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“No, we’re cool.” When Rina gave him a skeptical look, he said, “Honestly. I haven’t spoken to him since we came back from Paris. We texted a couple of times. He asked me how I was doing and I told him I was fine. We’re on good terms. I think he likes me a lot better now that my mom is out of the picture.”
He took a swig of water and averted his eyes.
“Did I tell you my mom IMed about a week ago?”
“No … you didn’t.”
“Must have slipped my mind.”
“Uh-huh—”
“Really. It was no big deal. I almost didn’t answer her because I didn’t recognize the screen name she was using.”
“Is she okay?”
“Seems to be.” A shrug. “She asked me how I was.” Behind his glasses, his eyes were gazing at a distant place. “I told her I was fine and not to worry … that everything was cool. Then I signed off.” He shrugged again. “I didn’t feel like making chitchat. Tell you the truth, I’d rather she not contact me. Is that terrible?”
“No, it’s understandable.” Rina sighed. “It’ll take a lot of bridge building before you get some trust—”
“That’s not gonna happen. It’s not that I have anything against her. I wish her well. I just don’t want to talk to her.”
“Fair enough. But try to keep an open mind. When she contacts you again, maybe give her a few more seconds of your time. Not for her sake, but for yours.”
“If she contacts me again.”
“She will, Gabriel. You know that.”
“I don’t know anything. I’m sure she’s busy with the baby and all.”
“One child isn’t a substitute for another—”
“Thanks for the pep talk, Rina, but I really don’t care. I barely think about her.” But of course, he did all the time. “The baby needs her way more than I do.” He smiled and patted her head. “Besides, I’ve got a pretty good substitute right here.”
“Your mom is still your mom. And one day, you’ll see that. But thank you very much for the nice words.”
Gabe returned his eyes to the newspaper article. “Wow, the boy was local.”
“Yes, he was.”
“Do you know the family?”
“No.”
“So like … does the lieutenant investigate cases like this?”
“Only if the coroner has questions about whether it was a suicide.”
“How can the coroner tell?”
“I really don’t know. You can ask Peter when he gets home.”
“When’s he coming home?”
“Sometime between now and dawn. Do you want to go out to the deli for dinner?”
Gabe’s eyes lit up. “Can I drive?”
“Yes, you can drive. While we’re there, let’s pick up a sandwich and take it to the Loo. If I don’t bring him food, he doesn’t eat.”
Gabe put down the paper. “Can I shower first? I’m a little sweaty.”
“Of course.”
Gabe could tell that Rina was still evaluating him. Unlike his father, he wasn’t an adroit liar. He said, “You worry too much. I’m fine.”
“I believe you.” Rina mussed his hair, damp with perspiration. “Go shower. It’s almost seven and I’m starving.”
“You bet.” Gabe smiled to himself. He had just used one of the Loo’s favorite expressions. He had been with the Deckers for almost a year and certain things just filtered in. He became aware of hunger pangs. It had just taken time for his stomach to calm down for his brain to get the message that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast and that he was famished.
It’s not that he had a nervous gut. But guns did strange things to his digestive system.
Completely unlike his dad.
Chris Donatti never met a firearm he didn’t like.
CHAPTER TWO
SINCE THE HAMMERLING case was aired on the TV show Fugitive, Decker had been getting calls, most of them dead ends. Still, he made it a habit to probe every single lead no matter how inane the tip. A serial killer was on the loose, and there was no such thing as half-assed investigation. The current tip was a spotting in the New Mexican desert in a small blip of a town somewhere between Roswell—known for its close encounters with UFOs—and Carlsbad, known for its network of underground caves. In the middle of nowhere was always a great place to hide out. Plus that region was in a direct line to Ciudad Juárez, Mexico, where, by some estimates, there had been more than twenty thousand murders in the past decade. The vast majority of the dead had been participants in vicious drug wars. But there was also a large minority of young female victims, possibly five thousand of them, called feminicidios, most between the ages of twelve and twenty-five, with no apparent connection to one another. The Mexicans’ penchant for violence would provide convenient cover for someone like Garth Hammerling if he could avoid getting killed himself.
Decker raked fingers through his thick head of hair, which retained some bright red highlights among the gray and white. Hannah said the streaks looked very punk. He smiled when he thought of his youngest daughter. She was away in Israel for the year and then after that would be starting college at Barnard. His children ranged from midthirties to eighteen and he had yet to experience an empty nest, courtesy of two very disturbed people who unwittingly enlisted his and Rina’s help in raising their child. Gabriel was a good kid, though—not a bother, but he was a presence.
Currently, Rina was teaching the fifteen-year-old how to drive.
I thought I was long past that one, she had told him. We plan and God laughs.
The good news was that his baby grandsons, Aaron and Akiva, from his elder daughter, Cindy, were almost three months old. They had been born three weeks early at five pounds, thirteen ounces and six pounds, one ounce. At the end of her pregnancy, Cindy had been carrying around more than sixty pounds of baby weight. But being athletic and working out almost every day, she had dropped the pounds and then some. She was currently on maternity leave from her position as a newbie detective with Hollywood. She planned to go back as soon as she found the right nanny. In the meantime, Rina and his ex-wife, Jan, were willing substitutes. The babies were way more work than Gabe.
Decker smoothed his mustache while studying the phone message.
The tip had been given by the New Mexico State Police. This was the fourth sighting of Garth Hammerling in New Mexico, and Decker was beginning to think that maybe he was on to something. He called up the 505 area code and after a series of holds and call switching, he was connected to CIS—Criminal Investigative Section—in Division 4. The investigator who was assigned to follow up the lead was named Romulus Poe.
