by Mary Marks
“Not everything, Hadas.” Clearly, the woman was delusional if she thought I would sit quietly while she attempted to steal my fiancé. “When you were a teenager, you behaved like a nafke and got pregnant.” I ignored her furious stare. “Yossi was kind enough to rescue you and your family from the shame you deserved. But this is thirty years later, and he’s moved way beyond your situation. Get over him. He’s with me now.”
She shrugged off my words. “Things can change.”
CHAPTER 4
Later that morning, Crusher suggested we take our houseguests to the Pacific Ocean for an alfresco meal. I loaded a picnic basket with cheese, deviled eggs from the night before, baguettes, olives, grapes, and a large thermos of homemade iced tea into the trunk of my Honda Civic. As we headed out the door, Hadas’s phone rang.
She looked at the number and told us to go without her. “I’ve got to take this. Besides, I feel a headache coming on.”
What I wanted to say was, I hope it’s an aneurysm! Instead I said, “I’m sorry. Would you like a Tylenol?”
Sunday traffic would be heavy with beachgoers, so we chose a lesser-used route and drove west through Topanga Canyon to the Pacific Coast Highway (known as the PCH locally). As we crested the last hill, we viewed the deep blue waters of the Pacific stretching toward the horizon. Dozens of sailboats fanned out from the marina to the south and dotted the dark waters with colorful sails. Unblemished by clouds, the azure dome of sky stretched to the infinite distance. Seagulls glided on the currents of air above the beach, screeching to each other. I rolled open the window and filled my lungs with the salty ocean air.
“Ah!” Fanya also took a deep breath and sighed. “No wonder hordes of New Yorkers flock to California. This smells like heaven.”
Sunday traffic crawled on PCH, but we managed to transition north at the traffic light and stopped at our destination, Point Dume State Beach. We hiked on top of the promontory and eventually found our way to the sandy beach below the cliffs. I spread out an old cotton blanket on the sand. I would never treat a quilt as roughly. Crusher opened the picnic basket and handed iced tea all around. We watched a towheaded youngster toddle toward the water as fast as his short legs could carry him. A blond woman wearing a black string bikini ran after him.
Something about Hadas’s story felt incomplete, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was bothering me. “What do you think about Hadas?” I asked Crusher. What I wanted to ask was, Do you have feelings for her? Are you tempted by her offer? But I purposely left the question vague to see what he’d come up with.
He glanced at his sister. “Why is she interested in me, Fan?”
Fanya took a sip of tea. “The Uhrman Company has been her whole life. I’m convinced her enthusiasm for the business was a substitute for raising the child she lost. When Ze’ev died, she was left alone in this world with a big corporation to run. I think she’s afraid to be alone. As her husband, you’re now her next of kin. She’s not going to let you go without a fight. I know her.”
We spread out our food and began to silently eat lunch, each wrapped in our own thoughts. Finally, I realized what it was about Hadas’s story that bothered me. “Did Hadas ever mention who would inherit the business if Yossi refused?”
Her large gold earrings swung gracefully as she shook her head. “Nope.”
I plucked some fat, red grapes from the stem. “I wonder who is next in line after Yossi.”
We finished our picnic, trudged back onto the cliffs, and took the scenic route home. I sat in the back seat and let Fanya ride shotgun so she could enjoy looking at mile after mile of beautiful homes lining both sides of Sunset Boulevard.
After five minutes, she gasped, “These houses must be worth a fortune. Yet there are thousands of them. Who are these people? Where does all their money come from?”
I often wondered the same thing. “The country’s wealth is held by the top two percent. There are roughly three hundred thirty million people in this country. Two percent would equal six million, six hundred thousand. All those people have to live somewhere. What nicer place than right here in Southern California?”
“Yeah,” Crusher scoffed. “As long as you don’t mind the earthquakes, wildfires, mudslides, flash floods, and occasional small tornado . . .”
Fanya laughed. “We don’t get earthquakes in New York. I wouldn’t mind experiencing one just to see what it feels like.”
