Hangman (19 page)

“Yeah, pretty stupid, huh. He should have just given the guy the briefcase. It all happened so fast. It was really scary. But don’t yell at him. I’ve already done enough of that for both of us. He feels pretty stupid right now.”

“He should feel stupid,” Decker exclaimed.

Hannah didn’t say anything.

Rina looked at her husband. “What should we do?”

“What do you mean?” Hannah asked.

“She means his stupid judgment could have gotten you both killed.”

Hannah said. “He just like…overreacted. You know how it is when adrenaline kicks in. Tell you the truth, Abba, I could see you doing that.”

“I’m a trained police officer, Hannah.”

“I bet you’d do it even if you weren’t.”

Decker didn’t address her statement. “You’re his defense attorney, all of a sudden?”

Again, Hannah felt her best option was to say nothing.

Decker turned to his wife. “What should I do?”

“Why don’t we talk to him and ask what happened.”

“I’m really not interested in a therapy session. Do we let him stay or do we send him to his aunt’s and wash our hands of this whole entire mess?”

“You’re worried that he’s violent?” Rina said.

“It’s occurred to me. We don’t know a thing about him except he has bad genetics on his paternal side.”

“He’s not violent,” Hannah said.

“You just said he beat the crap out of this guy.”

“He beat the mugger, he didn’t beat me. For goodness’ sakes, he might have saved my life. He’s not rash. As a matter of fact, he’s tightly wound. And anyone would be considering the circumstances he’s gone through. I can’t tell you what to do, but you know that he’s basically homeless.”

“He has relatives, Hannah, but that’s not the point,” Rina said. “Do you punish a kid for acting altruistically—”

“Stupidly,” Decker said.

“Maybe, but maybe not. We don’t know what happened. And maybe in his circle, you fight or you get your derriere kicked by your friends and by your father.”

“Not when there’s a weapon involved,” Decker said.

“You know…” Hannah stopped herself.

“What?” Decker said.

“Nothing.”

“Tell me, Hannah. I need to know everything if I’m going to make a sensible decision.”

Hannah said, “We went looking for the gun afterward. Gabe didn’t want to leave it around in case the mugger returned.”

“Technically he was a robber.”

“Whatever, Abba. Gabe didn’t want to leave the gun around like in case a little kid was playing in the bushes and found it.”

“Well, that was smart,” Rina said.

“I’m not impressed,” Decker said.

“Anyway, we were looking on the ground for it and I found a pair of chopsticks. Then I jokingly said maybe he was held up with chopsticks. Then Gabe said that it wasn’t chopsticks, that it felt like a gun. Then I asked him if he knew what a gun felt like. And he said, ‘You’d better believe it.’”

No one talked for a moment.

“Like he’s had experience with weapons,” Hannah said. “So maybe that’s why he reacted. Maybe guns don’t scare him that much.”

“That’s the problem, Hannah. Guns should scare him.” Decker blew out air. “But knowing his father, there’s truth in what you said. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Where’s the gun?” Decker asked.

“Gabe has it.”

“Well, first things first.” Decker stood up. “Let me get the weapon out of his hands.”

I
N THE EARLY
evening, most restaurant bars tended to be quiet, but Garage’s happy hour was lively. Half-price drinks and free bar snacks must have brought in a white-collar trade because the place was brimming with suits of both sexes. If Marge had to guess, she’d peg most of the pack as lawyers because the downtown courthouses were just blocks away. The souls who weren’t involved with the legal system were probably bankers, stockbrokers, and accountants from old established L.A. firms. The majority were on the young side—late twenties through late thirties.

Finding a table proved to be a challenge, but with her eagle eye, Marge spotted one in the corner. She and Oliver sat down and perused the drink and food menu. Eventually they ordered a hummus plate and a couple of club sodas from a cocktail waitress named Yvette. She had blue eyes and shoulder-length platinum hair with long legs and a pneumatic chest. Her head looked very small in proportion to her body, reminding Oliver of a blowup doll.

