LITMIR.BIZ

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it’s going with me to the opera. Because I’m not Jewish.”

      She stared at him. “You’re not Jewish?”

      “Nope. I’m Catholic.”

      “Oh God. My dad would kill me just for going with a white boy.” She leaned over and spoke softly. “Why were you in a Jewish school if you’re not Jewish”?

      “It’s a long story.” He paused. “This isn’t a good idea. I don’t want to be responsible for getting you into trouble. Would you like your ticket back?”

      “No, of course not. If you don’t use it, it really will go to waste.” She blew out air again. “I mean, it’s just going to the opera, right?”

      “Yes, it’s just going to the opera. It is not a date.” He studied her face again. “How old are you?”

      “Fourteen.”

      “You look around ten.”

      “Thank you very much,” she snapped. It was clearly something she heard all the time.

      “You look young, but you’re very cute.” Gabe said it to mollify her, but he actually meant it. “This is what I’m going to do. I’m going to give you my phone number and you call or text me if you can make it.” He waited a moment. “You have a cell, right?”

      “Of course.”

      “So Persians can have cell phones—”

      “Ha, ha!”

      “Take down my cell number. Do you know my name?”

      “Gabriel Whitman.”

      “Excellent.” He gave the girl his number. “I’ll take your phone number now. But to do that, I first need to know your name.”

      “Yasmine Nourmand.” Pronounced Yaz-meen. She spelled it and then gave him her phone number.

      “That’s a very exotic name. What is your older sister’s name?”

      “I have three older sisters.”

      “The one that was in the class with Hannah.”

      “That’s Sage. My other sisters are Rosemary and Daisy. Yasmine is the Hebrew of Jasmine.”

      “So Mom had sort of a botanical thing going.”

      Yasmine smiled and checked her watch. “I have to go. School starts at seven-thirty.”

      “I remember that. Why were you here so early?”

      “Sometimes I come early to listen to my CDs.” She pulled out six operas—two Verdi, two Rossini, and two Mozart. “I mean, I really love my parents. And I love my sisters. They’re gorgeous and wonderful and everything. And I enjoy the regular pop stuff, too. But sometimes when I listen to my music—that no one else seems to like—I like being alone.”

      Her eyes were far away.

      “It’s my dream to see a real-life opera. And to hear someone as good as Alyssa Danielli.” She hefted her backpack. “Thanks for offering to come with me.”

      “It’s my pleasure.”

      “And thanks for not making fun of me.”

      “Well, I kinda did.”

      “Yeah, you kinda did.” She gave him a wave and was off.

      He returned his eyes to the paper, knowing full well that this was a mistake. But in talking to her, he suddenly realized how lonely he was.

      She had awakened a sleeping lion.

      Girls.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      AUTOPSY REPORTS INVOLVING self-inflicted gunshot wounds were always grisly. The damage done by an up-close-and-personal weapon was horrendous. Details were even harder to read when the victims were young like Gregory Hesse. As Marge scanned the lengthy police file as well as what the coroner’s examiner had to say, she didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. All the signs of suicide were there: single bullet in the head, close-up burn mark on the temple, the position of the body with regard to the gun, stippling on the boy’s right hand. She got up from her desk and knocked on Decker’s open door. “Did you want to see Gregory Hesse’s file?”

      “Yeah, that would be great.” He motioned her inside. Marge wore a light knit brown sweater and black slacks—much more comfortable than Decker’s gray suit. Today he was wearing a thin black turtleneck so at least he didn’t have to wear a tie. The captain had given his attire the once-over, asking if he was going Hollywood. “Anything I should be aware of?”

      Marge sat down and laid the paperwork on his desk. “Most of it was plain depressing.”

      “What about the gun?”

      “The files say it was a Ruger LCP .380.”

      “A mouse gun,” Decker said.

      “Mouse gun, ladies’ gun—whatever it was, it did the trick. Oliver told me it was an older-model Ruger.”

      “How old?”

      “I don’t think he said. He’s pulling it out of the evidence locker sometime today.” She paused. “If everything seems consistent with a suicide, what’s our next step?”

      “Well, I can make a phone call to Mrs. Hesse and tell her there’s nothing for us to pursue. Or I can make a phone call and tell her that I’ll talk to some of Gregory’s friends and teachers and try to find some clues as to what happened.”

      Marge nodded.

      Decker said, “What’s on your mind?”

      “I know that she lives in the community we serve. So we are her employees in a very broad sense. But is that really our job—a psychological autopsy? Not that I mind doing it, but I don’t want to get into areas that we’re not familiar with.”

      “Valid point, so let me put it this way. When we do an investigation, we try to find the motive behind every crime. Technically suicide is a crime.”

      “I suppose every crime starts with a weapon,” Marge said. “I’ll see where Oliver is on that.”

      “Could you also get me a couple of phone numbers?” He flipped through his notes. “For Joey Reinhart and Kevin Stanger. You probably can get those by calling up Bell and Wakefield. I don’t want to contact Wendy Hesse until we have something to say.”

      “The school might be more cooperative if I added a personal touch.” Marge checked her watch—eleven. “I can go there right now.”

      “Sure. And while you’re there, try to get a feel for the place.”

      Oliver knocked on the door and came in. “I just got some information on the Ruger used in the suicide. The gun was stolen from Dr. Olivia Garden who, according to our computers, is a sixty-five-year-old dermatologist practicing in Sylmar.”

      Decker pointed to the chair next to Marge, and Oliver sat down. Scott, always the dandy, was appointed today in a black shirt and tie, gray trousers, and a herringbone jacket. His shoes were black buffed leather loafers. “Did you contact the doctor?”

      “I put a call into her secretary. Doctor was with a patient. Her lunch hour is from twelve-thirty to two. I’ll just pop in and try to catch her then. Maybe Gregory Hesse was her patient. You know teenagers and acne. Could be he lifted it from her desk.”

      “The gun was stolen six years ago,” Marge said. “Gregory would have been eight or nine.”

      “Right,” Oliver said. “So it probably passed through a few hands since then.”

      “Was just her gun stolen or was it part of a larger burglary?”

      “I don’t know. I just plugged in the

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