Blood Games. Faye Kellerman

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