Chapter 24
It took me a moment to respond. “Greg Shankman,” I repeated, trying to keep all inflection from my voice.
“You don’t sound surprised. Is that the name you were expecting?”
“I wasn’t expecting
any
name. Thanks, Andy. I really appreciate this.” It was chilly, and I had left my jacket inside. I hugged my free arm across my chest.
“Do you know the guy?”
Not a question I wanted to answer. “I’ve never met him, no.”
“Not what I asked, Miss Molly.”
I couldn’t afford to lie to Connors. “He was the girl’s teacher.”
“A little extracurricular activity, huh? Kids and their teachers—seems to be the latest craze. Look at Mary Kay Letourneau. Can you believe they’re getting married now that she’s out of jail? Next thing you know, that’ll be the next reality show: teachers and their teen lovers. At least Shankman and the girl waited until she was eighteen.”
“I don’t know about Mary Kay Letourneau, but based on what Shankman said to the girl’s parents, he isn’t in love with their daughter.”
“Maybe not. Have you talked to him?”
“No. His name came up when I asked my friend about people his daughter might have confided in.”
Connors snorted. “That’s rich.”
“Actually, my friend told me not to bother talking to Shankman. This will stun him.”
“You can’t tell him, Molly,” Connors warned.
“I mean eventually, when he finds out.”
Zack came out. He was holding my jacket and a cup of hot chocolate.
“So what are you planning to do with this information?” Connors asked.
Zack handed me the cup and draped the jacket over my shoulders. I smiled and mouthed a thank-you. He went back inside.
“What do you think I should do, Andy?”
“Nothing.
Nada.
Zip.”
“Is that your final answer?”
“I’m not joking, Molly.”
“Then why did you tell me?”
“To see if you knew anything about this guy. Which you do. I’m working on an angle, Molly.”
“What angle?”
“Two months ago Shankman’s girlfriend filed a restraining order against him. The order applies to their four-year-old daughter.”
“So Shankman lost
two
loves that departed,” I said, referring to the song. I took a sip of the chocolate.
“Whatever. I’m going to talk to the girlfriend. Maybe she’ll give me a reason to have a conversation with Mr. Shankman.”
“Tonight?” I felt a wave of relief.
“She’s not home. I left a message on her voice mail. I’ll call her again tomorrow.”
“I think he’s going to kill himself, and the girl,” I said.
“Romeo and Juliet. We’re talking life, not Shakespeare, Molly.”
“He’s separated. He can’t see his girlfriend or daughter because the girlfriend filed a restraining order two months ago.” I debated, then said, “That was either right before or right after he lost his job.”
“He lost his job?” Connors’s tone had sharpened.
“In September. He was fired—I don’t know why.”
“What does that have to do with your friend?”
Again, I deliberated before answering. “My friend is the principal at the school where Shankman taught.”
“So Shankman is taking revenge?”
“He had nothing to do with firing Shankman. But Shankman isn’t being logical. He’s obviously lashing out at the easiest victim. The point is, Shankman may think he has nothing to live for.”
Connors must have been pondering what I’d said, because he didn’t answer right away. “We have till Monday night, right? That’s when she’ll go to this
mikvah?”
“Unless Shankman decides not to wait.”
There was silence on the phone. I listened to the cars driving by.
“Shankman’s apartment is in West L.A.’s jurisdiction,” Connors said. “I’d have to come up with a reason for my handling it.”
“Can you talk to someone in West L.A.? Explain the urgency?”
“We don’t know that it’s urgent. For all we know, Shankman and your friend’s daughter don’t want to be disturbed.”
“We can’t wait till Monday, Andy.”
“You promised not to tell her parents, Molly. If you tell them—”
“I won’t.” I could picture Connors’s scowl.
“Because there’s no telling what the father might do.”
“I said I won’t tell him, Andy.”
“As long as we’re clear. Don’t make up a reason to ask your friend for Shankman’s address.”
The address was in an envelope in my purse. “I won’t. Are you done?”
“And don’t bother trying to look up Shankman’s address,” Connors said. “It’s unlisted.”
Shankman lived in Mar Vista, a mixed-income neighborhood south-west of Culver City within tantalizing proximity of Venice Beach. It was after nine when we pulled up in front of the house, a small one-story that was completely dark. There was no Altima in the driveway.
I rang the bell several times. Then, ignoring Zack’s protest, I rang the bell on the house next door and told the woman who opened the door that I was Greg Shankman’s cousin, visiting from Denver.
“Melissa left with Kaitlin this morning for Seattle,” the neighbor said. “They’re staying with her parents through Thanksgiving weekend. And Greg doesn’t live here anymore. I guess you didn’t hear, but he moved out a few months ago. Sad for the little girl,” she added.
