“Maybe you should get off now, honey,” Melissa said. “I don’t want you getting sick.”
“I won’t.”
“One more time, and that’s it. But tell me if you feel funny, promise?” Melissa gave the swing a shove. “She gets a little nauseous sometimes,” she told me.
“That happens to one of my nieces,” I said. “Did you talk to Greg Friday night?”
“Friday afternoon. He sounded tense. I asked him what was wrong, but he wouldn’t tell me. I asked if he was planning to come to Seattle for Thanksgiving. He said he’d let me know.”
“Did you go to his apartment to see if he was okay?”
“The police asked me that, too. As far as I knew, Greg wasn’t at his apartment. And if he was having one of his moods, I didn’t want to be around him. The next thing I heard, he died in a car accident, in L.A. They said he killed himself. And now they’re saying someone killed him.”
We had come full circle. I had learned a few details about Shankman’s life, but nothing surprising or revealing.
“And today they said he was involved with a girl.” Melissa huffed. “A high school senior, the daughter of the Jewish studies principal of the school where Greg was teaching. I don’t know what Greg was thinking. Well, obviously he wasn’t thinking. I guess all his talk about wanting to reconcile was just that—talk. Or maybe he took up with this girl because he figured we were over.”
She grabbed the back of the swing and brought it to a stop. “Okay, Kaitlin. That’s it for now.”
She undid the straps, removed her daughter from the swing, and set her down. The girl’s face was a little pale.
“Can I go on the scooter, Mommy?”
“In five minutes. Rest your tummy.”
“My tummy’s fine,” she said, beginning to whine.
“Your baby’s, then. I think she needs a nap, honey. Don’t you think so, Molly?”
“I do,” I said.
“ ’Kay.”
Holding the doll so that its legs grazed the ground, Kaitlin walked a few feet, plopped onto the grass, and rocked her doll in her arms.
“She can spend hours with that doll,” Melissa said, watching her.
“Did Greg ever talk about Rabbi Bailor, Melissa?”
Melissa nodded, her eyes still on her daughter. “Greg said the rabbi was a good man. But when Greg needed help with this cheating thing, the rabbi wouldn’t get involved. Greg was steamed about that. I thought he was over the whole thing, but he told me he was going to go public about the cheating at the school.”
My stomach muscles tightened. “When was this?”
“One of the days he was supposedly in Sedona. He said he was going to talk to the newspapers, and write an article about cheating in schools.”
“About this boy, you mean?”
“And cheating on the AP exam. Greg said he knew who was doing it.”
“Who?” I said, with greater intensity than I’d intended, but Melissa didn’t seem to notice.
“He wouldn’t say. Greg was going to give this boy one last chance to come clean. If the kid refused, Greg was going to go public. He didn’t care about the consequences. He hoped I wouldn’t, either.”
“What consequences?” I asked, though I knew.
“A girl at the school—not the rabbi’s daughter—accused Greg of coming on to her. If Greg showed the school his proof, the girl was going to call me. Greg swore it wasn’t true, but . . .”
“I don’t mean to offend you, Melissa, but I understand he was your teacher when you first started dating.”
Her face turned a deep shade of pink. “I guess that’ll be tomorrow’s headline. I was seventeen. I trusted him. He said he’d never done anything like that before.” She looked at her daughter. “I’d better take Kaitlin inside. It’s chilly.”
Back in the living room, I picked up my purse from the side of the sofa, where I had left it.
“Do you know what Greg did with this proof, Melissa?”
“He said something about keeping it in a safe place. A safe deposit box, probably. This morning one of Greg’s students called. He was sorry to hear about Greg and hated to bother me, but Greg had some papers the student had written a while back. He said if I found anything, when I got around to it, no rush, to please let him know. I told him Greg took everything when he moved out, but the boy gave me his number in case I came across anything.”
“What was his name?”
“Adam Prosser. That’s the boy who cheated, isn’t it?” Melissa said. Last night my mother had mentioned a senior who’d tried to sabotage a rival’s academic career by tampering with her transcript. Tampering with grades is one thing, I thought on my drive home from Mar Vista. Murder is another. Adam Prosser was a cheater, and he might have had his heart set on Harvard, but I couldn’t see him killing Greg Shankman to get there.
I could see him going to Greg’s apartment Friday night to reason with him. Or maybe Prosser’s father had made the visit. Or the brother? And if the argument had turned violent? And if somebody grabbed a knife . . .
Had Hadassah witnessed the confrontation and run out? If Cheryl was right, and the cuts on Hadassah’s arms were self-inflicted, they weren’t evidence of a struggle. I remembered the tissues I’d seen in Hadassah’s wastebasket. I had thought the dark stains were red lipstick. Maybe they were blood. And I recalled Rabbi Bailor’s comment: Dassie’s sleeves are so long you can barely see her wrists.
But if Hadassah had left during the confrontation between Prosser and Shankman, why was she refusing to talk? Rabbi Bailor had told me his daughter might be in shock. That was possible. That was also a convenient excuse.
And who had removed her belongings?
Back in my house, I folded the laundry and came up with no answers. I returned to my desk, added a circle with Adam Prosser’s name, and linked it to Shankman’s. Melissa had told the police about Greg’s decision to go public. Now that she knew Adam’s name, she was planning to phone Jessie Drake with the new information.
I was tempted to phone Jessie, too, in case Melissa didn’t make Prosser her priority. She had a child to worry about, and maybe funeral arrangements, too, once Shankman’s body was released, though his parents would probably make most of the decisions. It must be awkward and painful, dealing with your child’s grandparents when you’ve obtained a restraining order against their son. Maybe the Shankmans had taken comfort from the media reports about a reconciliation.
Even though, according to Melissa, there was no reconciliation. The media had probably wanted to romanticize the story, give it more pathos. Maybe they’d heard talk of reconciliation from the neighbor. She had seemed hopeful, I recalled. So had Cheryl.
I wrote RECONCILIATION?? on the bottom of my page of circles.
Maybe Melissa had changed her story after she’d talked to reporters. . . . After she heard about Hadassah?
I ran the angles through my mind. If I were Melissa, and I had learned that while my ex-boyfriend and I were talking about getting back together, he was having a fling with a high school senior, I would be furious and humiliated. The police might consider that a motive. So if I wanted to divert suspicion from myself, I would downplay my interest in reconciling. And maybe that explained why Melissa had been willing to talk to Molly Blume, a reporter, to get that point across.
I considered phoning Jessie about Melissa, but I had nothing concrete, and I knew she’d see it for what it was: an attempt to divert suspicion from the Bailors. And my heart wasn’t in it. Having met Kaitlin, I didn’t want Melissa to be involved in her ex-boyfriend’s murder.
So I phoned Rabbi Bailor’s office. I wanted to know how Dassie was doing, whether she’d shed light on what had happened.
“Rabbi left a few minutes ago,” Sue said. “His wife phoned, and he went right home. But I’ll tell him y’all called.”
“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.”
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