Now You See Me...

by Rochelle Krich

  “Well, I guess we’re talking about some other guy, Molly. Because the man they showed on the news? Greg Shankman, I think they said? The one whose car went off the road? That’s not the man your cousin was with Thursday night at Yamashiro.”

  I was speechless. I leaned against the kitchen counter.

  “Molly? Are you there?”

  “Irene, are you sure about this?”

  “Positive. Like I told you, I’m bad with names. But I’m good with faces. What I can’t figure out, though, is what your cousin’s boyfriend was doing in this guy’s Altima. I guess he borrowed it, huh? That explains why he was so freaked by the damage to the car.”

  Chapter 46

  Bubbie G says speed is good only for catching flies. I thought about that and decided to wait before phoning Jessie Drake.

  I drove to the Bailors. Parked in front was Jastrow’s dark blue Volvo, so I wasn’t surprised that he answered the door. He didn’t look thrilled to see me.

  “I need to talk to Hadassah,” I said. “It’s urgent.”

  Jastrow sighed. “Miss Blume, we appreciate all your efforts, and I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but my brother-in-law retained an attorney for Dassie, and the attorney instructed us not to talk to anyone.”

  “Where’s Rabbi Bailor?”

  “In his office. My sister is out. As I said—”

  “Tell him Greg Shankman wasn’t at Yamashiro with Dassie.”

  Jastrow grunted. “Of course, he was.”

  “I spoke with the waitress fifteen minutes ago. You know, Irene Jakaitis? The one you phoned Friday afternoon?” Jastrow had the grace to blush. “She just saw the news coverage for the first time, along with a photo of Shankman. She’s positive he’s not the man who was with Dassie Thursday night.”

  Jastrow froze. “But the license plate . . .”

  “Obviously, someone else was driving Shankman’s car.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s what I want to ask Dassie. She knows. Maybe that’s the person she’s protecting, although I can’t imagine why.”

  “Dassie’s not here. She’s feeling a little better, thank God. She walked over to visit her friend, Sara. It’s just a few blocks, and she needed the fresh air.”

  “Call Dassie and tell her to come home.”

  Jastrow hesitated, then stepped aside to let me in. He left me in the hall and walked to his brother-in-law’s office.

  While I waited, I reviewed what I’d worked out on the drive here. Shankman had told Milt LaSalle, the apartment manager, that he was going away for a few days on vacation. With Melissa he’d been more specific: He’d told her he was going to Sedona to think things over and make some decisions. Like Melissa, I’d assumed that Shankman had lied about going away. Just as I’d assumed that he’d assaulted Hadassah.

  But if Irene Jakaitis was right, and I had no reason to think otherwise, someone else had “met” Dassie through J Spot and lured her away. Someone, I still believed, who had known enough about her to impress her with his “insight.” Someone who, while Shankman was away, had appropriated Shankman’s car and apartment.

  Dr. Mendes had probably known that Shankman was going away. According to Melissa, the principal had talked with Shankman several times over the past few weeks. Had she mentioned his travel plans to Gerald Prosser? Had Prosser calmed his son: Don’t worry, Adam, as soon as Shankman’s back from vacation, we’ll resolve this issue?

  Had Seth known?

  Seth was high-strung, Sue had said. And according to Jessie, he’d been in rehab for a drug problem. So he’d been in town in September, when Dassie first met her anonymous boyfriend. And Sue Horowitz had said that the law school dropout had threatened Rabbi Bailor. He’ll be sorry.

  Maybe it had started as a prank: Humiliate the daughter. Embarrass the rabbi. Maybe he’d wanted to blackmail Rabbi Bailor to remove the probation—and then it turned into something more sinister. What a double coup, and what malevolent irony, to complete the seduction by using the car and apartment that belonged to Shankman, the man who was the cause of Seth’s brother’s problems.

  But how had Seth gained access to Shankman’s apartment and car? Melissa, I recalled, had said something about Seth going to talk to Shankman at his apartment. . . .

  I heard footsteps and saw Rabbi Bailor and his brother-in-law walking toward me. They both looked grim.