Connors had said that the girlfriend had filed a restraining order. I should have figured that the address Rabbi Bailor had given me was no longer valid.
“Do you happen to know where I can reach Greg?” I asked.
“He left his new address with me, and a phone number. Hold on, I’ll get it for you.”
When she returned she handed me a slip of paper with an address on South Manning.
“That’s in West L.A. Greg didn’t want to live far from Kaitlin. Tell him hello from Diane when you see him. I hope he’s doing okay. He took the breakup real bad. But things seem better, and I’m hoping they can work things out.”
The West L.A. address was a five-minute drive from Mar Vista. We found the building, located Shankman’s name on the bank of mailboxes, and took the stairs to his second-floor apartment. There was no light coming from under his door, no sounds of occupancy.
I rang the bell. When no one answered, I rang again and pounded on the door.
“No one’s home,” Zack said. “Give it up.”
“Then where is he? And where’s Hadassah?”
“Maybe they went out.”
“He wouldn’t do that. I’m going to find the manager and ask him to check Shankman’s apartment.”
“Molly,” Zack said, but I was already knocking on the door of the adjoining apartment.
Minutes later I was talking to Milt LaSalle, the overweight gray-haired building manager. He didn’t seem overly concerned when I told him Shankman hadn’t showed up two days ago for a family dinner.
“It’s not like Greg not to call,” I said. “We’re really worried.”
“He talked about going away for a few days,” LaSalle said, but he took a huge ring of master keys and waddled up the stairs to Shankman’s apartment.
Zack and I followed.
LaSalle rang the bell, then knocked. “Mr. Shankman?” he called. “Are you in there?”
He rang the bell again, called Shankman’s name again. Knocked on the door. He found the key he wanted and inserted it into the lock.
“Door’s not even locked,” he said. He turned the knob and opened the door. “Mr. Shankman? Anybody home?”
LaSalle stepped inside and flipped up a switch on the wall that flooded the apartment with light.
It was empty. The living room, dining ell, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom. The dream had made me jittery. I don’t know what I’d expected, but I was almost weak with relief.
“Looks okay,” LaSalle said. “So maybe he forgot about your get-together.”
“Where did he take her?” I said to Zack, my relief having quickly turned to alarm.
“Take who?” LaSalle frowned.
“Can I look around?” I asked. “Maybe he left a note to say where he went.”
LaSalle looked dubious.
“Please,” I said.
“Oh, all right. But don’t break anything.”
The place was immaculate. No trash in the kitchen or bathroom, no perishables in the refrigerator.
“I told you he was going away,” LaSalle said with satisfaction.
I checked the bedroom. The sleigh bed showed no signs of recent use. Before LaSalle could protest, I opened the bedroom closet. There was no white satin woman’s skirt, no white sweater. No black top that was a little too clingy. Only men’s clothing. Suits, shirts, slacks, shoes.
On the shelves of the teak wall unit in the living room I saw photos of a man I assumed was Greg Shankman. He was tall, with curly light brown hair and brown eyes. Nice-looking but, as Irene Jakaitis had said, not drop-dead gorgeous. Young-looking, too—more like twentyfive than thirty. In some of the photos he was alone—on the beach, on a ski slope, in the park. In others he had his arm around a thin brunette. The girlfriend? There were also photos with the woman and a little girl with wispy blond curls, and other shots with Shankman and an older couple, probably his parents. One of the shots of Shankman and his girlfriend looked different. I peered at it and realized that the frame’s protective glass was missing.
“Are you done here?” LaSalle asked, impatient.
“Just about. I really appreciate this.”
LaSalle grunted.
There was a closet in the small entry. I opened it and switched on the light.
“You won’t find him in there,” LaSalle said. His chuckle turned into a wheeze.
Inside the closet were a jacket and a raincoat, an umbrella, a blanket and pillows. Under the blanket was a white cardboard box with reddish stains.
“Let’s go,” LaSalle said.
I could hear from his tone that I was out of time. I shut the light switch and stepped backward to close the closet door. My shoe crunched on something.
I bent down and picked up a sliver of glass.
“Come on,” the manager said.
On the light maple floor I saw a sprinkling of reddish-brown dots. I touched them. They were sticky.
Zack bent down next to me. “Molly, we have to go.”
I pointed to the spots.
“I lost my contact lens,” I told LaSalle.
“Aw, jeez.” He groaned. “Well, hurry up.”
Crawling across the living room floor, I followed a trail of reddish-brown dots to the table in the dining area. I was careful not to touch them.
There was a small black-and-brown area rug in front of the sofa. I lifted a corner.
“How would your lens get under the rug?” LaSalle snickered.
“I’m shaking the rug to see if my lens is on it.”
I looked under the rug.
“Find anything?” he asked.
“No.”
