Blood Games. Faye Kellerman

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.

      “You must know that one of our students met a terrible fate a couple of days ago.”

      “Gregory Hesse,” Oliver said. “That’s actually why we’re here.”

      “I figured as much. Terrible, terrible thing. We’ve already held a school assembly about it. We’ve been encouraging our students to talk about it. I’ve also scheduled several psychologists and doctors to come and talk about suicide prevention. Our student presidents, Stance O’Brien and Cameron Cole, have set up a student hotline. Around a dozen of our seniors have volunteered to meet with the freshmen for an informal rap session during lunch. I’m so proud of how our students have mobilized.”

      Marge stared at him. The poor kid had just blown his head off, and the dude was a booster for school spirit. Did he ever turn it off?

      Punsche placed his hands atop his desk. “So … how can I help you?”

      Oliver straightened his tie. “We’re still tying up a few loose ends with the case.”

      “What kind of loose ends?”

      “Things that don’t add up just yet.”

      Marge said, “They may add up later, but right now we’re investigating a few things at Wendy Hesse’s behest.”

      Oliver shrugged. “For starters, we need a few phone numbers.”

      “You mean phone numbers of our students?” When Marge nodded, Punsche said, “You know I can’t just give out numbers without asking the parents.”

      “We’re interested in Joey Reinhart, Gregory Hesse’s best friend,” Marge said. “We can get the number from Wendy Hesse—she’s the one who told us about Joey—but the lieutenant didn’t want to bother her. You can understand that.”

      Punsche stroked his hairless chin. “Why did Wendy Hesse contact you?”

      “Like my partner said, some things are not quite adding up. We take all crime seriously, and suicide is a crime.”

      “It’s