Hangman

“I still see dishes on the table,” Decker said.

Hannah sighed impatiently and started gathering the dessert dishes. When Gabe got up to help, Decker said, “You’re a guest. She can do it.”

“I don’t mind, Lieutenant. It makes me feel normal.”

Decker nodded his assent. Fifteen minutes later, the couple was gone and the door to his son’s room was shut. Actual music was coming from behind the walls even though the amp was turned way down. Decker listened for a moment as notes few out in rapid succession—bent, twisted, warped. Atonal riffs, but interesting. When Decker knocked softly, the music stopped. Gabe opened the door a crack. “Too loud?”

“Not at all. I just want to tell you my schedule if you need me. Your dad’s due in around three hours from now. I’ve still got a little work left to do. I’ll be back here around eleven. I want to be here when he comes to pick you up. I’ve got to talk to him anyway. If you need to reach me earlier, give me a call on my cell, okay?”

“Thanks. I’ll be okay.”

“You’re all packed up?”

“I will be. Not much to pack.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m fine. Thanks.” The teen paused. “Thanks for everything.”

“Gabe, if you want a few days to think about things, I can make that happen. You don’t have to go with him right away.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Just so you know, all right?”

He nodded.

Decker said, “I haven’t heard anything bad about your mom or her car. Maybe she just needed a few days to think by herself.”

Gabe swallowed hard as he nodded.

Decker put his hand on his shoulder. “You’re a tough kid. But even tough kids need help every now and then. Don’t be shy about calling.”

“Okay.”

“See you later.”

“Sure. Bye.” The door closed gently.

The music that followed was soft and melancholy.

THE PORT HOLE was a waterfront restaurant/grill/sports bar boasting free hors d’oeuvres during happy hour, weekday specials, and local sports games broadcast on a ten-foot flat screen. True to their ad, the ginormous TV was airing the Lakers-Nuggets game with Kobe Bryant at the line, his magnified sweaty face revealing every open pore. There was such a thing, Marge thought, as too much high resolution.

Sela Graydon’s description of Crystal Larabee was as follows: blond, blue-eyed, good body, probably garbed in sexy clothes, and she drinks cosmopolitans. There were three candidates, all of them at the bar: a blonde in the sequined tank top and jeans, another blonde in the red tee and lamé miniskirt, and lastly, a blonde wearing a strapless black tube and low-rise jeans whose thong was visible.

“My gut says number three,” Oliver said.

“I’m with you, partner.”

The two of them snaked their way into the three-deep crowd at the bar until Marge was looking over Crystal’s shoulder on the right and Oliver was on her left. She was practically falling out of her tube top and her mascara was as thick as tar. She was talking animatedly to a bullnecked block of man who had his hand on her lower back, a finger slipped under her thong. He looked a good ten years older than his prey.

“Crystal?” Oliver said.

“Hey…” She slowly turned to face him. “Who’re you?”

Her voice was slurred. A dollop of drool sat at the corner of her mouth.

Oliver took out his badge. “Police. I’d like to talk to you.”

Her heavy lids were halfway closed. “Wha’s goin’ on?”

“Yeah, what’s going on?” Block Man echoed.

Marge took out her badge. “We need a little privacy. Give us a couple of minutes and we’re out of your hair.”

“S’right,” Crystal said. “I’m tired anyway.” She tossed on a black sweater and slung her purse over her shoulder. “I’m outta here.”

She slid off her bar stool and tripped. Oliver caught her before she hit the ground. “How about we take a little walk?”

“I don’ need a walk…” She fished out her keys.

Marge gently took them away. No resistance. “I really think you need a walk first.”

She stared at Marge, blinking several times. “Who’re you?”

“We’re the police,” Marge said. “We need to talk to you about Adrianna Blanc. You remember her. She’s one of your best friends.”

Immediately, Crystal burst into tears.

Marge put her arm around her and Crystal leaned her head against her chest and sobbed. “I know, honey. It hurts.”

“It hurts so bad!” Crystal wailed.

A sleek, dark Latino bartender looked up. “Can you get her out of here, please?”

Oliver took one arm and Marge took the other. Together, they led Crystal out of the restaurant, crossed over the asphalt parking lot, took her down a half-dozen steps until they reached the boardwalk. It was an overcast night and the sporadic streetlamps emitted muted yellow light haloed by fog. They schlepped her along the rickety wooden esplanade, passing boat slip after boat slip after boat slip, the spaces holding everything from medium-size motor cruisers to mega-size yachts with antennas and satellites. There was a gentle saline breeze coming off the ocean.

In her wedgies, Crystal was having trouble standing erect. “Why, why, why!”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Oliver said. “And you can help us, Crystal. But you’ve got to focus.”

“I don’ wanna focus.” She wiped her eyes on her arm, tattooing the skin with a black ribbon of mascara. “I wanna go home. I wanna sleep!” She sniffed and began rooting through her purse for her keys.

“Where do you live?” Marge already knew the answer. She and Oliver had gone by the place earlier in the evening.

“In the Valley.”

“How convenient! I live there, too. Why don’t I take you home and Detective Oliver will drive your car for you.”