“I’ll try to arrange one for you,” he said.
We transitioned onto the 405 Freeway north and pulled into my driveway in Encino a half hour later. While Crusher retrieved our picnic basket from the trunk of the Honda, Fanya and I headed for my front door.
My orange tabby Bumper ran to greet me and meowed. I became alarmed because he didn’t use his normal happy greeting. This was a plummy, full-throated yowl.
“What’s wrong, little guy?” I bent to scratch him on his jaw and behind his ears, but he pulled away and yowled again.
Crusher deposited the picnic basket on the kitchen island and joined us in the foyer. “What’s wrong with him?”
Bumper didn’t wait for guesses or explanations. He walked toward the hallway, looked over his shoulder at us, and yowled a third time.
“I think he means for us to follow him.” I moved toward the cat.
When he saw me walking his way, he turned back around and headed down the hallway.
“What is it, Bumper?” I crooned.
He got as far as the door to the guest bedroom, stopped, and meowed one more time. I approached him and looked at the closed door. “What’s the matter, sweetie? Did you leave something in there?” Bumper loved his three stuffed toys: a little gray mouse made of suede, a long turquoise snake with a felt tongue, and a white bunny rabbit made of faux fur.
I knocked softly on the door. “Hadas?” Nobody answered. I knocked a little louder. “It’s Martha. Do you still have a headache? Can I get you anything?” Still no answer. I opened the door and screamed. “Oh my God! Yossi!”
The sound of size fourteen boots came clopping in the hallway in prompt response. “What?” He frowned.
I stood mute and pointed inside the bedroom. Clothes were scattered on top of the dark mahogany sleigh bed and tossed around the room. Drawers hung open in utter disarray.
I walked through the room, being careful not to disturb the scene. I stuck my head inside the en suite bathroom and smelled a sweet, chemical odor. I gathered a rag lying on the floor. It smelled of ether and cut grass and even a small whiff made my head spin. I held the rag at arm’s length and approached Crusher. “What is this, Yossi?”
“Drop it. I can smell the chloroform from here.” I hurriedly tossed the rag back into the bathroom.
Fanya came to see what all the fuss was about. She stopped abruptly when she saw the condition of the room and grabbed Crusher’s arm. “Look over there!” She pointed to the cracks in a hand mirror someone had hurled across the room. “That’s seven years of poverty for whoever broke it.” She rubbed her arms. “Where’s Hadas?”
Crusher pushed us out of the room. “Don’t know, Fan. Looks like she was chloroformed.”
Fanya spat a heartfelt pu, pu pu. “Oy va voy and three sholem aleichems!” She began to search the house. “Hadas! Hadas! Where are you?”
She got silence in return.
Crusher motioned for me to wait in the living room. “I’ll check the garage and backyard.”
Something sitting on the hall table caught my eye. Don’t call the police, or she dies. Wait for instructions.
Crusher said, “We need to call the police.”
“But, Yossi, the note says not to.”
“Ignore it. We’ll have a better chance to find her alive if we involve law enforcement. They’re experienced in this sort of thing.” He headed for the backyard and returned two minutes later. “Not there. Did you call the police?”
I shook my head. “I wanted to wait for you, in case you found her outside.”
Fan
ya paced back and forth, her Doc Martens clomping as loudly as her brother’s boots on the hardwood floor.
Instead of 911, I called my son-in-law Noah Kaplan. He was an LAPD robbery/homicide detective assigned to the west side of the San Fernando Valley, where we lived. “Noah, something awful has happened.” I told him about the missing Hadas. “We found a note. She’s been abducted. We also found a rag soaked in chloroform.”
“Besides your friend, is anything else missing? Jewelry, electronics? Have you called the police yet?”
“You are the police, Noah. Remember?”
He released an impatient breath. “I mean, have you filed a report? Talked to anyone else?”
“No on both counts. Are you coming over? Do you want to talk to Yossi?”
