Now You See Me... (21 page)

“Thanks, Sue.”

“By the way, you were asking about a specialty license plate? I remember all about it now. It was R-C-K-Y-R-D. Rocky Road? The ice cream flavor? Mr. Shankman told me about it when he picked up some papers a few weeks after he was let go. He said it cheered him up when it came in the mail. Rabbi was in my office when Mr. Shankman stopped by. He told Rabbi about the plate, and Rabbi laughed and said, ‘Too bad it isn’t kosher.’ Rabbi’s cute, isn’t he?”

Chapter 37

This time Jessie Drake didn’t pull over a chair.

She came into Hadassah’s room with her partner, Phil, in the middle of the day, when Hadassah’s father wasn’t home, or her brother. Hadassah had heard the doorbell. She had shut down the computer only seconds before she heard footsteps on the stairs and hurried to her bed. If Jessie had touched the still-warm screen, she would have known.

Hadassah’s mother walked in behind the detectives. “My husband’s on the way home,” she said. “I called him. If you can wait until he gets here?”

But Jessie said they had to talk to Hadassah.
Now.

The “now” was serious, filled with threat. So Hadassah knew today would be different, even before Detective Drake started speaking, her voice not unpleasant but tougher.

Hadassah knew that her mother heard the threat, too. “What’s going on?” she asked. Hadassah could hear the tremor behind the bluster in her voice.

Jessie said, “We matched hair from your brush to hair we found in Greg Shankman’s bedroom, Hadassah. We’re pretty sure we can match the DNA from your hair to the DNA of the blood we found on the floor. So we know you were there, Hadassah.”

“I want you to wait until my husband comes home,” Hadassah’s mother said.

“We showed your photo to a witness who saw a young woman a few blocks from the apartment on Friday,” Jessie continued. “The witness identified you, Hadassah. So you were there Friday night, and something made you run from the apartment. If it was self-defense, you have nothing to worry about. But you have to tell us who helped you. No more games. I am out of patience, and so is the district attorney. He is ready to file charges.”

“My daughter needs a lawyer,” Hadassah’s mother said. “I don’t want you asking her any more questions until she has a lawyer.”

Hadassah was surprised by how calm her mother sounded, how strong. It was as though another person had suddenly inhabited her body.

Phil said, “Mrs. Bailor, your daughter is eighteen. She’s an adult. If she wants an attorney, she can ask for one. That’s her right, but you can’t do it for her.”

“She’s not well,” my mother said. “You can see that. She can’t make decisions. She needs a lawyer.”

Jessie said, “Phil, can I talk to you?”

Hadassah thought Jessie sounded worried.

“Don’t say a word, Hadassah,” her mother warned. “Your father will be home any minute. He’ll call a lawyer.”

Hadassah’s fingers bunched the top sheet. She could tell Jessie Drake about hiding in the closet, the air warm and close and filled with the scent of mothballs. She could try to explain about the photo and the other items in the box, about the pills and the note, about all the lies, everything he’d told her was lies. She could tell Jessie Drake about the way he was staring at her, about the kiss and the worry of what he’d do next, about the green mug and the key that wouldn’t open the door lock. About feeling trapped. She could tell Jessie how terrified she’d been when she’d heard the click of the lock that told her he was back, that he had been talking of death and dying.
I would die a million
deaths for you, Dassie. Would you die for me?
She could tell Jessie Drake that she hadn’t wanted to die.

So when she lunged at him with the shard, was that self-defense? Hadassah had thought so at the time. She hadn’t meant to kill him. She had heard the click of the lock and picked up the shard to defend herself. She had wanted to escape to the safety of the family she should never have left. He had grabbed her free arm, and her hand had driven the glassy point into his throat, and she couldn’t take that back, ever. Not even in her dreams.

Maybe he wasn’t dead when she left him lying on the floor and ran out. She couldn’t tell that to Jessie. Jessie and the district attorney might agree that Hadassah had acted in what she believed to be self-defense.

But if he was alive when Hadassah left?

Hadassah didn’t want to think about that, but she had been thinking about little else since Sunday morning, when her father told her. “Greg Shankman is dead,” her father had said, holding her hand while he bandaged her palm, careful not to ask questions about the deep cuts. “You don’t have to tell the police anything, Dassie. We love you, Dassie.”