She placed napkins on the table. “I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

Oliver asked, “Do you know when Crystal is due in?”

“Crystal?” As if the name momentarily stumped her.

“Crystal Larabee,” Marge clarified. “She works here as a cocktail waitress.”

“She took a few days off.”

“Because her friend was murdered,” Oliver stated.

Yvette nodded. “She was pretty upset. I mean, who wouldn’t be?”

Oliver took out his badge. “We’re investigating the homicide. Could we talk to you for a few minutes?”

“Um…I’m kinda busy. Let me take care of my business. I’ll come back.”

“Thank you.” Marge turned to Oliver. “Mandy takes a few days off, Crystal takes a few days off…coincidence, I ask?”

“Everyone’s entitled to a vacation.”

“Call up Crystal’s cell. Let’s get a location on her.”

He dialed the number and hung up after ten rings. “No answer.”

“Again, I state: Mandy is not home, Crystal is not home.”

“Want to take a ride over to Crystal’s apartment?”

“I think we should,” Marge said. “I’m getting a bad feeling about this, Scott, especially since Garth is missing.”

“Like the Loo said, they have a right to go out to dinner.”

“So you think it’s nothing?”

“I don’t think, therefore I am.”

Yvette, the small-headed waitress, returned with the sodas and the hummus plate. In addition to the chickpea spread, it came with olives, onions, pickles, tomatoes, and a plate of grilled pita. Marge suddenly remembered that she was hungry. “This looks good. Can we get another one of them?”

“Certainly.”

“But first have a seat,” Oliver told her.

“Only for a minute,” Yvette said. “Really, I can’t tell you anything because I don’t know anything.”

“How about we start with the basics?” Oliver said. “We know that Adrianna was in Garage the night before she was murdered.”

“That would be Sunday night,” Marge specified.

“I know that,” Yvette said. “I was here, too. Weird.”

“Weird in what way?” Oliver asked.

“You see a person and then she’s gone.” Her eyes misted. “Crystal was comping her drinks. I told her not to, that the boss would get mad if he found out, but she did it anyway.”

“Was Adrianna drinking?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Hard stuff?”

Yvette thought a moment. “I don’t know. Why?”

Marge said, “She didn’t have any booze in her system. We were told she was only touching the soft stuff because she had to go to work.”

“That could be. I wasn’t paying attention. But whatever it was, Crystal was comping both Adrianna and that hunky guy that Adrianna was talking to. I’m sure he was drinking.”

“What was he drinking?”

“Beer. After he’d gone through a couple of refills, I finally told Crystal to quit it or I’d tell the boss.” A pause. “She got pissed at me. But it didn’t matter anyway. Adrianna left. And then about a half hour later, the hunk left.”

“What time was that?” Marge asked.

“Around nine-thirty.”

“Did they look like they were enjoying each other’s company?”

“They were talking. Beyond that, I couldn’t tell you.”

Oliver said, “Did the hunk have a name?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t catch it.”

“Does the name Farley sound familiar?”

“Farley?”

“Crystal remembered the hunk being called Farley,” Oliver said.

When Yvette’s response was a confused shrug, Marge said, “Or maybe it was Charley?”

“Beats me,” Yvette said.

“What did he look like?”

“Beefy. Big chest, big arms…like he worked out a lot. You put him in a gay bar, he’d fit right in. He wasn’t wearing a suit, but he was wearing a jacket.”

“What kind of a jacket?”

“Like a blazer. Black jacket, black T-shirt and jeans. He wore sandals on his feet.”

“Sounds more Hollywood than lawyer or stockbroker,” Oliver said.

“Good call. He did seem Hollywood. Or pretend Hollywood.”

“Do you think you could identify his face?” Marge asked.

“I got a decent look at him. He had a square jaw, masculine features. Dark eyes.”

“Could you come down to the station house tomorrow and work with a police artist?” Oliver suggested.

“I suppose.”

“That would be great,” Marge said. “Thanks so much. You’ve been very helpful. Do you have a number where we could reach you?”

