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Blood Games
Faye Kellerman
The twentieth book in the hugely popular Peter Decker and Rina Lazarus series from New York Times bestselling author Faye KellermanWhen fifteen-year-old Gregory Hesse is found dead, a single gunshot to his head, it appears to be a tragic suicide. But his mother refuses to accept the verdict and pleads for a police inquiry.Detective Peter Decker of the LAPD, working the case, knows only too well what secret lives teenagers live. He and his wife Rina have recently become responsible for Gabe Whitman, an enigmatic and gifted teen, whose parents abandoned him.Just weeks later, a sixteen-year-old girl enrolled at the same exclusive high school as Gregory commits suicide. Decker’s probe into the lives of these privileged teenagers, uncovers a dark trail of twisted allegiances and unholy alliances. With the return of Gabe’s father, former hit-man Chris Donnatti, the case takes an even more sinister turn…
Faye Kellerman
Blood Games
Published in the USA as Gun Games
Dedication
For Jonathan
Contents
Cover (#ulink_137b43c2-1c60-58b1-b640-7f4b3cbb6c58)
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
About the Author
Other Books by Faye Kellerman
Copyright
About the Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS BAD news walking through the door.
They were coming his way: five of them—three guys, two girls—all of them looking older than him by a couple of years but probably still in high school. The guys had some muscle, but none of them was steroidal, meaning he could take any of them one-on-one. Collectively, he didn’t stand a chance. Besides, Gabe wasn’t spoiling for a fight. Last time that happened, he messed up his hand—temporarily. He’d been lucky. Maybe he’d be lucky again. If not, he had to be smart.
He pushed his glasses up on his nose and kept his eyes on the book until the group was on top of him. Even then, he didn’t look up. Nothing was going to happen to him inside a Starbucks … staring at the page in front of him, his mind going a mile per sec.
“You’re sitting in my seat,” one of the guys said.
His dad had always emphasized that if he were about to be jumped, it was best to take on the leader. Because once the leader was gone, the others fell like dominoes. Gabe counted to five before he looked up. The guy who spoke was the biggest of the three.
“Excuse me?” Gabe said.
“I said you’re sitting in my seat.” And as if to emphasize the point, he pulled back his jacket, giving Gabe a five-second peek at the gun stuck into his waistband—positively one of the worst places to keep an unharnessed weapon. There were only two people in the world that Gabe would take crap from and he wasn’t looking at either one of them. To acquiesce would be a mistake. On the other hand, to confront would also be a mistake. Luckily, the dude gave him an out.
Gabe held up an index finger. “Do you mind?” Slowly and carefully, he pulled back the guy’s jacket with his finger and stared at the gun. “Beretta 92FS with some kind of a custom grip.” A pause. “Sweet.” He let the jacket drop. “You know the company just came out with an advanced model—a 96A or something like that. Same thing as the 92 series except it has a higher magazine capacity.”
Gabe stood up. Nose to nose, he was a couple of inches taller than the gunslinger, but the height differential wasn’t something he was about to flaunt. He took a half step back, giving them both some personal space.
“I like the plinkers … like the 87 Cheetah .22LR. First of all, it’s got great reliability. Second, it’s one of those ambidextrous pieces. I’m right-handed, but I got a real strong left. You know how it is. You never know which hand it’s gonna be convenient to use.”
They were locked in a staring contest, Gabe’s focus on the dude with the piece. As far as he was concerned, the other four didn’t exist. Then, with a sudden, fluid motion, Gabe stepped aside and held out his hand, magnanimously offering the dude his seat. “Be my guest.”
A few seconds ticked by, each waiting for the other to blink.
Finally, the guy said to Gabe, “Have a seat.”
“After you.”
The two of them eyed each other, then they both sat down at the same time with the dude taking up the leather chair that Gabe had formerly occupied. He kept his eyes on the guy’s face, never letting up for a moment. Dude was around five ten, one eighty, broad chest, strong arms. Brown hair past his ears, blue eyes, strong chin. Under his leather jacket, he had on a gray T-shirt and wore black, tight-fitting jeans. He was a good-looking guy and probably had a posse of admirers.
Dude said, “Where’d you learn about guns?”
Gabe shrugged. “My dad.”
“What does he do?”
“My father?” At this, Gabe broke into a slow grin. “Uh … actually, he’s a pimp.” The expected pause. “He owns whorehouses in Nevada.”
The dude stared at him with newfound respect. “Cool.”
“It sounds a lot cooler than it is,” Gabe said. “My dad’s a nasty guy—a real mean motherfucker. He also owns about a zillion guns and knows how to use every single one of them. I get along with him because I don’t cross him. Plus, we don’t live together anymore.”
“You live with your mom?”
“Nah, she’s in India somewhere. She took off with her lover and dumped me into the care of complete strangers—”
“Are you shittin’ me?”
“I wish I was shittin’ you.” Gabe laughed. “Last year was a total nightmare.” He rubbed his hands together. “But it worked out okay. I like where I am. My foster dad is a police lieutenant. You’d expect him to be the hard-ass, but compared to my own dad, the man is a saint.” He looked at his watch. It was almost six in the evening and night was inches away. “I gotta go.” He stood up and so did Dude.
“What’s your name?” Dude asked.
“Chris,” Gabe lied. “And you?”
“Dylan.” They fist-bumped. “What school do you go to?”
“Homeschooled,” Gabe said. “Almost done, thank God. Hey, nice to meet you, Dylan. Maybe I’ll catch you on the shooting range.”
He turned his back to the group and slowly swaggered away. It took all his energy not to glance back.
Once he was out the door, he ran like hell.
RINA WAS ARRANGING roses when the boy came in, flushed and panting. She said, “Are you all right?”
“Just out of shape.” Gabe tried to steady his breathing. He attempted to give his temporary mother a smile, but it probably didn’t come out too sincere. He could tell that Rina was scrutinizing him, her blue eyes concentrated on his face. She was wearing a pink sweater that matched the flowers. His mind was desperately trying to figure out small talk. “Those are pretty. From the garden?”
“Trader Joe’s. The roses in the garden won’t start blooming for another couple of months.” She regarded her charge, his emerald eyes flitting behind his glasses. Something was off. “Why were you running?”
“Trying to be healthy,” Gabe told her. “I really need to do something about improving my stamina.”
“I’d say anyone who can practice for six hours a day has a great deal of stamina.”
“Tell that to my beating heart.”
“Sit down. I’ll get you something to drink.”
“I can do it.” Gabe disappeared into the kitchen. When he came back, he was holding a bottle of water. Rina was still giving him funny looks. To distract her, he picked up the paper from the dining room table. The front page showed a picture of a boy, the caption stating that fifteen-year-old Gregory Hesse had committed suicide by a single gunshot to the head. He had a round face and big round eyes and looked much younger than fifteen. Gabe started reading the article in earnest.
“Sad, isn’t it.” Rina was looking over his shoulder. “You think to yourself, what on earth could have been so bad that this poor kid was willing to end it all?”
There were lots of reasons for despair. Last year he had gone through all of them. “Sometimes life is hard.”
Rina took the paper from him, spun him around, and gave him her serious eye-to-eye contact. “You looked upset when you came in.”
“I’m fine.” He managed a smile. “Really.”
“What happened? Did you hear from your dad or something?”
