Gun Games - Faye Kellerman [59]
“Maybe the thief ran out of time,” Oliver suggested.
“Then why go to my daughter’s room first? Okay, I get someone taking the phone and the iPod, but then why bother filching her five-and-dime jewelry? The good stuff—if there is any good stuff—is gonna be in the parents’ bedroom. Her room was hit first. The parents’ room was an afterthought.”
Marge smiled. “You should be a detective.”
“It’s in the blood. I come from a cop family. Indianapolis. My mom worked Grand Theft Auto, my dad worked Burglary. My grandfather was in uniform his entire life. My grandma raised me and my four brothers because my folks were never home. And guess what my brothers are? Cops. When I married Ramon—a former gangbanger—I thought my dad was going to have a heart attack. Turns out, I was right and they were wrong. Nyah, nyah, nyah. They like him now . . . my parents. They should like him. He stuck with me through three years of rehab.” She held up a cigarette. “This is the last piece of my addictive self.” Her eyes got misty. “That man saved my life.”
She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another.
“Anyway, you don’t want to hear my sob story. What else can I help you with?”
Marge said, “Do you have any idea who might have broken into your house?”
“Someone from the neighborhood. Our house wasn’t the only one that was hit.”
“There were other thefts?” Marge asked.
“Yeah, ours was the third or fourth house. We finally said, enough!”
“What’d you do?”
“The neighborhood got together to talk about it. We all came to the same conclusion that it was kids. Around here, we’re all kinda middle-of-the-road people, not poor, thank the Lord, but we aren’t Wall Street wonks if you know what I’m saying. Most of us need two incomes to get by. Which means two working parents. And since most of us have school-age kids, that means a lot of empty houses during the day. That’s when we were all hit.”
She took another puff.
“We had a couple of meetings with the local police about the situation. They stepped up their patrol. Plus, we pooled some spare change and hired a couple of the out-of-work husbands to patrol the streets. Gave the boys some dignity as well as something to do. No problems since.”
“Do you have any specific candidate for the thief?” Oliver asked.
“Nah, wish I did. Where’d you find the gun?”
“This is the hard part,” Marge said.
“Oh shit! It was used in a crime?”
“It was used in a suicide,” Oliver said.
“Oh God, that’s gross! Who?” Lisbeth’s pale complexion grayed. “Oh no! Not that teenage girl in the paper?” When no one spoke, she covered her hand over her mouth. “Oh fuck! Excuse me. That is . . . just . . . awful!”
“Did you know her?” Oliver said.
“No. What was the name again?”
“Myra Gelb,” Marge said.
“No, I didn’t know her. How old was she?”
“Sixteen.”
“Christ!” She lit up another cigarette before finishing the first one. When she noticed, she stubbed one of them out. Tears were in her eyes. “I’m sorry.” Wet droplets rolled down her cheeks. “I’m really just an old softie.”
Marge handed her a tissue.
“You can keep the gun.” Lisbeth wiped her eyes. “It’s bad juju. I don’t want it.”
Marge said, “Thanks. We’ll need you to sign a release—”
“Whatever.” She waved her hand in the air. She was still disturbed.
Oliver said, “We’ll want to run it through ballistics and see if it was used in any other crime as well.”
“Oh my Lord, I sure hope not.” A pause. “Did the girl’s suicide have anything to do with the one that happened about six weeks ago?”
“Why do you ask?” Oliver said.
“I don’t know. Two teen suicides so close together? I’m just wondering. I mean there’s no such thing as a suicide epidemic, but you know kids. One gets a stupid idea and that influences another one. They’re such sheep.”
“Did you know the first victim? His name was Gregory Hesse.”
“No . . . I don’t know either one. How did the girl get my gun?”
“We’re looking into that,” Marge said.
“Was she . . . I don’t want to say a bad girl