  “Listen,” I said, prepared to forestall an argument.

  “She’s not there,” Rabbi Bailor said. It was more a wail, really. “Dassie’s not at Sara’s. She never showed up.”

  My chest was so tight I couldn’t breathe. “When did she leave here?”

  “After five. A half hour ago? Reuben said it wasn’t Shankman. But that’s not possible! He’s dead! Dassie—” He stopped himself.

  “I want to see her room,” I said.

  I didn’t wait for permission. I raced up the stairs to the bedroom and heard footsteps following me. The bed had been neatened. The computer was off. The room was filled with flowers. On the nightstand between the two beds was a stack of get-well cards and the envelopes they had come in.

  “All her friends have been sending cards and flowers,” Rabbi Bailor said. “And calling. That’s why she wanted to go to Sara’s. For a little normalcy.”

  An envelope in the stack caught my eye. The return address said ADAM PROSSER. I pulled it out and showed it to Rabbi Bailor.

  “Where’s the note?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you find it odd that Dassie is friendly with a boy who hates you?”

  “I’ve never discussed any Torat Tzion student with Dassie. She has no idea that the Prosser boy and I have our difficulties.”

  I checked the trash can. I looked under Dassie’s bed. The magazines were gone. A section of the bedskirt was stuck between the mattress and box spring. I lifted the mattress, bent my head, and looked underneath.

  Something was there. I slipped my hand into the space and pulled out a blue card.

  I showed Rabbi Bailor the note.

  “That’s a lie.” His face was red with outrage. “Do you have any idea who wrote this?”

  I took the card from his shaking hand. “Possibly.”

  “Who—”

  “I could be wrong. I was wrong about Greg Shankman.” I didn’t want to think about my role in his death. “As soon as I learn anything conclusive, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, call Detective Drake and tell her Dassie has disappeared.”

  “You think Dassie went with this man voluntarily?”

  “She may have. She may love him. She may feel obligated. Rabbi Bailor, are you aware that Dassie has been cutting herself?”

  He looked as if I’d slapped him. “Cutting herself?”

  “Self-mutilating. Cheryl Wexner suspected it and told Dr. McIntyre.”

  “Dr. McIntyre never said a word.” The rabbi sank onto Aliza’s bed. “When Dassie was a baby, I used to put a mirror in front of her nose to make sure she was breathing. I worried about every sniffle. She had croup, so I stayed up nights with her, worrying. And then she grew up, and I thought, now I don’t have to worry so much. So now you’re telling me she’s cutting herself? Why?”

  “I spoke with a psychologist, Rabbi Bailor. She said cutting is sometimes a prelude to suicide. That’s why I was so worried last week, because I thought this man might convince Dassie to kill herself. A double suicide,” I said.

  I explained the references to Hamlet and Romeo and Juliet. “Whatever Dassie’s involvement with Shankman’s death, she may feel guilty.”

  “I can’t believe Dassie would kill herself.” Rabbi Bailor frowned. “And if he can’t convince her? What then?”

  I could see from the terror in his eyes that he’d answered his own question.

  Chapter 47

  The maître d’ remembered me. He didn’t look pleased, but he agreed to get Irene. I tapped my foot impatiently until he returned after what seemed like an hour but was o
nly a few minutes.

  “Irene is extremely busy,” he told me, basking in disapproval. “But she said she’ll be out as soon as she can.”

  “Thank you.”

  More waiting—not my strong suit. I phoned Zack to tell him where I was and what had happened. Then I phoned Rabbi Bailor.

  “I talked to Detective Drake,” the rabbi told me. “She’s putting out an all-points bulletin. Reuben and I drove around the neighborhood, but there’s no sign of Dassie.”

  I saw Irene approaching. She waved as if we were old friends.

  “Can you tell me what you’re thinking?” he asked. “Please.”

  “When I’m sure. I have to go, Rabbi.” I hung up before he could say anything else.

  “That’s something about the car, isn’t it?” Irene said when she was at my side. “Did you figure out who borrowed it?”

  “I have an idea.”

  On the way to Yamashiro I had stopped at home for the photocopy I’d made of the Prosser family. I took the photocopy from my purse and showed it to her.