If Hadassah explained, Jessie might believe her. But she would ask the same questions she’d asked before:

What happened after you left the apartment, Hadassah? Who moved Mr. Shankman’s body to his car? Who removed all your things? Your clothes, your cell phone, your wallet, your keys.

Hadassah didn’t know. That’s what kept her awake at night, more than the No-Doz.

Jessie would ask about Hadassah’s father. But Hadassah didn’t know what to tell her about her father, or her brother. Her mother had opened the door Friday night. She had cried out when she saw Hadassah as though she’d seen a ghost, “Thank God! Thank God!” Hadassah had collapsed in her arms, sobbing, and her mother had sobbed, too. “Thank God! Thank God!” She had held Hadassah to her chest and rocked her the way she had when Hadassah was a little girl.

“Oh, how I wish
Abba
knew you were home!” her mother had exclaimed, brushing the tangled curls away from Hadassah’s face, which was streaked with tears and flecks of blood Hadassah hadn’t wiped off. “He went with Gavriel to a
sholom zochor
for Tova Gordon’s new baby boy.”

Hadassah wasn’t sure what time her father and brother had come home. Late, because her mother had started to worry. “Where can they be? I hope they’re all right: You hear terrible things, people being mugged while they’re walking on Friday nights.”

When her father returned, he had come into her room. She had been waiting for him, watching the doorway, and had seen his large shadowy form in the meager light of the hall. He had knelt at the side of her bed and wrapped her in his arms, had stroked her hair and face. “He lied,
Abba,”
Hadassah said. “He lied about everything.”

“It’s going to be okay, Dassie,” her father told her. “Everything is going to be okay.”

Unspoken between them was the understanding that there would be no questions. No one asked her anything or looked her in the eye. Not her father, not her brother or uncle, or her mother or sister.

Dr. McIntyre had wanted to prescribe a sedative. “You’ve been through a terrible experience, Hadassah. If you want to talk . . .”

Hadassah wondered if Dinah had talked to her brothers about the people they had killed. Schechem, and the others. She wondered if Dinah had avoided looking in people’s eyes, too.

“Okay, Hadassah,” Jessie Drake said. “If you want a lawyer, that’s your right. I know that we’re going to find Greg Shankman’s blood on your clothes. We’ll arrest you. The district attorney will get a court hearing to determine competency. You and I both know you’re competent. You’re afraid to tell the truth.”

Hadassah heard her father as he bounded up the stairs.

“If you’re protecting someone, Hadassah, tell us,” Jessie said. “This is your last chance. You can talk to us, or—”

“I want you to stop badgering my daughter, Detective,” Hadassah’s father said, running into the room. “She hasn’t done anything wrong. She doesn’t have to talk to you. That’s her right.”

“Why doesn’t she tell us that?” Phil said.

“Obviously, she can’t.
I’m
telling you. You have no proof that she was involved with Mr. Shankman’s death. If you did, you would arrest her.”

Hadassah could hear her father’s panting.

“We’ll be back, Hadassah,” Jessie said.

After the detectives left, Hadassah’s father took her hand. “I won’t let them hurt you, Hadassah. I promise.”

Chapter 38

Nechama Bailor looked more haggard than the last time I had seen her. She told me her husband was unavailable, but the way I was feeling, a Sherman tank wouldn’t have stopped me.

“I have to talk to him, Mrs. Bailor.”

“He’s tied up, Molly.” She smiled apologetically. “Call a little later.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”

I couldn’t decide whether she looked more startled or offended as I stepped around her and headed to the rabbi’s study. The door was closed. I didn’t bother knocking.

Rabbi Bailor was pacing and talking on the phone when I entered. I caught him in mid-stride. He frowned. “Please hold on,” he said to the person on the other end and covered the receiver with his hand.

“This isn’t a good time, Molly.”

“It isn’t a good time for me, either, Rabbi Bailor.” I sat on the chair facing the desk.

“The police are this close to arresting Dassie, Molly. I’m trying to get hold of an attorney.” He spoke with barely contained exasperation.

“By all means, finish your call. I’ll wait.”

