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“It could have been doing something but we may not know about it. The obsession with a camera is intriguing. Maybe he filmed something he shouldn’t have.”
“I was thinking about the same thing.” He handed her an address. “I hope Wendy Hesse is still cooperative. I haven’t talked to her since the memorial service.”
“She hasn’t called you up?”
“No, and I’ve called her several times. All I’ve gotten is the machine. So maybe she changed her mind about poking into Greg’s personal life.”
“So why stir up things?”
“You know how it is with an investigation. The damn thing takes on a life of its own.”
GABE HADN’T HEARD from her since Sunday evening. She had texted to say her final thanks, and he had texted back, anytime, which he had meant. Then his phone had gone cold.
During the week, he thought about contacting her, but what was the point? She’d either show up on Saturday or she wouldn’t, and the way things were going, wouldn’t looked like the likely option. It was affecting him and his playing. Even his teacher noticed.
Especially his teacher noticed.
You’re distracted. Then Nick graced him with one of his famous withering looks. Gabriel, you’re a good professional-quality pianist. You’ll always be a good professional pianist. But if you want to be great, you’re going to have to be one hundred percent focused on what you’re doing. In this business, good isn’t going to cut it.
For Chrissakes, he was fifteen. Most dudes his age were smoking dope and sniffing girls. What did the man want from him? Instead, Gabe told Nick that he was right and he’d try harder.
It’s not your hands, Gabe, it’s your brain. Get your head wrapped around the music.
He had meant to take the advice to heart. He really had meant to do it. Plus, Nick had given him some composing assignments that ordinarily he really liked. But instead of making progress in his chosen field, he was alone in the house, sitting on his bed at four in the afternoon, surfing Facebook.
Chopin would just have to fucking wait.
Distracted.
His Facebook account was still active, but his pictures were old. There were several snapshots of him and his buddies when he had buddies. There were a couple of him and his mom when he had a mom. There was one old picture of his dad who happened to be the only one still in his life. He hadn’t answered anyone’s mail or posted any comments in over a year. Wistfully he surfed the pages of his old buddies, looking at updated photographs. His friends had grown taller and broader, and some of the more swarthy ones had sizable clumps of facial hair. His own cheeks and chin had sprouted stubble, but it was hard to see because it was growing in blond.
Anyway he wasn’t really interested so much in his old friends—just his new one.
For the fifth time in an hour, he pulled up Yasmine’s profile. She had accepted his invitation to be her friend, but that was as far as their contact had gone.
He stared at the pictures of her (gorgeous), her three sisters (gorgeous), her mother (the original gorgeous), and her dad who was bald and square faced and looked to be in his late sixties. Yasmine resembled her sisters (who in turn resembled the mother) except that she was still childish whereas the other three were closer to being women. He got a clear idea how she’d mature, would love to take a bite out of her two years from now. Even as is, he wouldn’t mind a nibble. He continued to gape at her face, wishing she’d never approached him. He had even gone to Coffee Bean several times in the past week at six in the morning, hoping to catch her, but she didn’t show.
As a last resort, he thought about hanging around her school, acting surprised when he saw her. He had a legitimate excuse. Rina was a teacher there. But he nixed the idea because it was clearly stalking.
So he stared at the same dozen pictures that he had stared at a few minutes before.
His computer broke in with an IM.
Are you there?
The screen name was different from the last time, but he suspected who it was.
Mom?
A long pause.
How are you?
He felt his eyes blur and his throat close up.
I’m fine. His brain was awhirl. She never told him about her pregnancy—the reason why she had abandoned him. He decided to jump the gun and let her know that he knew. How’s my sister doing?
Another break from the text. It was taking her a while to answer. What time was it in India? It had to be in the wee hours of the morning.
She’s fine. Did Chris tell you?
Gabe wrote: Yes, he told me. But Decker figured it out also. We’ve all known for a while. What’s her name?
He waited for her to respond.
Juleen.
I like it. Someday I’d love to meet her.
I would love that, too. Maybe sooner than later?
His heart felt very heavy. The moment was awkward.
We’ll see how it shakes out. Give her a kiss for me. And don’t worry too much about Chris. I’ve seen him a few times. I think he’s moved on to other things.
Another pause.
I love you, Gabriel. I love you and miss you very much.
A very, very heavy heart. He wasn’t angry anymore. His rage at her desertion had been replaced with engulfing sadness. The piano seemed to be calling his name.
I miss you, too. I’ve got to go practice, Mom. Don’t worry about me. I’m really fine.
He shut off the computer before she could respond and walked over to the garage where the Deckers had set up a piano studio for him. They were wonderful people—just the best. But they weren’t his flesh and blood.
Focus, Gabe, focus.
The subtleties of Chopin never sounded so good.
