my plane.

       I drove.

      Lots of empty land and deserted highway between California and Nevada. The vast, unpopulated tracks that cut through the Mojave, with their infinite miles of nothingness, had always made for fertile dumping grounds.

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

      EVEN THOUGH IT was beyond happy hour, the bar was packed. ICE was one of those trendy restaurants with its walls and ceilings composed of lit-from-behind panels of pastel colors that changed hues over the course of an evening meal. The tint of the moment was aqua, giving the place the appearance of an igloo. The temperature inside sure could have used a little of the North Pole’s arctic blast. The day had been unseasonably hot and yucky. Even though Marge had dressed for the heat in beige linen pants and a white cotton blouse, she felt sticky, like her clothes had been taped to her body. Over the phone, Sela Graydon had said that she’d be wearing a gray suit, red blouse, and black pumps, so the woman was easy to spot.

      The lawyer was draped by a mane of brown, wavy hair that fell to her shoulder blades. Her pose was head down, eyes staring at the bar top, with her chin in her hands. She was being chatted up by a thirtysomething man with a gilding of blond stubble. Every so often, Sela would lift her head, make a swipe at her eyes with her fingertips, and then lower her head and continue to stare at nothing. Marge wriggled through the crowd and snagged the seat next to hers. “Sela Graydon?”

      The woman glanced up at Marge’s face. “You’re the police?”

      “Sergeant Marge Dunn. We spoke over the phone. Thank you for meeting me on such short notice.”

      Sela bit her lip but didn’t say anything. The blond man extended a hand to Marge. “Rick Briscoe. I work with Sela at Youngblood, Martin and Fitch.” Marge took his hand in the briefest of shakes. “I didn’t think she should be alone.”

      “Nice of you.” To Sela, Marge said, “How about if we take a corner table. Little more private.”

      Sela looked around. “They’re occupied.”

      “My partner, Detective Oliver, is saving one for us.”

      “Go ahead, Sela,” Rick told her. “I’ll