Now You See Me... (14 page)

Chapter 26

Sunday, November 21, 11:03 a.m. Corner of Santa
Monica Boulevard and Vine Street. A 21-year-old
man refused to hand over his cell phone to the suspect and was punched in the face. The suspect
grabbed the phone before fleeing westbound on
Santa Monica Boulevard.

Connors’s gray Cutlass was parked in front of our house when I returned from paying a
shiva
call to Mrs. Kroen. I’d phoned him early that morning, but he hadn’t answered. I’d left a message telling him I would be home after eleven and would phone again. “I have to talk to you, Andy. Please.”

At least he was willing to talk.

I walked up the driveway and entered the kitchen through the side door. Zack was brewing coffee—French roast vanilla. The smell was enticing and so was he. I’d been up for almost an hour after Connors’s call until I fell asleep, and I hadn’t heard Zack when he left for
shul.
He was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and looked mighty fine. I wished I could kiss him. I wished Connors weren’t there.

“How was the game?” I asked.

Zack plays basketball every Sunday. He needs the exercise, and it’s his only break from the pressures of being a rabbi.

“We won. They got here a few minutes ago, Molly.”

“They?”

“They” made it official. I hung my car keys on a hook, took off my jacket, and folded it over a kitchen chair.

“Connors and another detective. A woman. She didn’t give her name. I told them I didn’t know how long you’d be, but Connors said they would wait. I offered coffee, and they said yes.”

“So we’re entertaining them before they slap the cuffs on me?”

“Connors obviously thinks you told Rabbi Bailor about Shankman. You’ll explain that you didn’t, and everything will be okay.”

“Right.”

“I put them in the dining room—mainly because we have no living room furniture and I didn’t think you’d want them to sit on the floor.” He smiled. “Sorry, that was lame.”

I smiled back. “Lame is welcome.”

“I can cancel my meeting.”

Not a good idea. He was meeting with the
shul
board. “I’ll be okay. Go change into something more rabbinic.”

I watched him as he headed out of the room and almost called him back. He must have sensed my indecision, because he turned around.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

I filled two mugs with coffee and took them into the dining room. Connors was sitting at the table next to a strikingly pretty slender woman in her midthirties with shoulder-length dark wavy hair and green eyes that you’d have to be blind not to notice. She was wearing a camel sweater and had tied a multicolored wool scarf around her neck. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her.

Connors took the mugs. “Thanks. These are for us, right? What about you?”

“Maybe later,” I said.

He put one mug in front of the woman, kept the other, and sat down. “Molly, this is Detective Jessie Drake. Detective Drake, Molly Blume.”

“Abrams,” I said. I’m not sure why. All week I’d been explaining my different surnames to people. It was getting tiresome.

“Your husband is Zack Abrams?” Detective Drake said. She had a pleasantly husky voice, like Demi Moore’s but not as raspy. “He didn’t give his last name when we met. He teaches at Ohr Torah?”

“One class.” Apparently, she’d checked out not only me but Zack. I found that interesting, and disturbing. I wondered if she was trying to intimidate me.

“Detective Drake is with West L.A., Homicide Division,” Connors said, emphasizing the “homicide.”

I sat down. “I know people at West L.A. I go there weekly to collect data for a column.” That’s probably where I’d seen her.

“The ‘Crime Sheet,’ ” Jessie said. “Detective Connors told me. I’m surprised we haven’t met. Who do you know at West L.A.?”

“Is this a coffee klatch?” Connors said.

I ignored him and named a number of detectives, including Phil Okum.

“My partner,” she said. “We’d like to talk to you about Greg Shankman, Mrs. Abrams.”

Down to business. “Call me Molly.” I faced Connors. “I don’t have more to tell you than I did last night.” I almost said “Andy” but thought better of it.

“This is a courtesy, Molly,” he said. “Detective Drake could have called you down to the station.”

“Then you wouldn’t be enjoying this freshly brewed coffee,” I said.

Connors gave me a warning frown. I thought I saw a smile sneak across the other detective’s face.

“Why don’t we start over,” she said. “I’ll tell you what I know, and you can correct me if I get anything wrong. Okay?”

