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  He stopped abruptly. “You know what an étude is, right?”

  “ ’Course. It’s a study piece.”

  “Yeah. Chopin wrote a bunch of them. That’s one of the most famous. I like his ‘Opus 10 number 5.’ ” With his right hand, he launched into a series of triplets in varying dynamics. “It’s all on the black keys except for like one white note. Not at all easy to play but fun once you got the fingering down.”

  He stopped the music and smiled at Yasmine. She was wide-eyed.

  “What?”

  She just shook her head, speechless.

  He shrugged. “How about . . . Let’s try ‘Grand Waltz Brilliant’ in E-flat major? I like it because it’s so musically vivid. I mean, every time I play it, I can picture this big ballroom with guys in foppish clothing and girls in antebellum ball gowns twirling around the room. It really takes you back to a different era.”

  He began the introduction, which was a series of marchlike chords before launching into ¾ time. Again, he spoke as he played. “You can see the dancing in the music. Like you can picture the Viennese Waltz. You know, twirl . . . twirl . . . twirl . . . twirl. All the colors . . . the satin and lace and pomp. It’s just such a blend of visual and auditory . . . I dunno . . . it just is like . . . a snapshot in time.”

  His fingers ran over the keyboard in effortless fashion.

  “I just love the lightness of it . . . the grace . . . dancers floating through the air.”

  He stopped playing and looked at her.

  “Tell me when you’ve had enough of my narrative. Sometimes I go on a little bit.”

  “You really make the music come alive.”

  “You make me come alive.” He stopped playing, reached atop the piano and gave her a wrapped package. “Here you go.”

  Yasmine stared at the gift, her eyes turning wet. “For me?”

  Gabe made a point of looking around the garage. “No one else here. Guess it’s for you by process of elimination. Open it.”

  With shaking hands, she undid the ribbon and opened the box. It was a blue-faced sterling-silver watch. She whispered a thank-you as tears streamed down her cheeks. Although she was already wearing a gold Movado, she tried to put it on. But her hands were too unsteady.

  “It’s like a conceptual gift.” Gabe grinned. “Maybe if you wear two of them, you’ll be on time.” She laughed through her tears. “Why don’t you put the new one back in the box and it can be your school watch. I think your parents might notice if your gold one was gone.”

  “My mother would, that’s for sure.” She stared at her present. “I really love it. It’s totally my taste.”

  “I’m glad.”

  She was still staring downward. “That was the nicest thing ever.” She regarded his face. “I think you’re the most marvelous human being in the entire world.”

  “You do?”

  She nodded.

  “Thank you.” A pause. “Can I feel you up?”

  She slapped his shoulder and he laughed.

  “Please?”

  “You want to feel up my small chest?”

  “I love your small chest. I love everything about you.” He picked her up and sat her on his lap so they were face-to-face. She immediately wrapped her legs around him and he sprung to life. He slipped his hand under her blouse, then under her bra. “Your chest may be small, but it is truly a marvel of nature. Kiss me.”

  She obliged, the two of them delighting in tasting one another. Kissing for several minutes as she squirmed on his lap until he felt as if he was going to explode. Without warning, Yasmine burst into tears.

  Gabe pulled away, shocked. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

  She shook her head and sobbed.

  “What’d I do?” Gabe said.

  “Nothing,” she wept.

  “Then why are you crying?”

  “Because . . . I’ll never . . . ever . . . like another boy as much as I like you.” Again, she erupted with a fresh set of tears. “I can see it like . . . fifteen years from now,” she sniffed out. “You’ll be like this rich and famous pianist. And I’ll be like this Persian housewife . . . dressed in Juicy sweats . . . driving my two kids to soccer practice . . . in my black . . . Mercedes!”

  She broke out in newfound wails. He hugged her as she cried on his shoulder. “First of all, there’s nothing wrong with being a good mom—”

  “You’re right! I love my mom! I’m such a terrible daughter!”

  She started sobbing anew.

  Gabe patted her back. “Um . . . is it like . . . you know . . . that time of the month?”

  “Probably,” she cried out.

  At least she’d gone through puberty, he thought. That was a relief.

  “I don’t wanna sing for you!” she wailed.

  “No, no, no.” He pulled her off his chest. “You’re not getting away with that.”

  “You’re gonna think I sound like a turkey fart.”

  He held back a smile. “You will not sound like a turkey fart. And even if you did sound like a turkey fart, I wouldn’t tell you.” He stood up, her legs still wrapped around his waist. He set her down so she was standing upright. He started looking through her music. “Okay. Here we are. Der Hölle Rache.” He clucked his tongue. “This is a very challenging aria. You must have been taking lessons for a while.”

  She nodded.

  “You ready to warm up?”

  “No.”

  “C’mon.”

  “I don’t want to warm up.”

  “You just want to sing this cold?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to sing F6—that’s F above high C—without warming up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now you really are being a cuckoo bird.” She just pouted. Gabe spread out the accompaniment on the piano stand. “Okay.” He gave her the D-minor chord and nodded for her to start.

  Nothing happened.

  He stared at her. “How about you start when you’re ready and I’ll catch up to you?”