“Not until we get there. He knows how to secure a crime scene. I’ll be over soon with my . . . partner.”
“I was afraid of that.” Noah’s partner in robbery/homicide was Arlo Beavers. My ex-boyfriend.
Noah huffed. “Believe me. He’ll be even less enthusiastic than you are. Don’t leave. We’ll be there in about ten minutes.”
Beavers’s new white Camry parked in front of the house ten minutes later. I opened the front door as they got out of the car and moved up the walkway. Noah wore a brown suit and tie. Beavers wore his usual gray suit, white shirt, and blue tie. He also sported a shock of silver hair, a white mustache, and the woodsy cologne I remembered from our time together.
Noah reached me first. “Are you okay, Mom?” He put a slight emphasis on the word Mom.
“Yes, thank you, Noah. We’re fine.”
Beavers rolled his eyes at Noah’s familiar greeting. “Here we are again, Martha. You keep popping up like a boil on my—”
“Hey!” Crusher growled.
Beavers ignored him. “So, where is the crime scene this time?”
“Guest room.”
“What have you done with the chloroform?”
“I left the rag on the bathroom floor where I found it.”
“Stay here while we have a look.”
Noah and Beavers made a quick tour of the house and came back to us in the living room.
I explained why Hadas came to LA with Crusher’s sister, Fanya. “Yossi and I wanted to take them for a picnic at the beach, but Hadas complained of a headache and stayed home. Just the three of us drove to Point Dume.”
“What time did you leave?” Noah looked at his watch, a gold Rolex given to him by his wealthy father.
“Eleven?” I looked to Crusher and Fanya for confirmation and they both nodded.
“It’s three right now,” he said. “When did you return home?”
“Only minutes before I called you. After two-thirty.”
“We’ll work the case as an abduction, not a missing person. It would help if you could give us a picture of Mrs. Levy.”
My gut clenched when he used her full name.
Fanya pulled her cell phone out of the back pocket of her jeans. “We took a selfie in JFK. Give me your number and I’ll send it to you.”
I glanced at Beavers, who seemed to be fighting a smile. I was sure he enjoyed the juicy details of Crusher’s past.
Finally, he broke his silence. “Let’s see if I understand you correctly. If something happens to Mrs. Levy, her husband,” he pointed to Crusher, “will inherit a successful corporation?”
I immediately guessed where he might be going with his line of questioning. “If you’re thinking Yossi has a financial motive to hurt Hadas, you’re wasting precious time. You need to look elsewhere for her kidnapper. He was with the two of us, and we were all at the beach.”
Beavers trained his dark eyes on my face. “So you say.”
Crusher snarled. “That’s a crock, man, and you know it.”
Fanya watched the conversation bounce back and forth like a ball at a tennis match. “I’d like to say something, if I may.”
We each turned to her.
“We don’t know where Hadas is at the moment. We don’t know if this is—God forbid—an abduction or worse. All I can tell you is none of us are responsible for whatever happened here.” She rapped her knuckles three times on a wooden table. “Hadas was fine when we left her at eleven.”
“Or,” Beavers continued, “you’re all involved in Mrs. Levy’s disappearance and are providing alibis for each other.”
“Whatever happened in the bedroom took place during the hours we were gone: eleven to two-thirty. Fanya, Yossi, and I were out during those hours. End of subject.”
Beavers opened his mouth to speak, but I held up a silencing hand. “Please let me finish. Judging by the frenzied disarray in the bedroom, somebody was looking for something.”
“Think about it, dude.” Crusher spread his hands. “Why would any of us trash the bedroom? Someone with motive did that.”
“Or,” said Beavers, “it could have been staged by you to look that way.”
Crusher scowled. “Could’ve but wasn’t.”
Noah’s phone chirped. “I got a text. CSU is on its way. Until they’re finished, the three of you will have to find someplace else to stay. Probably won’t be for more than a day.”
“Well, if we can’t stay here, we need to get a change of clothes,” I said.