As if I had a choice. “Okay.”

“You told Detective Connors you were concerned about a friend’s daughter who ran away with a man she met in a chat room. You asked him to help you find this man, based on a license plate number you provided. Nicely done, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

If she wanted to play good cop, that was fine with me. It felt strange, though, to have Connors playing bad cop. I’ve had run-ins with other detectives, mostly those at Wilshire whom I had nagged for almost six years about Aggie’s murder. I’ve never been on the outs with Connors. It made me angry, and sad.

“Last night Detective Connors told you the owner of the car was Greg Shankman,” Jessie continued. “He instructed you not to give that information to your friend.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then how do you explain the fact that Greg Shankman is dead, Molly?” Connors said.

“You said his car went off the road and crashed on some rocks. That would pretty much do it.”

He glared at me. “You’re hardly in a position to be a smart-ass. I trusted you.”

“I trusted you, too.” I glared back, then addressed Jessie. “I told Detective Connors that I feared Shankman would try to kill himself. Apparently, he did.”

“There’s a problem,” Jessie said in a pleasant, unhurried voice. “The medical examiner believes that Mr. Shankman was dead before the car crashed.”

I just sat there.

“Cat got your tongue?” Connors said.

I cleared my throat. “What was the cause of death?”

“That’s not information we can share,” Jessie said. “But you can see our problem, Molly. You had the name of the person who ran off with your friend’s daughter. You left a message telling Detective Connors the daughter had returned home. When
did
she return home, by the way?”

“Friday night.”

“Mr. Shankman died Friday night. So within a few hours of the time this girl suddenly returned home, the man she ran off with was killed.” Jessie took a sip of coffee. “This is delicious. French roast?”

I nodded. In my mind I saw the reddish-brown spots on Shankman’s hardwood floor.

“You were desperate to find her,” Connors said. “I can understand that, Molly. Just tell me the truth, that you told the father.”

I clenched my hands. “I didn’t tell him.”

“Then explain Shankman’s death. Come on, Molly. You said you didn’t know Shankman’s name when we spoke Saturday night. Obviously, you
did
hear my message, and passed on Shankman’s name to your friend.”

“I
didn’t
know his name. I heard you say you wouldn’t know till the next day. I thought you meant the car owner’s name. And you phoned on the Sabbath, Andy. You know I don’t use the phone on the Sabbath. I’m Orthodox,” I told Jessie.

“Very convenient,” Connors said.

“But if you thought it was a life-and-death emergency, you
could
phone, right?” Jessie said. “And you feared Shankman would kill himself, and the girl. I’ve been studying Orthodox Judaism,” she told Connors, who was staring at her, his mouth open. “I didn’t know I was Jewish until a few years ago. Long story.” She returned her attention to me.

“I didn’t hear the message.”

“Well, it’s there,” Connors said. “Why don’t we play it so Detective Drake can hear it?”

“I erased it. I didn’t see a reason to keep it.”

He rolled his eyes.

“When have I ever lied to you, Andy? I can’t believe that you think I went back on my word.”

“You went to Shankman’s apartment when I told you not to, didn’t you?”

“You said not to get his address from my friend. I didn’t. I already had it.”

Connors grunted.

“If you didn’t tell the girl’s father, Molly, who
did
you tell?” Jessie asked.

“No one.”

“You told Zack,” Connors said with a “gotcha” tone. “He went with you to Shankman’s apartment.”

“Zack didn’t phone anyone. We left for Shankman’s apartment right after I talked to you.”

“Let’s assume you didn’t tell anyone, Molly,” Jessie said. “I see several possibilities. One, this girl’s father, or someone else, picked up on something you said and used it to find Shankman. Two, the daughter, possibly in self-defense, killed him and staged the fatal car accident— with someone’s help. I can’t see her moving Shankman’s body to the car on her own. Three, the daughter contacted someone who came to her rescue, killed Shankman—again, maybe in self-defense— and staged the car accident to avoid notoriety and protect the girl’s name.”

Those were all reasonable possibilities. I didn’t like any of them. “Four,” I said, “Shankman was killed by someone unrelated to my friend. Shankman’s girlfriend filed a restraining order against him. I’d start with her.”

