Now You See Me... (6 page)

“So how many times have you been to J Spot, Sara? The truth—I won’t tell.”

“Maybe six or seven.”

I mentally multiplied that by ten. “So you could have been in the room with this guy.”

“Maybe.” The thought clearly troubled and intrigued her. “But I don’t know his screen name. Honest.”

“When were you in the chat room last?”

“Monday night. I just lurked. I don’t even know why I went. It’s not like Dassie or this guy would be there.”

I pulled out my notepad and wrote down the URL for the chat room. “You said Dassie heard about this site from kids at Torat Tzion. Can you give me some names?”

She licked her lips. “Are you going to talk to them? Mrs. Bailor said no one’s supposed to know about Dassie.”

“I’m telling people that I’m writing an article about Jewish chat rooms, or the school. The names?” I prompted.

“Dassie mentioned two girls. Tara and Becky. I don’t know their last names. She was friendly with another girl, but she died.”

“Batya Weinberg.”

“You heard about her?” Sara looked surprised. “Oh, the Bailors told you. Dassie was really upset about her.”

I put my notepad back in my purse. “So I guess other kids from Bais Rifka visit this chat room, right?” I asked, aiming for casual.

“A few,” she said, wary again. “I can’t tell you who.”

“I’m not asking. Sara, you
do
understand that chat rooms can be dangerous, don’t you? Even
frum
ones?”

“I’m careful. I never give away any personal information. Neither do my friends.”

“Dassie probably thought she was careful, too, Sara.”

The look she gave me was filled with alarm and resentment. “You
promised
you wouldn’t tell my parents.”

“I’m going to honor that promise, Sara. I think
you
should tell them. They’ll probably let you continue, with some guidelines.”

“They won’t.” She slumped down on her chair.

“Think about it.” I would be thinking about it, too. “Another question, Sara. Do you know Hadassah’s password?”

“No. I wish I
did
know.”

The good news was that I believed her. That was the bad news, too.

Chapter 10

I had learned enough to understand why Hadassah had been easy prey for someone she’d met in a chat room, but I still had no idea how to find her. Driving around the corner, I parked on Alcott and knocked on the doors of several houses on the chance that someone had seen the car that had picked her up Sunday night.

Of course, no one had.

I was on Pico, heading home, when I had a thought and drove back toward the Bailors’ house. The street was filled with cars, and I had to park halfway up the block. My parents speak with nostalgia about the Los Angeles of their childhood, when you could leave your door unlocked and walk at night without fear, but I’ve read too much data about muggings in middle-class neighborhoods like this one, muggings that take place even in broad daylight.

So I hurried along the sidewalk, eager to escape the chill of the evening and the darkness that the street lamps did little to dispel, and when I heard footsteps behind me as I turned onto the Bailors’ walkway, I tensed and whirled around, my car keys in my hand, poised to attack.

It was Reuben Jastrow. He was wearing a yarmulke and no glasses.

I dropped my hand. “Stalking me again?”

His face reddened. “I’m visiting my sister and brother-in-law.”

Sometimes I speak without thinking. “That was a joke—obviously, not a good one. Sorry.”

“My wife often says I should lighten up. She’s probably right.” He smiled tightly. “Did you learn anything from Hadassah’s friend?”

I frowned. “How did you know I was there?”

“My sister told me you were planning to go there.”

“Maybe
you
should be doing the detecting. That’s
not
a joke.”

“I’m sorry. My wife also tells me I can be pushy.” Jastrow followed me up the walkway. “I’m anxious to find Hadassah. We all are.”

Jastrow rang the bell. A moment later Gavriel Bailor opened the door and stepped aside to let us into the small entry off the living room. He looked surprised to see me with his uncle.

“This is my nephew, Gavriel,” Jastrow said. “Gavriel, this is Mrs. Abrams.”

“We met earlier today.” I was struck again by how much the young man resembled his father. The same nose, minus the bump; the same soulful, dark brown eyes.

“I’ll let my father know you’re here,” he told me. To his uncle, he said,
“Ima
’s in the kitchen.”

“I’ll wait with Miss Blume.”

Gavriel nodded and left us in the hall. I supposed Jastrow was being polite, but I had nothing to say to him.

“He looks like a fine young man,” I said to fill the silence.

Jastrow nodded. “Nechama gets phone calls almost daily from
shad
chonim. Gavriel is going out with an L.A. girl while he’s home. She’s lovely, from a wonderful family.”

I heard Rabbi Bailor’s footsteps before I saw him hurrying toward us, his hand on top of his black yarmulke as if he were preventing it from flying off his head.

“Did you learn something?” he asked me eagerly after acknowledging his brother-in-law with a quick greeting.

Hearing the hope in his voice was painful. I shook my head and saw disappointment drag down the corners of his mouth. Jastrow’s, too.

“Nechama’s waiting for you,” the rabbi told his brother-in-law. “Tell her I’ll be right there.”

Jastrow hesitated. After giving his brother-in-law a look, he wished me good night and passed through the dining room to the kitchen. Odd, I thought.

“So what
did
Sara tell you?” the rabbi said.