  “I don’t wanna sing.”

  “Stop it.” He struck the chord in tremolo and waited. She got the first few notes out and then the tears came back.

  “You’re gonna laugh at me.”

  “No, I will not laugh at you.” He sighed and blew out air. “Can I let you in on a little secret?” When she didn’t answer he said, “When a boy likes a girl the way I like you, we’re like . . . brainless. All you have to do is like show up and we’re happy. So stop worrying. Anything you do is going to be okay. Just sing your little heart out.”

  “In my small chest.”

  “You’re never going to let me live that down.” He glared at her. “I’m sorry, okay?”

  “It’s okay,” Yasmine told him. “It is small. But it won’t always be small.”

  “I know. I’ve seen your sisters. I just hope I’m still around to see the transformation.”

  She hit him again.

  “I’m going to have bruises.”

  “Serves you right.”

  He gave her a D-minor chord again. “Just go, for Chrissakes!”

  She finally started. Definitely shaky at first, but by the time she got to the coloratura, she had found her vocal chords. When she finished, he wasn’t just amazed, he was astonished.

  “Holy moly.” He let out a small laugh. “You really have a voice.”

  Instant smile on her face. “You’re just saying that to be nice.”

  “I’m not really nice when it comes to music. I’m very critical. You were . . . good.”

  She was all light and happiness. “Really?”

  “Really.” He shook his head. “Man, you’re gonna be killer in a few years when your vocal chords lengthen and chest cavity gets bigger and no comment please about your small chest. I mean that in a very positive way.”

  “I need to work on my breath control.”

  “Yeah, honestly, you do. But that’s what a vocal coach is for.” Again, he shook his head. “You really hit
your notes. Do you have perfect pitch?”

  She nodded.

  “If you and I ever bred, we’d produce a flock of little kids who’d walk around with their hands covering their ears because everything in life would sound off-key. Really good job, Yasmine. Just incredible.”

  She was beaming. “Anything else?”

  Gabe said, “No, not really.”

  “What do you mean by not really?” Yasmine sat beside him. “I’m a big girl. I can take it.” When he didn’t respond, she said, “What’s on your mind? If you don’t tell me, I’ll be anxious.”

  “Well . . . you need to figure out what to do with your hands.”

  “Absolutely. I know I’m a little stiff when I sing.”

  “Kinda.” Gabe cleared his throat. “If I had to say anything critical, the one thing I’d say is . . . you sang the notes . . . but not the words. I mean, opera is theater. You know what you’re singing?”

  “I know the translation.”

  He said, “ ‘Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem herzen—the vengeance of Hell boils in my heart!’ The Queen of the Night is so consumed with hatred for her rival, Sarastro, that she is willing to sacrifice her own daughter to satisfy her lust for revenge. I mean, I can totally see my dad doing something like that. Like him saying, ‘Here, Gabe, whack this guy or I’ll disown you.’ ” He stared at her intense face. “You’ve gotta channel into someone like that. You’ve gotta channel pure unadulterated hatred.”

  Yasmine nodded.

  “That doesn’t mean you didn’t sing beautifully. You did. Almost too beautifully. When I hear the ha, ha, ha part, to me, it always sounded kinda like maniacal laughter . . . not like ha, ha, ha, happy laughter.”

  She nodded dutifully, something smoldering in her eyes.

  He looked at her. “You’re pissed at me.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. I’d be, too. We have egos. No one likes critiquing.”

  “No, I’m not.” Her eyes filled with water that streamed down her cheeks.

  What was I thinking? Gabe said, “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “I’m glad you did.” She was trying so hard not to lose it. “At least I know you’re honest.”

  “That I am. Sit on my lap.” When she complied, he kissed her tears. He said, “I want you to promise me something, okay?”

  “What?”

  “No matter what happens, you’ll continue with your voice training. You have too much talent not to continue on.”

  “I promise.”

  “No, Yasmine, I mean really promise. You’ve got to do more than just take some lessons. You’ve got to realize your talent . . . put yourself out there even if it means ruffling some feathers. I mean I know how hard it is to defy your parents. Hell, I should talk. I’m afraid of my dad. And I wouldn’t ever ask you to do it . . . not even for me.”

  She looked up at him.

  “I mean, let’s face it. Boys come and boys go, but a voice like that. It’s forever. It’s a gift from God. More important, you can’t see your face. You’re so happy when you sing. It’s a natural. It’s what you are.”

  She was quiet.

  “You’ve got to promise me that you’ll continue with it, okay?”

  She shrugged.

  “What?”

  “You don’t understand. Nice Jewish Persian girls don’t become opera singers.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they don’t. It’s just not done, okay. I’m sorry my sister ever said anything about a stupid CD.”

  He blew out air. “Yasmine, there’s nothing wrong with being a doctor. My mother is a doctor. She sacrificed everything including me to be a doctor. But that was her dream. Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t see it as being your dream.”

  “I don’t know what my dream is.” Her eyes grew wet. “I’m only fourteen. Right now my only dream is to be with you.”