Jessie nodded. “We intend to talk to her. But the timing is suggestive, wouldn’t you agree? Why would the girlfriend choose this Friday night to kill him? And why would your friend’s daughter leave that same night?”

I thought for a moment. “Suppose the girlfriend found my friend’s daughter at the apartment and got into a heated altercation with Shankman. My friend’s daughter was frightened,” I said, thinking out loud. “She left. The altercation became violent. The girlfriend killed him and called someone to help her get rid of the body.”

“Molly writes true crime books,” Connors said. “You can tell she has a fertile imagination.”

Jessie looked thoughtful. “Why would the girlfriend kill him?”

“In self-defense? She filed a restraining order. She must have had a reason.”

“In that case your friend’s daughter is a material witness, and we still need to talk to her. What did her father tell you about her return, by the way?”

“He said his daughter realized she’d made a mistake and came home. That was it.” I wasn’t about to tell them that Hadassah wasn’t talking, that she might be in shock.

“You weren’t curious?” Connors said. “That would be a first.”

“I’m sure I’ll hear the details at some point. They just got their daughter back, Andy. They’re overwhelmed with relief and joy. I didn’t want to intrude.”

Jessie took another sip of coffee. “So what’s the girl’s name?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“You may not have a choice,” she said in that pleasant voice. “We can subpoena you, get a bench warrant for your arrest if you don’t cooperate. I’d hate to go that route.”

Connors said, “Even easier, we can ask the girlfriend what school Shankman was working at when he was fired in September. Then we’ll have your friend’s name.”

“Then you don’t need me to tell you.” I didn’t feel the need to volunteer that the girlfriend wouldn’t be back until after Thanksgiving.

“We haven’t reached her. We’d like to talk to the daughter as soon as possible. We’re not saying she’s involved with Shankman’s death, Molly. And if Shankman was killed in self-defense . . .”

“I promised I wouldn’t reveal her name, Andy. I told you that from the start. My friend is concerned about her reputation.”

“A man is dead,” Connors said. “I’d say that changes things.”

“You were at Mr. Shankman’s apartment last night, by your own admission,” Jessie said.

I faced her. “Right.”

“According to the manager, Mr. LaSalle, you were on your hands and knees, looking for a lost contact lens. Did you find the lens?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“What were you looking for, Molly?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“Not the lens?” She smiled.

“Aside from the lens.” My palms were clammy.

“While you were looking for the lens, did you happen to notice bloodstains on the hardwood floor?”

“I can’t say that I did.”

“Careful wording. Oh, I forgot. You’re a writer.” Jessie smiled again. “When you left a message for Detective Connors last night, telling him the girl was safely home, you didn’t tell him you saw blood spots on the floor.”

“I didn’t know there
were
blood spots.”

“But that’s what you suspected. You write true crime books and a crime column. So your instincts are sharper than the average person’s, and if you saw reddish-brown spots on a floor, and you had reason to think something violent may have taken place in a room, you’d think blood. You violated a crime scene, Molly.” Jessie sounded regretful, more than angry.

“I had no idea it was a crime scene.”

“You were on your hands and knees, examining the floor. You picked up a rug and looked under it, too. Who knows what evidence you disturbed?”

“I was careful.” I realized too late what I’d said. She had trapped me.

“Why would you be careful if you didn’t know it was a crime scene, Molly?”

I just sat there, trying to meet those green eyes, wondering how much trouble I was in.

“Well, let me ask you this,” she said. “If you had come home from Shankman’s apartment, and you hadn’t heard from your friend that his daughter was back home, would you have mentioned those spots to Detective Connors and assumed that something had happened in that apartment? That someone may have met with foul play?”

“Do I need a lawyer?” I managed to make that sound casual, but I was quaking.

“That depends,” Jessie said. “What’s your friend’s name?”

I shook my head. “I have to think about this.”

“Don’t think too long,” Connors said.

“There was more blood,” Jessie said. “Especially near the closet, and under the rug. Someone cleaned up, but it’s hard to get rid of blood. What else did you notice, Molly?”