Gun Games - Faye Kellerman [91]
The detectives nodded.
“All that being said . . . if I knew someone was dealing in weapons as a certainty, I would have told the administration a long time ago. It would be morally outrageous for me not to say something.” His eyes grew wet. “If I could have prevented past deaths, I would have stepped up to the plate. I’m sorry I can’t do more.”
Marge spoke softly. “Your sincerity is evident. I hope you’re not speaking from personal experience.”
Hinton was quiet. “You talked to Heddy Kramer, didn’t you?”
“We did.”
“So she told you.”
“She did.”
No one spoke. Then Hinton said, “I did talk to Myra. She said she was saddened, but personally she was okay. We spoke for about twenty minutes. She seemed angry more than anything else.”
“Did she say who she was angry at?” Oliver asked.
“No names. Really it seemed she was angry at life. So after she left, I called her mother . . . left a message for her to call me back, that I had some concerns about Myra.” He licked his lips. “No one called me back. And then I promptly forgot about it. Now I’m thinking that Myra might have intercepted the message and erased it. I should have made a follow-up call.” A pause. “I blew it.”
Time to offer him a life preserver. Marge said, “You know that if someone is determined to kill himself—”
“Yes, I know,” Hinton interrupted. “It doesn’t alleviate the pain or the guilt. It’s eating me alive. I’m going to have to find my own expiation. Otherwise . . .” He threw his hands in the air. He finished his juice. Color had returned to his cheeks. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll keep my ears open. If I discover something concrete, you’ll be the first to know about it. I promise you I’ll call . . . even though it violates every moral code I’ve ever established for myself.”
“To tell the police about a kid who’s dealing in stolen firearms?” Oliver said.
“I’m fifty-nine, Detective.”
Marge was astonished. “You look much younger.”
“Nonetheless, I am of that age,” Hinton told her. “I grew up in the sixties. Old hippie habits die very hard.”
The babies wore wristbands, the only way that Decker could tell them apart physically. Aaron, the oldest by four minutes, was calmer by nature than Akiva, but neither boy was very fussy. They were huge: off the charts in height and weight. They ate round the clock: Cindy called them organic milking machines. In addition to nursing them, she had brought a half-dozen eight-ounce bottles of expressed breast milk. By the end of dinner, the boys had depleted everything.
“Thank you for feeding me and by extension, your grandsons,” Cindy said. “And as always, we were fed extremely well.”
“The curried lamb was delicious,” Koby said. “I think I ate an entire sheep by myself. Everything tasted so good, so I overate.”
“You and me both, son,” Decker said. “You’d think I’d learn by now.”
“Would you like a care package, kids?” Rina asked.
“I should say no, but I won’t say no,” Koby said.
Cindy laughed. “Homemade food has been a scarcity in our fridge since the babies were born.”
Rina smiled. “I’ll pack you a few meals’ worth of grub. We certainly don’t need all the leftovers.”
Cindy looked at Gabe who had been clearing the table. She cocked a thumb in his direction. “You can pack Mr. Piano Player up some food while you’re at it.”
“You know, I do eat.” Gabe put down a dirty plate. “I’m at that lucky stage where none of it sticks.”
Cindy walked over to Gabe and threw her arm around his shoulders. “If I pat your tummy, will your lack of fat rub off on me?”
Gabe gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You look great. Your sons are very lucky to have such a wonderful mother.” Said a little too strong.
“Thank you, Prince Charming.” Gabe smiled, and Cindy took Aaron from Rina. She patted Koby’s flat stomach. “Some lucky people are just naturally blessed with a good constitution.”
Decker hefted Akiva and patted his paunch. “Others are born with a good constitution but have resorted