“I know the guy who phoned it into the show,” Poe told Decker. “He owns a motel in Indian Springs located about forty miles south of Roswell. The man is what you might call an indigenous character. He sees and hears things that elude most of us mere mortals. But that doesn’t mean he’s totally loco. I’ve been out here for twelve years. Before that I was ten years in Las Vegas Metro Homicide. I’ve seen and heard my fair share of freak. The desert is no place for the fainthearted.”
“What’s the guy’s name?” Decker asked.
“Elmo Turret.”
“What’s his story?”
“He claims he saw a guy that looked like the picture of Hammerling shown on Fugitive. Elmo said he saw him a few days ago, camping out ten miles south from his motel. I’m just clearing out a drug bust. I spent the afternoon pulling out around an acre of mature MJ plants and I don’t mean Michael Jordan. As soon as I’m done with the processing of the local yokels who owned the land, I’ll swing by the area on my bike and see if I can’t find any veracity to the story.”
“Call me one way or the other. You know, this is the fourth spotting I’ve received from New Mexico.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. Ever been here?”
“Just Santa Fe.”
“That’s another country—civilized for the most part. Down here … well, what can I say? The Wild West is alive and kicking.”
PAPERWORK TOOK UP another hour, and by seven-thirty in the evening, Decker was about to call it quits when his favorite detective, Sergeant Marge Dunn, knocked on the sash to his open door. The woman was five ten with square shoulders and wiry muscle. She was dressed for winter L.A. style, wearing brown cotton slacks and a tan cashmere sweater. Her blond hair—and getting blonder by the years—was pulled back into a ponytail.
“Have a seat,” Decker told her.
“I’ve got a woman outside wanting to talk to you,” Marge said. “Actually, she wanted to talk to Captain Strapp but since he left, she settled for the next in line.”
“Who is she?”
“Her name is Wendy Hesse and she told me that her business is personal. Rather than push my weight around, I figured it would be easier to send her to you.”
Decker peeked at his watch. “Sure, bring her in while I go grab a cup of coffee.”
By the time he got back, Marge had seated the mystery woman. Her complexion was an unhealthy shade of putty and her blue eyes, though dry at the moment, had cried many tears. Her hair was cut helmet style—dark brown with white roots. She was a big-boned woman and appeared to be in her late forties. She was dressed in a black sweater and black sweatpants with sneakers on her feet.
Marge said, “Lieutenant Decker, this is Mrs. Hesse.”
He put the coffee cup on his desk. “Can I get you something to drink?”
The woman looked at her lap, shook her head, and mumbled something.
“Pardon me?” Decker said.
She snapped her head up. “No … thank you.”
“So how can I help you?”
Wendy Hesse looked at Marge, who said, “Maybe I’ll get some coffee. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some water, Mrs. Hesse?”
The woman refused a second offer. After Marge left, Decker said, “How can I help you, Mrs. Hesse?”
“I need to talk to the police.” She folded her hands and looked at her lap. “I don’t know how to start.”
Decker said, “Just tell me what’s on your mind.”
“My son …” Her eyes watered. “They say he … that he committed suicide. But I don’t … I don’t believe it.”
Decker regarded her in a different context. “You’re Gregory Hesse’s mother.”
She nodded as tears flowed down her cheeks.
“I am so sorry, Mrs. Hesse.” He handed her a tissue. “I can’t even imagine what you’re feeling right now.” When she started sobbing openly, Decker stood up and put his hand on her shoulder. “Let me get you some water.”
She nodded. “Maybe that’s a good … idea.”
Decker caught Marge at the coffeepot. “The woman is Gregory Hesse’s mom—the teen in the paper who committed suicide.” Marge went wide-eyed. “Anyone from Homicide at the scene yesterday?”
“I was in court.” She paused. “Oliver was there.”
“Did he talk to you about it?”
“Not really. It got him down. You could read it in his face. But he didn’t say anything about the death being suspicious.”
Decker filled up a wax paper cup with water. “Mrs. Hesse has her doubts about suicide. Would you mind sticking around? I’d like another ear.”
“Of course.”
Both of them went back to his office. To Mrs. Hesse, Decker said, “I’ve asked Sergeant Dunn here. She partners with Scott Oliver who was at your house yesterday afternoon.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Hesse,” Marge said.
Tears ran down her cheeks. Mrs. Hesse said, “There were … lots of police at the house.”
“Detective Oliver was in civilian dress. I don’t remember what he was wearing yesterday. He’s in his fifties—”
“That one,” she said, drying her eyes. “I remember him. Amazing … it’s still a blur … a nightmare.”
Decker nodded.
“I keep expecting to … wake up.” She bit her lip. “It’s killing me.” The tears were falling again faster than she could dry them. “What you can do for me is find out what really happened.”
“Okay.” Decker paused. “Tell me, what don’t you believe about your son’s death?”
Wet droplets fell onto her folded hands. “Gregory did not shoot himself. He’s never used a gun in his life! He hated guns. Our entire family abhors violence of any kind!”
Decker took out a notepad. “Tell me about your boy.”
“He wasn’t suicidal. He wasn’t even depressed. Gregory had friends, he was a good student. He had lots of interests. He never even remotely hinted at suicide.”
“Anything about him change over the last few months?”
“Nothing.”
“Maybe a little more moody?” Marge suggested.
“No!” She was resolute.
Decker asked, “Did he sleep more? Did he eat more? Did he eat less?”
Wendy’s sigh signaled exasperation. “He was the same boy—thoughtful … he could be quiet. But quiet doesn’t mean depressed, you know.”
