“It was immaculate, everything neat and tidy. It looked like no one had been there for a while. And one of the photo frames was missing a protective glass.”
“We noticed that, too. Did you touch anything, Molly? Doorknobs? Drawers? Knickknacks?”
“Doorknobs, and the bedroom closet door. I didn’t touch any knickknacks or photos.” In my mind I reviewed my walk through the apartment. “I touched the light switch in the entry hall closet.”
“Did you touch the cardboard box in the closet?”
“No.”
“Because there was blood on the box, too. That’s interesting, isn’t it?”
I pictured the reddish stains. “What was in it?”
Jessie smiled. “What about the knives in the kitchen?”
I blanched. “Is that what . . . No. I didn’t touch any of the knives.”
“Good. We’ll have to get you printed, Molly,” Jessie said. “For purposes of elimination. I’d like you to come down to the station tomorrow.”
“I’ll be there. Are we done?”
“What’s your friend’s name?” Jessie asked.
I didn’t answer.
“Obstruction of justice, tampering with a crime scene. I can think of a number of other charges. One hour.”
“What?”
“That’s when we’ll be back.”
Chapter 27
My legs were so shaky I was surprised they held me up as I walked Connors and Jessie Drake to the front door. I watched them get into Connors’s car and waited until the Cutlass turned the corner.
I phoned my sister Mindy. She’s a real estate attorney, but I figured she remembered enough criminal law to advise me. I could hear her three children in the background as I gave her a summary of what had happened.
“Poor Rabbi Bailor,” was the first thing Mindy said. “And his daughter. I can’t imagine what they went through.”
“What about the threats, Mindy? Detective Drake talked about obstruction of justice, contaminating a crime scene.”
“She’s trying to scare you, Molly. But she
can
subpoena you, and she can get a bench warrant and have you arrested if you don’t cooperate.”
“Can I plead the fifth?”
“No, you can’t. That protection applies only if what you tell the police will incriminate you.”
“What do you think I should do, Mindy?”
“Cooperate. They’ll find out Dassie’s name from Shankman’s girlfriend when they reach her, but they’re right to want to talk to Dassie now. The colder the case, the colder the trail. Hours can make a difference.”
I cleared my throat. “What if . . .”
“What if Dassie killed him?”
“Yes. The blood on the floor says
something
happened.”
“Dassie may have killed him in self-defense. Or it was the girlfriend, like you suggested, or someone else we don’t know about. But even if Dassie had nothing to do with his death, she may have vital information.”
“You’re right.”
“Plus you have to consider your obligation to Connors, Molly. He’s been a good friend all these years, and in running the license plate to get Shankman’s name, and giving you that name, he bent a few rules. He could be in trouble with the department.”
I hadn’t even had time to consider that. “And my promise to Rabbi Bailor?”
“Talk to him, Molly. Explain the situation. He won’t want you to put yourself in jeopardy.”
There was every possibility that Connors or Jessie Drake had stationed someone in front of the house to follow me, but this wasn’t something I could do over the phone.
Gavriel answered the door. He hadn’t shaved in several days. The dark growth on his face enhanced his good looks and almost covered a cut on his chin.
I wondered if he would have a scar, like his father. “I heard the wonderful news about your sister,” I said.
He nodded.
“Baruch Hashem.
We’re all so grateful. I’ll tell my father you’re here. Do you want to wait in the dining room?”
I had just sat down when Rabbi Bailor entered the room. His smile could have lit a ballroom.
“I was going to call you again, to thank you, Molly. Like I said, you gave us hope. And I’ll never forget your concern, your eagerness to help. Nechama will be sorry she missed you. She went for groceries, and then she’s picking up the boys from school. Aliza went with her.”
“Rabbi Bailor—”
“I’m sure you have a million questions, Molly. We do, too.” The smile dimmed. “Dassie hasn’t said much. Dr. McIntyre came last night. He said these things take time and cautioned us not to push her.”
“Rabbi Bailor, two police detectives just left my house.” I watched his face, hated the fact that I was doing it. “One of them, Detective Connors, knows that Dassie ran away. I went to him for help in finding this man.”
“He’s the one you gave the note and the coins to? Did you tell him Dassie’s home?”
“Yes. Rabbi Bailor—”
“Please thank him for his efforts, Molly, and tell him I’m sorry I wasted his time. He can throw out the note and the coins. I certainly don’t want them.”
“Rabbi Bailor, I didn’t tell Detective Connors Dassie’s name, but now I have to.”
The rabbi shook his head. “It’s over. Dassie is home. She’s safe. I don’t want to know this man’s name. I’m just grateful he’s out of our lives. If Detective Connors wants to pursue the matter, that’s up to him.”
“The man Dassie ran away with is dead.”
The rabbi turned ashen. “Dead?” He sat down heavily.
“He was in a car crash.”
You’re not to say anything about homicide, or about the blood in Shankman’s apartment, Jessie Drake had warned before she left. If you
do
say anything, Connors had added, we’ll know.
Rabbi Bailor frowned. “A man dies in a car accident. That’s a terrible thing, but what does that have to do with Dassie? Why do they think she ran away with him?”
