Gun Games - Faye Kellerman [85]
“And in that burglary, other things were taken besides the .22.”
“Yes. Some of the daughter’s jewelry, her phone and iPod, and some CDs.”
“Kid stuff.”
“Exactly.” Marge thought a moment. “One of the missing rings was inscribed with the kid’s name—Sydney. If we find the ring, we’ll know who it belongs to.”
“And none of the mother’s jewelry was missing, right?”
“Correct . . . that’s why Lisbeth Holly thought it was done by kids. So it’s theoretically possible that Myra Gelb could have stolen the gun. But we didn’t find anything else belonging to Sydney Holly in her room.”
Decker washed his tired face with dry hands. “Is Gregory Hesse’s camcorder still missing?”
“Yes. And both Myra’s and Greg’s laptops.”
“Margie, we both know that there’s a missing link out there. We just don’t know what it is.” Decker drummed his fingers. “Okay. We’ve got two things to figure out. The thefts and where the kids got the guns. My vote is with Dylan Lashay for both things. We know that he and his gang like guns. And Dylan seemed to enjoy torturing Myra. I could see him selling her a gun.”
“You realize we have no evidence, Pete.”
“I don’t like him.”
“You never even met the boy.”
“I don’t trust anyone who invents a Mafia and calls himself a don.”
“Yeah, that is wannabe. But I think you also don’t like him because he’s good-looking, rich, popular, and smart.”
“No, I don’t like him because he’s a bully.”
Marge looked him up and down. “You never were a bully in high school?”
“When you’re my height and weight at sixteen, you don’t have to be a bully. People naturally give you room.” That wasn’t entirely true though. Decker did push his weight around, stupid kid that he was. He said, “Even if Lashay wasn’t the one with the gun, it’s still guilt by association.”
“Last week, I put in a call to Saul Hinton asking to meet with him again.”
“The guy that Heddy Kramer confided in.”
“Yeah, he hasn’t returned my call. I thought about using his guilt to ask about black market guns and dealers on campus. Maybe he can point us in some direction.”
“What guilt are you talking about?”
“About not preventing Myra’s suicide.”
“How could he prevent it?”
“Well, he could have intervened with her directly, talked to her parents, gotten mental-health professionals involved . . . but maybe Heddy told him and he forgot about it,” Marge said. “Maybe he blames himself for Myra’s death. And now that we know that there was a phone call between Myra and Greg, I can also ask him about the relationship between the two of them.”
“Go for it.”
Marge said, “You know, Loo, I could talk to some of Greg’s other friends. Joey Reinhart gave me some names. We were going to interview them, then Wendy Hesse suddenly stopped returning my calls and since it was her son that was dead, we let it ride. But now she seems to be cooperative again.”
Decker said, “Why don’t you and Oliver go down the list of Gregory’s friends and see what you two can pull up.”
“Great. I’ll talk to Saul Hinton and Greg’s friends. Anything else?”
“A couple of Advil would be nice.”
“Aw, I’ve given the Loo a headache.”
Decker gave her a dismissive wave. “You can go now, wise guy.”
Marge reached into her purse and pulled out a couple of aspirin tablets. Then she took his coffee cup from his desk. “It looks like you need a refill.”
“I need a brain refill.”
“Can’t help you there, big man. But if you want a good cappuccino, I’m the bomb.”
The boys’ overwhelming commonality was their awkwardness. Three of them: Michael Martinetto, Harold “Beezel or Beeze” Frasier, and Joey Reinhart. No swaggering, no smirks, no arrogance, the three shambling teens appeared apprehensive and subdued when Marge escorted them into an interview room. Maybe they were finally coming to grips with the loss of one of their own.
Reinhart was as tall and gawky as Harold Beezel Frasier was short and stout. Beezel had a round face, dark eyes, and a bowl haircut with bangs that hid a bumpy forehead of acne. Mikey Martinetto was about five ten with broad shoulders. He had blond kinky hair and light brown eyes, and