The apartment building had an underground parking garage. LaSalle showed us Shankman’s slot. The Altima wasn’t there.
Chapter 25
The answering machine was blinking when we arrived home. The first call was from Dr. McIntyre. He was willing to talk to Connors and had left a message for the detective.
The second call was from Rabbi Bailor.
“Molly, call me as soon as you get in. It’s—”
I paused the machine. My stomach muscles had tightened at the sound of the rabbi’s voice. Right now I couldn’t bear hearing his pain.
And I dreaded returning the call. What would I say? I know who your daughter is with, Rabbi Bailor, but I have no idea where he’s taken her, what he’s doing right now. I don’t know whether she’s alive or dead, and by the way, there’s something on his apartment floor that could be blood.
The message light was blinking in admonishment.
I sighed and pressed PLAY.
“. . . a miracle. Dassie’s home! I can’t believe it myself, but she’s home.”
My heart was pounding.
Zack had come into the room. “Who’s home?”
“Hadassah Bailor.”
I played the message again so that Zack could hear it. Then I phoned the Bailors. Gavriel answered. I paced while I waited for his father to come on the line.
“Molly? Can you believe it?” Rabbi Bailor was shouting his joy.
“I can’t tell you how relieved I am for you.” An image of the reddish-brown dots appeared in front of my eyes. I blinked them away. “When did Dassie come home?”
“Last night. Nechama answered the door. She almost fainted when she saw Dassie. I tried calling you after
Shabbos,
but your line was busy.”
Probably when I was trying to reach Connors. “Did Dassie tell you what happened?”
“She doesn’t want to talk,” Rabbi Bailor said, subdued. “We phoned Dr. McIntyre. He said not to push her. He said she could be in shock.”
“She just showed up at your front door? Where was she? How did she get home?”
“I don’t know where she was, Molly. She walked home. That’s the main thing, that she’s home. The rest we’ll deal with later. Dr. McIntyre is coming to see her. Maybe tonight. If not, definitely tomorrow.”
“What about the man Dassie was with? Did she tell you his name or anything about him?”
“I told you, she’s not talking. She’s exhausted, poor thing. She slept all night and most of today.”
“Did she tell you anything?”
“Just that she made a mistake, that he lied to her. I have to go, Molly. Nechama’s calling me. I want to thank you for everything you tried to do. You gave us hope.”
Rabbi Bailor hung up. I held the receiver a few seconds before I returned it to the cradle.
“What did Rabbi Bailor say?” Zack asked.
“Not much. Hadassah isn’t talking. She may be in shock.”
“Who could blame her?” Zack gazed at me. “You don’t sound elated.”
“I’m
thrilled
that she’s home. I had a nightmare about her last night, and she was covered in blood. But I don’t understand how she got away from Shankman, what made her decide to leave. And where
is
Shankman?”
“Rabbi Bailor didn’t say how she got home?”
“He said it’s a miracle.”
“Sometimes a miracle is just that, Molly.”
I listened to the third message. Dr. McIntyre, calling again to tell me the good news, Hadassah Bailor was home.
I phoned Connors. He wasn’t in, so I left a message telling him that my friend’s daughter had come home.
“Thanks anyway,” I said.
I was fast asleep when the phone rang, and it took me a moment to realize that the sound wasn’t part of a dream.
I fumbled for the receiver and brought it to my ear. “Hello?”
“It’s Andy.”
“She’s home, Andy. My friend’s daughter? I left you a message.” I glanced at my clock radio. Three o’clock. “It’s the middle of the night. Why are you—”
“He’s dead.”
I sat up too quickly. The room began to spin. “Who?”
“Greg Shankman. You told your friend, didn’t you?”
I could hear the fury in Connors’s voice. “No. I swear I didn’t.”
Zack stirred and opened his eyes. “Something wrong?”
“Shankman’s dead,” I told him.
Zack sat up and rubbed his eyes. He switched on his nightstand lamp.
“The apartment manager said a woman was there tonight,” Connors said. “With a guy. That was you and Zack, right?”
My head throbbed. “Yes, but the apartment was empty.”
“Who’s your friend, Molly?”
“Tell me what happened.”
“You first.”
“No.” I was clutching the receiver so hard my fingers ached. “Tell me what happened.”
“You want to know what happened? This is me to my friend at West L.A. earlier today. ‘Can you do me a favor, pretty please, run this guy’s name, see if he has a rap sheet?’ ‘No problem, Andy.’ And this evening, after you get me all nervous about the girl, I call again. ‘Can we pay this guy a visit tonight?’ ‘Let me see.’ So my friend calls back. ‘What a coincidence, Andy. This guy’s car went off the road and hit some big rocks, and guess what? He was in it.’
That’s
what happened, Molly.”
“Andy, I can’t—”
“Don’t bother,” he said and hung up.