  “Do you recognize anyone in this photo, Irene?” I held my breath.

  She peered at the photocopy for a long moment, then shook her head. “Nope.”

  Not the answer I’d expected.

  “Are you sure?” I pointed to Seth. “What about him? This was taken a few years ago, but he looks pretty much the same.”

  She took another look. “No, sorry. Not even close.”

  I had been so certain. Thank God I hadn’t said anything about Seth to Rabbi Bailor.

  “You think your cousin’s boyfriend stole the car, don’t you?” Irene said. “I’d hate to believe that. He seemed so sweet.”

  “To be honest, I’m not sure of anything anymore. Well, thanks anyway, Irene. If you remember anything—”

  “I did remember something. Your cousin’s boyfriend was writing a screenplay. That probably doesn’t narrow it down, ’cause half the people in Hollywood are writing screenplays, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Or trying to get into acting. I am, too. Shocker, huh?” Irene smiled. “I don’t plan to be waiting tables long. But I’m patient. If it’s meant to happen, it’ll happen, right? Anyway, I guess that’s why he gave me such a nice tip. One waiter to the other, you know?”

  My heart was drumming in my chest. “He was a waiter?”

  Irene nodded. “You don’t look good. Are you okay, Molly?”

  “Irene, did he mention what kind of screenplay he was writing?”

  She thought a moment. “He said it was like a movie I saw, with Ethan Hawke and Uma Thurman. I don’t remember the name.”

  “Gattaca?”

  “That sounds right. It’s kind of sad, isn’t it? About Ethan Hawke and Uma, I mean. I thought that one would last, didn’t you? I guess it’s hard to find true love.”

  Chapter 48

  Hadassah’s head ached. She tried raising her hand to massage her temple and realized he’d tied her hands. Not so tightly that they hurt, and he’d been careful to avoid the scars above her wrists, but the knots were tight enough so that she couldn’t undo them even if she could reach them with her thumbs.

  She was lying on a bed in a small room that glowed with the light of candles. Some of them had a fruity scent. Others were musky. There was another smell, too, and the combination was making her nauseated. From outside the room she heard music. The sound track from Romeo and Juliet. His favorite.

  He was sitting on a folding chair, watching her. When she opened her eyes, he hurried to her side and put his hand over her mouth.

  “Please don’t scream,” he said. “I would never hurt you, Dassie. Don’t be afraid.”

  She nodded. He removed his hand.

  “I had to tie your hands, Dassie. You were thrashing. I was afraid you’d hurt yourself.”

  She knew he was lying. She had been walking to Sara’s, thrilled to inhale the crisp evening air after being indoors for so long. Suddenly he was standing in front of her. “I’ve been waiting for you, Dassie,” he said. A cloth covered her face. She smelled something sickly sweet. Then everything was black.

  “I could watch you sleep for hours,” he said now. “I did that in the other apartment. You didn’t even know.”

  He ran his fingers through her curls. She cringed at his touch, but lay still.

  “This isn’t how I wanted it to be,” he said. “Greg is dead. Because of you, Dassie.” His voice was soft with reproach. “But I still love you.”

  Her lips were dry. She licked them. “Water,” she said.

  He left the room and returned with a glass. Sitting on the side of the bed, he raised her head and brought the glass to her lips. The water was cold, with a hint of chlorine.

  “Why did you ruin everything, Dassie? Why did you run away?”

  “I was scared. You lied to me. It was his apartment. I was scared,” she said again. She didn’t want to tell him that his talk of death and dying had frightened her. She didn’t want to say the word death.

  “We wanted to be alone. Where should we have gone? I would have explained.”

  “You took away my phone. You locked the door. The key didn’t work. I felt trapped.”

  “You gave me your phone to protect what we had,” he chided. “Remember? I had no idea the key didn’t work. I would never hold you against your will, Dassie. How could you think that?” He stroked her cheek. “I waited so long for someone like you, pure and true. Someone just like me. We’re the same, Dassie.”

  She recognized the lyrics from the song. “Their” song.