I gave him an edited summary, leaving out Sara’s guess that Dassie had been drunk.

Rabbi Bailor sighed. “I had no idea Dassie felt so lonely at school. She was always smiling, always looking happy. Why didn’t she come to us?”

“She probably didn’t want to worry you, especially if she thought you couldn’t solve her problems.”

In high school and during several years that followed, I’d presented a happy demeanor to my parents, even though I’d been struggling with teachers and broken friendships and my growing doubts about Orthodox observance. Afterward my parents had asked the same questions: How is it that we didn’t see, Molly? Why didn’t you tell us?

“Sara mentioned that history teacher Hadassah liked,” I continued. “She said Dassie was close to him. Maybe they’re still in touch.”

“I doubt it.”

“It can’t hurt to check. What’s his name? Is he Jewish, by the way?”

“Greg Shankman.” The rabbi said the name grudgingly. “Yes, he’s Jewish. Why?”

His reluctance piqued my interest. “Just curious. I’ll call you tomorrow for his contact information. Sara said Shankman left in September because of a family emergency.
You
said he wasn’t at Torat Tzion this year.”

“You’re nit-picking, Molly.”

“ ‘Examine the Torah’s language carefully, and it will reveal fascinating meanings.’ Isn’t that what you taught us? Isn’t that what the commentaries do?”

The rabbi forced a smile. “I’m delighted to know that you took my lessons to heart, Molly.”

“There
was
no family emergency, was there?”

“Mr. Shankman’s leaving has no bearing on Dassie.” He glanced behind him. “My wife and brother-in-law are waiting for me. If you’ll excuse me?”

“Was Greg Shankman fired?” The rabbi’s stiffened posture gave me my answer. “He was, wasn’t he?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss Mr. Shankman.”

His tone and diction spelled “lawsuit.” “Shankman left in September, right?” I said, thinking aloud. “According to Sara, that’s when Dassie met this man in the chat room.”

“So?”

“So if Shankman was fired, maybe he
arranged
to meet Dassie in the chat room, to get back at you. That would explain the personal tone of the note.”

“Ridiculous.” The rabbi shook his head. “First of all,” he said, taking on the traditional sing-song Talmudic cadence, “according to Sara, the man Dassie met is twenty. Mr. Shankman is closer to thirty.”

“People don’t always give correct personal data in chat rooms—or in personal ads, or online sites.”

My last date via a Jewish site—“Tall, good-looking, spiritual, free spirit, affectionate”—had been a short, overweight, forty-year-old out-of-work computer programmer who thought buying me a drink entitled him to cop a feel.

And Kacie Woody’s killer, I recalled, had pretended to be eighteen to gain her trust. And a thirty-four-year-old Phoenix police officer had pretended to be a teen when he sexually assaulted a thirteen-year-old boy less than two hours after he first met the boy in an AOL chat room.

“Anyway,” Rabbi Bailor said, “Dassie saw his photo
before
she met him. She would have recognized Mr. Shankman.”

“He probably e-mailed her someone else’s photo. That’s what they do.”

“But Dassie met him twice before Sunday,” the rabbi said. “If it was Mr. Shankman, she would have told Sara.”

“Not if he convinced Dassie that she couldn’t trust anyone with their secret. Actually, that would make the whole courtship more exciting. Forbidden love?”

“You have this all worked out,” the rabbi said, impatient. “But I didn’t hire Mr. Shankman. And he knew that it wasn’t my decision to fire him.”

“Why was he fired?”

“You haven’t changed, Malka. Sorry
—Molly.
Always tenacious. Anything else?”

“You should call the police, Rabbi. The more I think about the note—”

“You’re going to show it to your detective friend. Let’s see what he finds out. I think this man is playing with me, Molly.”

I frowned. “What makes you think so?”

“Just a feeling.” Again, he glanced over his shoulder. “Is that it?”

He was either eager to get rid of me and my questions, or anxious to join his wife and brother-in-law. Maybe both.

“I’d like to ask Aliza another question. Is she home?”

“She’s probably in her room. By the way, I talked to her about the IM thing. Thanks again for telling me.”

“No problem.”

At least I’d accomplished something.

Chapter 11

Aliza was at her desk, applying pink-beige polish to her nails.

The mounds of clothes on the beds had disappeared.

“Nervous energy,” she said, following my eyes. “We’re all waiting for Dassie to show up, or at least
phone.”
Aliza capped the nail polish bottle and opened a bottle of topcoat. “I thought that was her phoning half an hour ago, because my parents were so stressed right after. But my dad said it was a parent. They’re always calling him at home.”

“It must be tough to be a principal. My mom teaches high school English, and she often gets calls from parents at home, too.” “Emergencies” that are rarely that.

“My dad loves his job. Well, he’d love it more if he wasn’t worried about losing it.” She looked up at me, her teeth catching her upper lip. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“I won’t tell,” I promised. “Why would your father’s job be at risk, Aliza? He was a wonderful teacher. I’m sure he’s a terrific principal.”

