Blood Games

“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?”