Gun Games - Faye Kellerman [42]
She spoke softly. “It happened in her bedroom.”
“How many bedrooms?”
“Two. One for the daughter, one for the son. He goes to UCLA but he lives at home. The mother sleeps in the living room on a pull-out bed.” Marge’s eyes were just shy of wet. “I’ll show you where it happened if you want.”
“Who’s guarding the death scene?”
“Hosea Nederlander. He’s waiting for the CIs.”
“Let’s hold off on viewing the body for a moment. I want to get a feel for the family first.”
Quietly, they returned to the living room. The paramedics, speaking in low tones, were conversing among themselves. The mother was in her late forties, eyes red-rimmed but dry. She sat stiffly as one of the men continued to check on vitals.
A paramedic named Lanie spoke to the young man. “Her pressure is still sky high. She really needs to come down with us.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” the woman insisted. Her eyes suddenly fixed on Marge and Decker. “Are you the police?”
“Yes, we are.” Decker introduced himself.
Lanie said, “She should go to the hospital.”
“I don’t want to go!”
“Mom—”
“No. I can’t leave her alone! I can’t do that!”
“I’ll stay here and take care of things,” the son said. “But I can’t do anything if I have to worry about you.”
“I’m not going!” The woman’s complexion was one shade short of ghost.
Marge said, “Would you like some water, ma’am?”
The son said, “That’s a good idea.”
Marge went into the kitchen. Decker said, “Do you have a doctor that I could call?”
The son said, “Mom, do you still use Dr. Radcliff?”
The woman didn’t answer.
“Brian Radcliff,” the son said. “I don’t know his number.”
“I’ll get it,” Decker said. “I could have him meet your mother at the hospital.”
“I’m not going!”
The son’s eyes were desperate. “Please call him.”
Decker said, “Maybe he can come here.”
Marge returned with a glass of water. She slowly brought it to the mother’s lips. Decker made the phone call, then walked back to the living room. “He’ll be here in about ten minutes.”
“Thank you,” the son said.
Decker said to Marge, “Stay with her, okay?”
“Absolutely.”
To the boy, Decker said, “Can I talk to you for a few minutes?”
The young man followed Decker into the kitchen. “First of all, I am so sorry for your sister’s death.”
“Thank you.” He swiped at his eyes, brimming with tears.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I didn’t catch your name.”
“Eric Gelb.”
“The victim is your younger sister?”
Eric nodded.
“And your mother’s name?”
“Udonis.”
“Gelb?”
The boy nodded.
“Divorced, widowed?”
“Divorced.”
“And your father?”
“Dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged.
“Were you here when it happened . . . with your sister?”
“No.”
“Was your mother here?”
“At work.”
“So you came home or she came home . . .”
“I found her . . . Myra.” He clamped his hand over his mouth. “She was already . . .”
Decker nodded. “And then what did you do?”
“I called my mom but didn’t tell her what happened. Then I called the police.” Tears streamed down his cheeks. “The police got here before my mom. They stopped her from going into the room. When they—the police—told her that my sister had passed on, Mom fainted. So I called the paramedics.”
“So this all happened about a half hour ago?”
“Maybe an hour. I have no sense of time.”
Decker nodded. “Are you up to answering a few more questions?”
Eric nodded.
“First of all, how old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Okay. And you’re at UCLA?”
He nodded. “Second-year law.”
“Okay. Is it just you and your sister?”
“Yes.”
“So you two were pretty close or . . .”
“There’s an age gap. I’m not home a lot. But when we saw each other, we got along.”
“Are you from the same mother and father?”
“Yeah. My parents separated, then reconciled and had my sister. But eventually they got divorced when I was eighteen.”
“So Myra was ten?”
“Yeah. Right after that, my dad came down with cancer. He died two years ago. My dad and I weren’t very close—no animosity, but nothing in common. Myra and Dad were very close. The divorce hit