Yvette rooted through her pocket and gave them a card.

THE YVETTE JACKSON BAND

SPECIALIZING IN JAZZ, ROCK, AND THE OLD STANDARDS

LIVEN UP YOUR NEXT COCKTAIL PARTY WITH THE REAL DEAL

SPECIAL WEEKDAY RATES

There was a cell phone and an e-mail address. Marge said, “You’re a singer?”

“Singer, dancer, musician. I studied at the Western Conservatory School of Music for five years. I majored in classical guitar, but I’m done with that. No one wakes up in the morning and decides to become a cocktail waitress. But the pay is pretty good if you suppress the ego and do the job. I’ve got a nice smile and big boobs. So far, most of the patrons remember my attributes when it’s tip time.”

“Thanks for the card,” Marge said. “Maybe I’ll hire you one day. I happen to love classical guitar.”

“So do I, but it has its drawbacks. We’re about as much in demand as a typewriter. There’s an old joke. What’s the difference between a classical guitarist and pizza?”

“I give up,” Oliver said. “What’s the difference?”

She got up from the table. “A pizza can feed a family of four.”

THE KID WAS
on his cell when Decker came in, his clothes neatly spread out on the bed. From his tone of voice, he sounded agitated. “It’s fine, Missy, we’ll make it another time…” Gabe rolled his eyes. “I think I’ll pass, but thanks for asking…yes, I’m sure. It’s fine. Okay…okay…okay, I’ll call you when you come back. Bye.”

He hung up, threw his phone on the bed, and regarded Decker. “Hi.”

Decker looked at the clothes. “Going somewhere?”

“I thought it might be a good idea to spend some time with my aunt. But she’s going to Palm Springs for the weekend.” Gabe plopped down on the mattress and lowered his head into his right hand while dipping his left in and out of the ice bag, now a mixture of cold water and slush. “My mother has been supporting her since she left her house three years ago. My mom’s missing. She might be dead. You’d think that my aunt might feel a little abashed partying with the girls in Palm Springs.”

Decker didn’t say anything.

“I don’t know,” Gabe said. “Maybe she has the right idea. Maybe Chris has the right idea. Because it’s certainly easier not to give a shit.”

Decker said, “Make sure your hand doesn’t get too cold.”

“You’re right.” Gabe took it out and flexed his fingers. They were stiff but he could move them. He rotated his wrist.

“How does it feel?”

“I’ll be okay.” He looked up. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant.”

“For getting held up?”

“I should have just given him my briefcase.”

“That might have been smart. What was in there that was so valuable?”

“Sheet music.” Green orbs averted Decker’s stare. “The gun’s in there now. I took out the magazine.”

“Can I take a look?”

“Sure.”

Decker retrieved the valise from the bed, pulled out the weapon
and the magazine, and dropped them in a paper evidence bag. He sat down on the opposite bed. “The guy wasn’t fooling around. Why’d you decide to take him down?”

Gabe said. “I didn’t think. I just did it.”

“Over sheet music?”

Again, the boy looked away. This time he said nothing.

“Gabe, your father was in town yesterday.”

The boy said nothing.

“This is what I think,” Decker said. “I think he contacted you. I suspect that Chris gave you stuff and that stuff was in your briefcase. And that’s probably why you reacted like you did. So I’m asking you again, what was in there?”

Again, Gabe didn’t answer.

“Okay, we’ll get back to that one,” Decker said. “What did Chris tell you?”

“Why do you think Chris was in town?”

“Because we’re both looking for your mom and we’re going in the same direction. He’s just a few steps ahead of me because he can devote full-time energy to this.”

“So you saw him?”

It was Decker’s turn to sidestep the question. “We think we might have located your mom’s car.”

Gabe looked up. “You did? Where?”

“It’s been junked at a scrap-metal dealership. We’ve got the pink slip and the VIN number. We’re trying to tie that car in some way to the car your mother drove. Because the one we found didn’t belong to her.”