He removed his hand from the receiver. “Can I call you back?” he said into the phone. “Ten minutes? Thank you.” He put the receiver down and folded his arms. “What’s so important?”

“You knew on Friday that Dassie was with Shankman, Rabbi Bailor.” My voice was calm, but my nails dug into the arms of the chair. “You phoned Yamashiro Room. You spoke to the waitress I questioned Thursday night. You learned Dassie had been there Thursday night with a man who thought his car was damaged by the valet. You recognized the license plate number of the car. R-C-K-Y-R-D. Shankman’s Altima.”

The rabbi dropped his hands to his side. “I didn’t phone Yamashiro Room, Molly. I didn’t speak with anyone there. You can believe me or not.”

“Then who
did
call? On Friday Detective Connors left me a message, telling me it was Shankman. He ordered me not to tell you. With Shankman dead, he thinks I
did
tell you.”

“I can’t help what Detective Connors thinks, Molly.”

“You jeopardized my credibility with him, Rabbi Bailor. You’ve probably ruined our friendship. That may not matter to you, but it matters a great deal to me.”

Rabbi Bailor looked at his watch.

“When I came here Sunday, you pretended to be shocked when I told you Shankman was dead, and that he was the man Dassie met in the chat room. But you
knew
it was Shankman.”

“I
was
shocked that Shankman was dead. Again, you don’t have to believe me, Molly, but that’s the truth.”

“But you knew on Friday that Dassie was with Shankman, didn’t you?” I demanded.

He looked me in the eyes. “Yes.”

“And Sunday you pretended you didn’t know.”

He sat at his desk. “I’m sorry I misled you, Molly. It’s a difficult situation. I didn’t want to involve you more than you were already involved.”

“That’s a long definition for lying,” I said.

He flinched. I felt no satisfaction, only sadness. I had harbored resentment toward the rabbi, but had never doubted his honesty.

“You’ve said your piece, Molly. I apologize. I can’t do more.”

“You can phone Detective Connors and tell him how you tracked down Shankman’s identity.”

“I didn’t track him down.”

I thought about what Rabbi Bailor
had
answered, and what he hadn’t. I considered who else would have traced my steps and talked to Irene Jakaitis.

“Your brother-in-law called Yamashiro, didn’t he?” I said. “He spoke to the waitress and got the license plate number.”

The rabbi made no denial. That and a twitch in his cheek confirmed my guess. I should have realized it was Jastrow. He was determined to help his sister. He had come to three book signings to vet me. He had driven two hours to meet with me in San Diego and pretended to be Rabbi Bailor to accomplish what he wanted. The other day I had teased him about being a detective.

“Reuben told you what he’d learned,” I said. “So you went to Shankman’s apartment.”

“I didn’t know his address, Molly.”

“You said Dassie walked four miles from his apartment. So you knew where he lived.” Another lie, I thought.

“I knew he had moved to West L.A. His street address was in my Rolodex at school. I didn’t know it by heart. I don’t know the addresses of
any
of the Torat Tzion staff by heart,” he said with a surge of impatience. “Why would I?”

“So you drove to the school Friday and—”

“Ten minutes before
Shabbos?
That’s when I learned it was Shankman. And then I drove to his apartment? On
Shabbos?”

“If you thought it was a life-and-death emergency,” I said, using the same argument Jessie had used on Sunday.

“From what Shankman told Nechama, nothing was going to happen until Monday. How could I risk being
mechallel Shabbos
if Dassie was safe?” Rabbi Bailor picked up a staple remover and clicked it several times. “I considered getting his address and walking there,” he admitted. “I decided to wait until Saturday night, when
Shabbos
was over.”

I stared at him, incredulous. “So you went to
shul,
came home, made
Kiddush,
ate a meal with your family, and sang
zemirot.
You did all that knowing where Dassie was? That she was with a man who had taunted you and told you he raped her?”

“But he
didn’t
rape her.” The rabbi put down the staple remover. “He was trying to brainwash her, yes. But twenty-four hours wouldn’t make a difference. I didn’t think she was in physical danger, Molly. His deadline was Monday.”

I reminded myself that I’d never communicated my fears about the double suicide to Rabbi Bailor. Maybe that had been a mistake.

