Gun Games - Faye Kellerman [16]
One of the kid’s taillights was out.
Perfect.
Decker turned on the ignition and followed him several blocks until the kid turned onto the main street. A minute later, Decker pulled out the red light and stuck it onto the roof of his car. The kid dutifully pulled curbside. When Decker approached the Escort, the kid rolled down the window, regarding Decker with fear.
“May I take a look at your license?”
The boy’s hands were shaking as he handed over his wallet. “What did I do?”
Decker took the license and gave him back the wallet.
Joey Harmon Reinhart. Five eleven, one fifty (when pigs fly, Decker thought), brown eyes, brown hair. His date of birth put him at sixteen and three months. Decker gave the kid back his license and motioned him out of the car and onto the sidewalk.
The kid complied. He was so nervous, his knees almost buckled.
“Your left taillight is out.”
“I didn’t know. I’ll get it fixed right away.”
Decker studied him. “You know, Joey, if someone pulls you over in an unmarked car, don’t get out. Stay inside your car with the doors locked and ask for ID. I don’t care how belligerent the guy on the other side of the window gets. Any real officer won’t take offense. Getting out before you know what’s going on is dumb.”
The poor kid just nodded.
Decker took out his wallet and showed him his badge and registration. “Even this could be fake. So the next step is to use your cell and call my name into LAPD. Because I could be anyone, right?”
The kid nodded like a bobblehead.
“Who does it say I am?”
The kid read the registration. “Lieutenant Peter Decker.”
“So then you call up LAPD and get my badge number.”
“You want me to do that now?”
Decker smiled. “Don’t bother. I am a police lieutenant.” He regarded the license. “Where are you going?”
“Just hanging out with some of my friends.”
Decker gave him back the license. “I’ll let you go with a warning, but get that fixed.”
“Yes, sir. Right away. I mean, first thing tomorrow. I think all the garages are closed—”
“Just get it fixed.” Decker took in the kid’s fearful eyes. “You know, Joey, I recognize your name.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, you were a friend of Gregory Hesse’s, right?” The boy didn’t answer. “One of my detectives left a message on your cell about Gregory Hesse. You haven’t called him back. Neither has your mom or dad. Any reason for that?”
The kid started shaking in earnest. Even in the dark, Decker could see the ashen complexion. The last thing he wanted was for some teenager to whine to his parents about police brutality.
“Don’t worry about it,” Decker said. “I’ll call your parents again.”
“No, no, don’t do that!” the boy implored. “I was gonna call, but it was already like Friday night and I figured no one was in.”
“The police do work on the weekends.”
“Yeah, of course. I know. That’s stupid.” He hit his head. “Greg was my best bud. We can talk about it. Not now. It’s not a good time, I mean place. I mean, place or time.”
Decker said. “Give me a time that’s good for you and your parents.”
“I’d rather leave my parents out of it.”
“Any reason why?”
“You know how it is . . . they know stuff, but they don’t know everything.”
Decker regarded the teen’s face. “Joey, do you believe that Greg committed suicide?”
The boy licked his lips. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“Was Greg upset lately?”
“Not upset. Different.”
“Can you define different?”
“Distracted. Something was on his mind.”
“Any ideas?”
“Nothing that I can put my finger on.”
Decker said, “How about we talk on Sunday? That way it doesn’t interfere with your schoolwork. Do you want to come to the station house?”
“That would work. Can we make it at eleven? No . . . sorry.” He banged his head. “I’m so messed up. That’s Greg