“So why do you think you found her car?”

“How many new Mercedes are sold for scrap?”

The teenager paused. “Who owns the car?”

“Atik Jains. Does the name sound familiar?”

“No.”

“He’s Indian…Indian Indian. Jainism is a religion common in India. Does your mother know any Indians?”

“No,” Gabe told him. But his cheeks pinkened.

“You know you’re blushing?” Decker paused, then said, “Gabriel, we both have the same goal. To find your mother. We need to work together.”

“I have no idea if she knows any Indians. I didn’t follow my mother’s social life. As far as I knew, she didn’t have much in the way of friends.”

“And yet you blushed when I asked about her knowing any Indians. What’s that all about?”

“It’s probably nothing.”

“Tell me anyway.”

The boy squirmed. “It was a while back. I was waiting at the hospital for my mom to finish up. The place was swarming with guys in turbans. I thought it was like a terrorist threat or something. When I asked my mom about it, she said it was nothing, that some really rich maharaja was getting heart surgery and all those guys were his bodyguards.”

“How long ago was this?”

“I have to think. It was when I first started taking lessons at Juilliard. So it must have been two years ago.”

Decker took out a notebook. “Okay. What else?”

“Nothing else,” Gabe said. “I think I made some wisecrack about India having a billion people and the maharaja had to come to New York to find a surgeon. My mom told me that the maharaja’s son was a visiting cardiac surgeon in the hospital and he wanted his father to have the operation where he could keep an eye on him.”

The seconds ticked on.

“That’s it.”

“So you were around twelve?”

“About. I only remembered it because it’s not every day you see like twenty guys in turbans.”

“Did your mother say anything else about the maharaja or his son?”

“No.” He averted his eyes and began to ice his hand again. “But she knew him…the maharaja’s son…who is actually an old guy, like in his fifties.”

Decker smiled. “Go on.”

Gabe sighed. “I took lessons in the city, so I was in Manhattan a lot. I used to take the bus in from my house, and after my lessons, I’d walk over to the hospital and my mom would drive us home. One time, this was about a year ago, I finished early—which never happens. My ex-teacher was a slave driver, but he wasn’t feeling well. Anyway, I walked over to the hospital and I saw my mom talking to this guy who looked like a little like Zubin Mehta—graying hair, well dressed, dignified.”

“Okay,” Decker wrote. “Did they look like they knew each other well?”

“Like they weren’t touching or anything, but they were talking…a lot. And she was smiling—my mom. Then he got paged and that was that. Then my mom saw me and we went home. I did ask her who she was talking to. She said that he was the cardiac-surgeon son of the maharaja who had all the bodyguards.”

When Gabe didn’t elaborate, Decker said, “Did she seem embarrassed to be talking to him in front of you?”

“No,” Gabe said. “She was very matter-of-fact. But I remember it because it was rare to see her comfortable around a man. She usually avoided men even when my dad wasn’t around.”

“So she didn’t seem flustered?”

“No.” Gabe collected his thoughts. “Lots of times we’d do stuff and not tell my dad. Go out to movies or to restaurants when he stayed in the city. Once I went to a Christmas party with her. If she wanted it kept private, she’d say to keep it between us. She didn’t say that. So I forgot about it.”

“Did you ever see the surgeon with your mom again?”

“No.” He looked at Decker. “If I’d seen her with him again, that would have been weird. So you’re thinking that the surgeon is the Indian guy who owned the car?”

“Gabe, I have no idea. But I’d like to find out the surgeon’s name.”

“So if it is the same guy…like do you think like he kidnapped her or…”

“I don’t know.” Not even entertaining the notion that she might
have taken off with him. Decker paused. “Maybe we should have someone look at your hand.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Just in case.” Gabe was quiet. Decker said, “Look, son, I’m going to level with you. I know that you saw your dad. You don’t want to be holding material evidence that could implicate your father in your mom’s disappearance. You’re nothing like Christopher Donatti. Don’t go down for him.”