AFTER GIVING THE door a firm knock and receiving no answer, Marge stuck her business card in the space between the door and the frame. She was just about to turn around when the door opened and the card fell onto the ground.
Wendy Hesse looked bleary eyed, dressed in blue sweats, with socks but no shoes on her feet.
Marge bent down to pick up the card. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hesse, did I wake you?”
Her expression suggested confusion. “What time is it?”
“Four o’clock.”
Wendy rubbed her eyes. “I was watching TV and I must have fallen asleep.” Several seconds ticked by. “Four o’clock?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ve got to pick up my kids from school.” She put her hand over her mouth. “Is it Friday?”
“Thursday.”
“Oh …” She regarded Marge’s face. “You look very familiar.”
“Detective Dunn, LAPD.” She handed the woman her card. “I was wondering if I could come in.”
“Of course.”
Marge crossed the threshold. It was a cool February day in the Valley, but the house was as hot as a foundry. It had been a long time since the interior had experienced fresh air. The place was tidy especially considering the circumstances. Wendy Hesse sat down on a red sofa, and Marge sat next to her.
“Do you need anything?” Marge asked her.
“No, I’m …” She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ears. “People have been kind. Some are a little shy about approaching me, but for the most part, it’s been … Thank God for friends.” She needed her hands. “It’s Thursday?”
“Yes.”
“Almost two weeks.”
“Have you gone into his room yet?” When Wendy shook her head no, Marge said, “Would it be possible for me to look around his room? We’re still searching for a reason … all of us. It would be helpful if I could take Gregory’s laptop to headquarters and probe its contents.”
Wendy looked nervous. “Maybe I should ask my husband about this.”
“Sure.” Marge waited a beat. “Have you looked at Gregory’s laptop?”
She shook her head no.
“Do you know his screen name and password?”
“I know his screen name. I used to know his password, but I think he’s changed it.”
“Should we go to his room and see if your password works?” Wendy bit her thumbnail. Marge said, “Or I can bring his laptop out of the room if you’re not ready to go in yet.”
“I really should talk to my husband about this.”
“Whatever you want,” Marge told her. “I know that you’re interested in finding a reason—”
“I don’t know about that anymore.” She inhaled and let it out slowly. “What difference will it make? It won’t bring him back.” Fat tears rolled down her cheeks. “Maybe it’s best to just let it go.”
“Whatever you think is best.” Marge proffered the woman her card and she took it. “Call if you change your mind.”
The woman stood and her sorrowful eyes met Marge’s. “Thank you for coming.”
“Sure.” Marge hesitated, but decided to ask the question anyway. “I understand that videotaping had become Gregory’s favorite hobby. Was he interested in making films?”
Wendy said, “Gregory was always the one that recorded family events.”
“So he’s had the interest for a long time.”
Wendy was silent.
“Just curious,” Marge said. “Do call if you need anything.”
When the woman still didn’t talk, Marge turned around and let herself out the door.
CHAPTER TEN
RINA LOVED THE quiet of Shabbat morning, when the neighborhood was without construction noise and leaf blowers. Through her kitchen window, she could actually hear birds chirping. Last year there had been a nest of finches in one of her bushes. She had heard a racket of squawks several times every day when the parents had returned to feed the young. Food was primal, and with a big family, much of her life revolved around meals.
She had been dressed for shul since eight, but Peter was taking his time. So she sat at her kitchen table, sipping coffee and reading the paper—a rare moment of alone time that proved to be short-lived. Gabe came in, dressed in a black long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Behind his wireless specs sat sleepy green eyes.
“Hey,” he said.
“You’re up early.”
“Yeah, I thought I’d catch up on a few things. Get a jump on the day.”
“Would you like some breakfast?”
“Yeah, that would probably make sense.” The boy took down a mug from the cupboard and made himself a cup of instant coffee. He was comfortable enough to open pantry doors and raid the fridge without asking permission. He fixed himself a bowl of cereal and began shoveling food into his mouth.
Rina said, “We’re eating lunch here today if you’re interested.”
“Thanks, but I’m going out.” He looked at her. “A guy I know is playing a piano concerto at SC. I thought I’d show him support.”
“That’s very nice. Is he good?”
“He’s very good.” Gabe gave her a sly smile. “But not as good as me.”
“That goes without saying.” She smiled back. “When’s the concert?”
“Three. But to get there on time, I’ve got to take a one o’clock bus, which means I have to leave here around 12:30.”
“Sorry I can’t take you.”
“That’s fine. I don’t mind walking. If I didn’t walk to bus stops, I’d get absolutely no exercise.”
“We’ve got a treadmill.”
“Yeah, my life’s already too much of that.”
“Poor Gabe,” Rina said. “It’s hard being a genius.”
He let out a laugh. “I like when you do that. It means that you’re not pitying me.”