To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure why I cared. Despite my sympathy for the rabbi during this crisis, I was still nursing a fourteen-year-old resentment. And though in my adolescent fantasies he’d never been the object of my revenge (I’d reserved that role for Rabbi Ingel, had pictured him being fired after confessing publicly that he’d maligned me), over the years I had often imagined Rabbi Bailor begging my forgiveness. But now I felt an inexplicable need to defend him against his detractors.

Aliza nodded. “My dad loves connecting with students, bringing them closer to Judaism. Most of them love him. And he’s being honored in January at a Jewish educators’ conference in New York.”

“So what’s the problem? If you can’t tell me, that’s cool.”

“It’s not a secret, really.”

She busied herself applying topcoat. I sensed that she was deliberating, and didn’t push.

“My dad and the secular principal don’t get along,” she finally said. “Dr. Mendes wants to get as many kids as possible into the Ivy Leagues. My dad encourages them to go to Israel, at least for a year. She thinks he tells them to focus on Jewish studies at the expense of secular subjects. Which isn’t true.” Aliza examined her nails and frowned. “My dad says you have to try to excel in
all
your studies. According to the Torah, wasting time is a sin.”

That was the Rabbi Bailor I remembered. “You said
most
of the students love him?”

“A couple of months ago my dad wanted to expel a senior. Dr. Mendes didn’t agree, because the student is planning to go to Harvard, and they didn’t have proof. His dad and brother went to Harvard, too, so it’s a big deal for him to go there.”

“Proof of what?”

“I don’t know. Anyway, my dad put this student on probation. So he missed the early decision deadline. Now his whole family’s mad at my dad. Plus his father is on the school board. He gave a lot of money to build the school.”

“Who’s the student?”

“I have no idea.” Aliza closed the topcoat bottle. “My dad never talks about students by name. The only reason I know all this is because I overheard him talking to my mom.”

“So your parents are worried, huh?” I said.

“My dad says whatever happens is supposed to happen. My mom’s worried, but she wouldn’t mind if my dad got a job at a different school. One
shadchan
told my parents she might have a harder time setting me and my brother up because Torat Tzion is too modern. Can you believe it?” Aliza rolled her eyes. “My dad told the
shadchan
he’s not interested in narrow-minded people.”

“The
shadchan
or the families?” I smiled.

Aliza smiled, too. “Both.”

“Actually, I have a dating question, Aliza.” This was why I had come back. “Where would you go for the ultimate romantic setting?”

“Yamashiro Room,” she answered without hesitation. “It’s not kosher, so you can’t eat anything, but you can have drinks if they don’t card you. Plus you’re going for the atmosphere and the view, which I heard is
amazing.
But it’s not for a first date, or second.”

I smiled. “The third date’s okay?” In my sister Liora’s circle, three dates means you’re ready to pick out a ring, and china at the Mikasa outlet.

“Maybe the fourth.” Aliza giggled. It was a lovely sound. “Yamashiro Room says you’re serious. I’ve never been there, but one of my friends got engaged there a few weeks ago. Dassie said that’s where—Oh.” She gazed at me. “You think this guy took her there, right?”

I could hear the wistfulness in her voice. From the color that rushed to her face, I think she heard it, too.

“I know you’ve probably heard this before,” I said, “but the right guy
is
out there for you. By the way, how
was
your date Saturday night?”

“Okay, but no magic. He’ll call back,” Aliza said. “The ones you don’t want to, always do.”

At least she was smiling.

Walking down the stairs, I said a silent thank-you to God for bringing Zack and me together, and a prayer for Aliza and for my sister Liora, who at twenty is starting to feel anxious about meeting her
bashert,
and for young women all over the country who were hoping to get to Yamashiro Room or its equivalent.

I was heading to the kitchen to say goodnight to the Bailors when I heard loud voices.

“. . . don’t have to tell her everything. She’s not family.”

Reuben Jastrow’s voice. He sounded impatient, annoyed.

“. . . ask her to help and leave her in the dark?”

Rabbi Bailor.

I should go, I thought. But curiosity is one of my vices, and since I assumed I was the “her” of this conversation, I had no trouble justifying my tiptoeing across the carpeted rooms and pressing my ear against the swinging door to the kitchen.

“She’ll either find him or she won’t,” Jastrow said.

“I’d
like to find him,” Gavriel said.

“Gavriel,” his father warned.

“She’s my sister! She’s your daughter! Don’t you want to find this
menuval
and . . .”

“And what? Teach him a lesson? Beat him to a pulp so he won’t prey on other young girls? Sure, I’d love to do that. And then this man will go to the police and file charges for assault, because it’s not as though he kidnapped Dassie. She went with him of her own accord. And maybe he’ll get your sister’s name in the papers. That would
really
help her reputation, and the family’s.”

The rabbi’s sigh was so loud I could hear it through the door.

“More important,” he said in a gentler tone, “that’s not the Torah way, Gavriel.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. I’m just so frustrated.”

“Go learn, and hope that in the
z’chus
of your learning that Hashem will protect your sister. Go
daven
and ask Hashem to help us find her.”

“And in the meantime?” Nechama said.

“We tell Molly.”

“It won’t help her find him,” Jastrow said.

I pushed the door open and stepped into the kitchen.

“Tell me what?” I asked.