Gun Games - Faye Kellerman [58]
The door was opened by a tall, tweener girl with olive skin, long dark hair, and a stick body. She was garbed in skinny jeans and a spangled sweatshirt and was on a cell phone. A woman in her thirties, presumably Lisbeth Holly, stepped into the foreground and welcomed them inside. She stood around five foot ten, with pale skin and long straggly blond hair, and she also had a stick body including her chest. Her face was filled with wrinkles, and her earlobes held about four pierces a pop. She had a rose tattooed on her right wrist and a butterfly on the back of her neck. She also wore skinny jeans and a sleeveless red sweater.
Lisbeth introduced herself and offered each of the detectives a bony hand. She took their cards, and the group walked into a small living room with pink floral furniture and a once-white carpet that had aged to mottled gray. Her daughter, Sydney, remained on the cell and barely gave them a glance. She finally disappeared down a hallway.
Bemused, the woman shook her head. “One of these days they’ll figure out a way to implant the dang things right into their brains. At least that way she couldn’t lose it. I don’t know what it is with kids today. They lose everything. I always took care of everything I owned. ’Course I didn’t own a lot. You’ll never find me fretting about what to wear in the morning. Not like that one.”
She cocked a thumb in the direction of the hallway
“Anyway, have a seat.”
She lit a cigarette. “I hear you found my gun. You mind if I smoke, by the way?”
Marge said, “It’s your house.”
“Yeah, but people are funny. Sit down, please.”
The two detectives chose the floral sofa. Lisbeth took the matching chair, curling her legs under her.
Oliver said, “It was your gun that was stolen?”
“Yep.” A plume of smoke filtered through her nostrils. “I have a few guns, and they’re all mine.”
“How many do you have?” Marge asked.
“I have a rifle and a revolver for target practice and a 16 mm semiautomatic for protection. In case you haven’t guessed, I’m the shooter in the family. I grew up shooting at targets. Ramon, in his community, they grow up shooting people. He’s long past that now. He still knows how to use guns, but he doesn’t like ’em anymore. Not since his brother was killed.”
“When was that?” Marge asked.
“About ten years ago. Ramon idolized his brother. The guy, frankly, was scum, but I don’t say anything. We all have that one fantasy that we cling to. Mine is I coulda been a supermodel if she hadn’t come along.” Again a thumb indicated that she meant her daughter. “It’s nonsense, but I use it on my husband when I’m pissed at him.”
“And the gun was stolen around a year ago?”
“Yep. My bad. I keep the suckers locked up in a vault like a good citizen. I had just bought the Taurus and the only reason I bought a mouse gun is because the dealer was practically giving it away. It was still on top of my dresser when it was stolen. Damn kids.”
Oliver looked at her. “How do you know the thieves were kids?”
“Because of what else was taken. Sydney’s phone, her iPod, and a couple of her rings, including the one her grandma gave her for her confirmation. Big blue aquamarine. Sydney’s favorite color is blue. It was inscribed so if you ever find it, you’ll know who it belongs to. And of course Grandma replaced it right away. You’d think Sydney would take care of it after that. But nooooo.”
“It still could have been adults,” Marge said. “Phones and iPods are commonly stolen items.”
“You’re right. But they also took Sydney’s CDs. Believe me, no one but kids would want those CDs. And although my gun was stolen, my jewelry wasn’t touched. The pieces were hidden in the bottom drawer of my dresser, but you didn’t have to look too hard to find them. Whoever did it went through my daughter’s drawers but not through mine.