“You and Yossi can go in your bedroom, but I’m afraid nobody is allowed in the crime scene.” He looked at Fanya. “Sorry. And just so you know, Mom? I’m sure to be pulled from this investigation because we’re closely related. However, it’s likely Arlo will remain the lead detective.”
Did I die and go to hell? Working with my ex-boyfriend would be torture, especially if he suspected us of foul play. Which was ridiculous, considering we weren’t even here when Hadas was taken. And there was one more thing. Although it was ancient history, the rivalry for my affections between Beavers and Crusher could interfere with Beavers’s objectivity. This investigation could very well devolve into a pissing contest between them.
I plopped my hands on my hips. “Arlo, I think you should also recuse yourself from this case. Especially in view of our past association and all.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You know deep inside none of us is responsible for Hadas’s misfortune. You’re having fun yanking our chains when you should be trying to find her.”
He ignored me and addressed Fanya. “You’re visiting from New York?”
“Yeah. Yossi’s my brother and Martha will soon be my sister-in-law.”
I cringed. Fanya had no way of knowing she’d stepped on a sensitive nerve. Beavers also wanted to get married, but I chose Crusher.
“Don’t leave LA.”
“Well, when can I go back home?”
“I’ll let you know.” Beavers looked at the three of us. “You need to go to the station now and give formal statements. We want to keep this from the press for as long as possible. Aside from the police, don’t talk to anyone about the abduction. If Mrs. Levy is still alive, we don’t want to spook her kidnappers. Miss Levy, once you reach the police station, you’ll have to give a set of your prints for the purpose of elimination.”
He handed Fanya his business card. “In case you need to reach me, Miss Levy. Martha doesn’t need my card. She and I have been down this road many times. I suspect she has me on speed dial.” He raised an eyebrow. “Remind me again. How many times have you shot someone in this house?”
CHAPTER 5
We parked the Honda in front of the West Valley police station and walked inside the lobby.
A young officer in a dark blue uniform sat at the desk, filling out a form the old-fashioned way, with a pen. He didn’t look at me. “How can I help you?”
“Detective Beavers sent us to each give a statement about a missing person.”
He scanned our faces. His eyes stopped at Crusher. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
Crusher dug his ATF badge and ID card out of his pocket. “It’s likely we may’ve worked a case together.”
A grin of recognition blossomed on the cop’s face. He leaned over the desk and offered his hand. “Yeah. Now I remember. Gun bust in Reseda. Aryan Nation. Right?”
Crusher shook the young cop’s hand. “Nice to see you again, bro.” He explained why we were there.
“Right. I’ll get someone to help you. Please take a seat.”
We moved to the gray plastic bucket seats lined in orderly rows facing the desk. All the surfaces in the station were washable: tile floors, plastic seats, laminated front desk. The police served all kinds of humanity in the daily course of keeping the peace. Victims, offenders, and witnesses weren’t always neat and clean. Only a few months ago, a homeless man brought the MRSA bacteria to the station, and three officers became infected. The process of sterilizing the place was made easier by the washable surfaces.
After a ten-minute wait, Fanya was the first to be escorted into a blue interview room to give a statement. I was the last to be called.
The officer introduced himself as Detective Jarvis and handed me a small, clear plastic bottle with a rendering of snowcapped mountains and fresh, mountain spring water written on the label. “Tell me in your own words what happened this morning, Mrs. Rose.”
I went through the facts methodically, painting a detailed picture of the day from the time I woke until the time I discovered the rag soaked in chloroform.
“What is your relationship to Mrs. Levy?”
I cringed when he called her by Crusher’s last name. “She knew my fiancé many years ago.”
“Your fiancé being Yosef Levy?”
“Yes.”
“She’s married to him, right?”
“Well, technically, I suppose.”
“So, let me get this straight. Your fiancé’s wife is a guest in your house?”
“Yes. That’s what I said.”
“You didn’t object?”
“Not out loud.”
“And she wanted him to leave you and return with her to New York?”
“Correct.”