  “I brought you a new nightgown.” He walked to the chair and held up a creamy white satin gown edged with lace, just like the first one he’d bought her.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  He frowned. She thought he knew she was lying, but he said, “Why aren’t you wearing the ring?”

  Friday night, after coming home, she had realized that the ring was on her finger. She had taken it off and put it in a dresser drawer, in case he wanted it back.

  “I was afraid my parents would take it away, so I put it somewhere safe,” she told him.

  She had no idea what he planned to do, but she knew enough to be afraid. She’d thought she would never be as terrified as she had been on Friday night, but Friday night she’d had a phone, she had called for help. Friday night, she thought, biting her lips to stop their trembling, she had stabbed a man who had done nothing to deserve it. Now he was dead. So maybe she deserved to die, too.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “An apartment. It’s empty, except for the mattress and box spring. I brought the sheets, because I wanted everything to be pretty. I brought the candles, and the wine I bought for Shabbat.” He leaned close. “I would die a million deaths for you, Dassie. Would you die for me?”

  “Yes,” she lied.

  Wine would make her drowsy, but it might make him drowsy, too. Hadassah had learned about Yael, who saved the Jewish people by inviting the enemy general, Sisera, into her tent. Yael plied Sisera with cheese to make him drowsy. And when he was asleep, she took a peg and a hammer and drove the peg into his forehead.

  Hadassah didn’t have a peg. She had taken the shard with her, she wasn’t sure why. It was in the pocket of her sweater.

  She didn’t know where he had put her sweater.

  And her hands were tied with rope.

  Chapter 49

  I found a spot in front of my favorite house with the multiple turrets. I still hadn’t figured out what to say, but I locked the car, walked the few steps to the apartment door, and rang the bell.

  Cheryl opened the door. “Molly, what a lovely surprise. No treats from The Coffee Bean this time?” She smiled.

  I forced a smile in return. “Sorry.”

  “I’m just joking.” She furrowed her brow. “Are you okay? You look upset.”

  “It’s been a long day. Is Justin here?”

  “You came to see how he’s doing?” She sque
ezed my hand. “You are so sweet. He left an hour or so ago and took my car. He said he’d be out late and not to wait up. I’ll tell him you stopped by. Can I fix you a cup of coffee?”

  “No, thanks. Maybe another time.” I wasn’t sure whether there would ever be another time. Even if there were, nothing would be the same. “Do you know where to reach him? I wanted to ask him something about Adam Prosser.”

  “I don’t, sorry. He lost his cell phone and hasn’t had a chance to buy a new one. He called me earlier and said he was using a friend’s cell, but he didn’t leave me the number, and I don’t have caller ID. I’m making a salad. Do you mind if we talk in the kitchen? I don’t want the lettuce to wilt.”

  We walked to the kitchen. Cheryl stood in front of the sink and rinsed some vegetables. I sat at the table, just as I had two days ago.

  “I saw the get-well card Justin sent Dassie the other day,” I said. “That was thoughtful of him.”

  From Yamashiro, I’d returned to the Bailors’ and to Dassie’s room, where I found the blue envelope that matched the blue card. The return address said CHERYL WEXNER. I hadn’t said anything to Rabbi Bailor or to Mrs. Bailor, who looked as though she’d died. As soon as I’d left their house, I phoned West L.A. and left a message for Jessie to call me.

  Cheryl looked at me, surprised. “He sent her a card? That is thoughtful.”

  I could see in her eyes the beginnings of something that wasn’t quite alarm. “I didn’t realize Justin knew Hadassah,” I said.

  “She came here half a dozen times to work on her application. She and Justin met once or twice. To tell you the truth, if she wasn’t so young, and so religious, he might have been interested in her. I’m not sure he’ll ever be Orthodox. Although people do change,” she said. “Rabbi Bailor wasn’t always rabbi material.”

  “Neither was my husband.”

  It would have been easy for Justin to get hold of the contents of Dassie’s file when his mother was away. I had read the essay—there had been nothing revealing. Had there been a questionnaire? Write down your favorite color, your favorite foods, what music you like, your hobbies, your talents. What significant events have shaped your life?