“It was a test from
Hashem,”
the rabbi said. “Not an easy one. Maybe I learned that it was Shankman right before
Shabbos
so I wouldn’t be able to act on that knowledge. If I had gone there, if I had witnessed Shankman hurting her, who knows what I would have done?”

“Did Dassie tell you he assaulted her?” I could tell that he regretted his words.

“She didn’t tell me anything. She said he lied. She was emotionally spent.”

“Shankman is dead, Rabbi Bailor. Somebody killed him. Why won’t Dassie tell the police what happened? Because she’s in shock?” I said, with sarcasm.

He scowled. “Is that so hard to believe? She was with this man for almost a week. He had her under his control. Even if he didn’t assault her, Dr. McIntyre said Dassie could be suffering from posttraumatic stress.”

“What time did she come home?”

The rabbi sighed. “Is that important?”

“It is, to me. You owe me answers, Rabbi Bailor. What time?” I asked again.

“Around eight o’clock? Maybe a little later.”

“You’re not sure?” I reviewed the little the rabbi had told me about Dassie’s return. “You said Dassie collapsed in your wife’s arms. You weren’t home, were you?”

“I was at a
sholom zochor,
with Gavriel,” he said, his voice steady.

“I see.”

His face was flushed. “That’s the truth, Molly.”

I let that hang in the air. “So what time did you return from the
sholom zochor?”

“Around ten. As soon as I arrived home, my
Hatzolah
radio went off. The call was for an address on Beverwil. I drove there, but two other members had already responded. So I drove home.”

Hatzolah,
which means “rescue,” is a community emergency response organization. My dad is a trained member. So is Zack. When you hear the call, you respond with your member number and wait until you’re authorized to drive to the location.

“So you weren’t authorized to respond?” I asked.

“I just went. I was thinking about Dassie, where she was.”

Having caught the rabbi in one lie, I didn’t know whether I could believe anything he told me. He might have responded without authorization to the call. Or he might have used the call as an excuse to drive on the Sabbath without arousing his neighbor’s curiosity—but not to Beverwil.

“And Gavriel?” I asked.

“I’m not sure when Gavriel came home. He was planning to visit friends after the
sholom zochor.”

“Did you tell Gavriel about Shankman?”

“I’m tired of this, Molly. This isn’t a courtroom.”

“How did Dassie get away from Shankman?”

He glared at me. “I don’t know.” Each word was a separate sentence.

“When I was at his apartment Saturday night, none of her belongings were there. She must have had clothes, toiletries, a purse. And her cell phone,” I said. “Shankman used it to phone your wife. Did Dassie bring those things home with her?”

“No. I have no idea who took them.”

“Your brother-in-law?”

“I didn’t ask him.” The rabbi placed his palms on the desk and leaned toward me. “You tried to find Dassie, Molly. For that, I’ll always be grateful. But I don’t owe you any more answers. I have to protect myself and my family.”

“If you didn’t do anything wrong—”

He snorted. “You think it’s so simple? Don’t be naïve.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “I’m finished talking about this. If you have more questions, go to your good friend Detective Connors.”

Heat rushed to my face. “Are you saying it’s my fault the police know Dassie was with Shankman?”

“You told Connors the father of the girl you were looking for was a rabbi. You told him the man she was with was fired from the school where the rabbi was a principal.”

“I was trying to find her. I didn’t know Shankman would be killed.”

“You’re right.” The rabbi sighed. “It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. This was meant to be.”

“Did you ever wonder why Greg Shankman
chose
Dassie, Rabbi Bailor?” I had his attention now. I should have stopped. “He was angry with you, because you let him down. He was angry, because you did nothing when Amy Brookman accused Greg of sexually harassing her, even though she was lying to protect her pal Adam Prosser, who everybody in the school knows is a pathological cheater. He was angry because when he was about to lose his job, you said, ‘Sorry, Greg, you’re a nice guy, but gee, this is out of my hands.’ Why does that sound so familiar?”

Rabbi Bailor’s face was mottled with color.

I picked up my purse and stood. My legs were shaking, and I felt physically ill.

“You know what, Rabbi Bailor? I tried to help. I put my heart into finding your daughter. I may have said more than I should have, but I did it because I was anxious to find her. And at least I
tried.
When have
you
tried?”