  Gabe smiled. “You know what? That’s my dream, too.” He brought her mouth to his and kissed her soundly. Within seconds, their tongues were dancing. He started unbuttoning her blouse as she tugged upward on his T-shirt until both of them were naked from the waist up. The feel of her chest against his sent shivers down his spine.

  She was sitting on his erection, constantly shifting positions and that only made it worse. He thought he would have a heart attack.

  “Does it hurt?” she asked.

  He was licking her breasts. Two dark drops like Hershey’s kisses. “What?”

  “You know.” Shifting again. “Does it hurt?”

  He picked his head up and kissed her hard on the mouth. “No, it doesn’t hurt. It feels good.” He ran his fingers down her spine and moaned. “I mean it’ll hurt if I don’t do something, but I’ll take care of that later.”

  They kissed and kissed.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  He talked through his kisses. “What do you mean what do I mean?”

  “Like are you gonna go to another girl?”

  Gabe stopped kissing and stared at her face. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know . . . to take care of it.”

  “Oh my God!” He shook his head in disbelief. “Are you serious?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “First of all, there is no other girl. Second of all, even if there was another girl who was willing, I don’t want her. I only want you. Third of all, what I meant was . . .” He held up his hand and stroked the air.

  Yasmine looked at his pantomime and then covered her mouth in embarrassment. “Oh . . . I get it.”

  “God, Yasmine, I adore you. I truly do.” He wiped the lenses of his steamed-up glasses. “But you really need some . . . brothers or something.” He took her hand away from her mouth. “Kiss me.”

  They necked for a few more minutes. Then she said, “Do you want me to do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Do to you what you were gonna do to yourself later on.”

  He stopped kissing and stared at her. “Uh, that would be unbelievably fantastic.”

  “I don’t mean sex, you know.”

  “I know you don’t mean sex. I don’t expect sex.”

  Her eyes got wet yet again. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “No worries. I’m so turned on right now, it won’t take any skill at all.”

  “You won’t think I’m a slut?”

  “No.”

  “You won’t like me less?”

  “I won’t like you less if you do it, I won’t like you more if you do it. I’ll adore you just as much either way.” He kissed her. “Honestly, do what you want, okay.”

  “Do we have time?”

  He looked at his watch. It was twenty after twelve. “We have oodles of time.” Pressing his bare chest against her naked skin. “Oh my God, you are so fine. I just want to eat you up. Kiss me.”

  She planted a wet one on his mouth. “Okay. I’m yours. Show me what to do.”

  Wordlessly, he grabbed their discarded clothing and then lifted her up. He walked out of the garage, both of them half-naked with her legs entwined around his waist.

  She said, “Are you taking me to your bedroom?”

  “Yeah.” He paused. “Is that okay?”

  “Yeah.” She leaned her head against his bare chest. “That’s really okay.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Monday morning eight A.M., Marge walked into Decker’s office, holding two cups of lidded coffee. She set one on the desktop and took an empty seat. “I just had a troubling conversation with Wendy Hesse.”

  “At eight in the morning?”

  “Seven actually.” She popped the lid open, and her face was engulfed in steam. “Someone broke into her house last night.”

  “That’s terrible.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Did she report it?”

  “No, she didn’t. But she was very upset by what was taken—Gregory’s laptop.”

  Decker picked up his coffee and sipped. “What else was stolen?”
/>   “Nothing but the laptop seemed to be missing. The only reason why Wendy noticed the missing laptop was because she had put it on the dining room table the night before. She had intended to bring it into the station house today.”

  Decker sipped coffee. “Why?”

  “There were some disturbing images on it that she wanted us to see. She said that some of the pictures showed Gregory playing with a gun—pointing it, twirling it, putting it to his head.”

  “Good Lord. How painful for her to see that.”

  “She was crying over the phone. Since she doesn’t know one gun from another, she wanted us to see if it was the same gun he used to kill himself.”

  “Why now? Hasn’t she been dodging you for over a month?”

  “Yeah. I must have called her three or four times before I finally got the hint.”

  Decker put his coffee down and fished out a notepad. “Did Gregory look upset or was he just fooling around or was he acting out some kind of weird fantasy . . .”

  “I didn’t ask, Pete. I figured the most sensible thing was a face-to-face interview.”

  “And those were the only pictures she told you about?”

  “Yes. They were probably the ones that upset her the most. She did say that in the pictures, Greg didn’t look like himself. He looked drugged.”

  “When are you meeting with her?”

  “Seven-thirty tonight. She’s coming into the station.”

  “Why so late?”

  “I’ve got things to do and she’s got things to do. It was the earliest we both could make it. You don’t have to stick around. Oliver said he’d be there.

  “Be sure to ask about Gregory’s camcorder.”

  “It’s on the top of my list,” Marge said. “I think we’re both wondering who took the pictures. I have no idea if someone was photographing him or if Greg had a camera on his computer or what.”

  “We should get hold of Myra Gelb’s laptop,” Decker said. “See if there’s anything weird on her computer.”

  “I phoned up Udonis Gelb yesterday after the memorial service. I got her answering machine and left a message, offering condolences and my number if she needed anything. I also phoned Eric Gelb. Again, I got a machine. I don’t want to push either one of them right now. I’ll call in a few days and set something up.”