“The man is Greg Shankman.”
The rabbi’s eyes widened. “Shankman?”
I could swear his surprise was genuine, but if he
had
known, he’d had over a day to perfect his reaction. “Dassie didn’t tell you who she was with?”
“I told you. She wouldn’t talk.” He dropped his head heavily against the back of his chair and stared up at the ceiling.
“The police want to talk to Dassie, to find out Shankman’s frame of mind, since she was probably the last person to see him alive.”
“He killed himself?” the rabbi asked, somber.
“They want to determine what happened, since they know that Dassie came home Friday night,” I said, trying not to lie. “Detective Connors knows Shankman was fired. I told him on Friday, to convince him of the urgency of finding Shankman. Connors plans to talk to Shankman’s girlfriend. Did you know Shankman had a four-year-old daughter?”
“No.” The rabbi sighed deeply. “I didn’t know much about his private life.”
“The girlfriend will tell Connors that Shankman taught at Torat Tzion. So the police will learn Dassie’s name, but they’re pressuring me to tell them now. They can subpoena me and have me arrested if I don’t cooperate.”
“Of course you have to tell them, Molly. I’m sorry I got you involved.” He picked up a pencil and rolled it between his fingers. “When you said maybe it was Greg Shankman, I thought you were crazy, remember? He called a few weeks ago to tell me to expect a call from a principal. I told him I’d give him a strong recommendation. And all this time he was trying to ruin my daughter? Why?”
I heard anger in the rabbi’s voice, and deep pain. I don’t know if there’s anything worse than betrayal.
“Why was he fired, Rabbi Bailor? He’s dead, so I doubt that there would be any legal ramifications if you told me.”
“Still, it’s
loshen horeh.”
Gossip. He put down the pencil. “You can give the detectives Dassie’s name, Molly. But she’s in a fragile state. I don’t know if she’ll talk to them. By the way, what did you tell them about her?”
“What you told me. That Dassie came home Friday night, that she’d realized she made a mistake.”
“And the police think Greg was despondent, so he killed himself.” The rabbi formed a steeple with his fingers. “If you had told me two days ago that the man who did this to Dassie committed suicide, I wouldn’t have rejoiced, but I wouldn’t have been heartbroken. But now Dassie is home, and that man is dead. He’s someone I knew, someone I liked, someone who left behind a young daughter. And he can never do
teshuvah
for what he’s done.”
Rabbi Bailor sat lost in thought. I’m not sure what triggered his realization that there was another, more grim explanation for Shankman’s death, but I could see his expression turn from sad contemplation to alarm.
He dropped his hands to his desk. “The police think it’s suicide, or something else? I’m not a fool,” he said sharply when I didn’t respond. “What did they ask you about Dassie?”
Connors’s warning was in my head. I chose my words. “They wanted to know how Dassie got away from Shankman, and why she left Friday night.”
“So they think it’s too coincidental—that she came home, that Greg is dead. But if he didn’t kill himself, then—”
The look the rabbi gave me was filled with horror. “They think
Dassie killed
him?”
I didn’t answer.
“So the car accident—someone made that happen?” His face was gray. “Where did it happen? When?”
“I don’t know. Dassie didn’t tell you anything when she came home, Rabbi Bailor?”
“I told you she didn’t.” He centered his yarmulke. “Now you’re a detective, Molly?”
“The police will ask you the same thing.”
“Dassie said he lied. Over and over. He lied, he lied, he lied. That’s all she said.”
“She never said his name?”
“Never.”
The word had the force of a
shofar
blast. “If you saw her Friday night, Molly, you would understand. She walked almost four miles. Her hair was wild, she was crying, out of breath. She collapsed in Nechama’s arms.”
“It’s probably more like seven miles from Mar Vista to here,” I said, my head pounding.
“Mar Vista?” The rabbi looked puzzled. “That’s Greg’s old address. When he called the last time, he told me he’d moved. I keep forgetting to ask Mrs. Horowitz to change the information in our files.”
It was a reasonable explanation. I hoped it was true. “Can I talk to Hadassah, Rabbi Bailor?”
“She’s not talking. Not to me, not to Nechama, or Aliza. Not even to her uncle, even though they’re very close. Or to Dr. McIntyre. She doesn’t say a word.”
“Can I see her?”
Hadassah was lying so still I thought she was sleeping, but when I neared the bed I saw that her blue eyes were wide open. Her strawberry-blond curls were splayed against the Wedgwood blue pillow. Her face was pale, her lips almost invisible. She was wearing long-sleeved flannel pajamas with a yellow lollipop design.
“Dassie, Molly Blume is here to see you,” her father said. “She was your counselor in B’nos years ago, remember? You read all her books and articles?”
There was no response. The eyes could have been colored glass for all the expression they showed.
Rabbi Bailor straightened up and gave me a look. See? He walked to the door.
I knelt at her side. “Dassie, I’m so happy you’re home. Everyone is. We were all worried about you. I know you’re tired, but if you ever want to talk, I’m ready to listen.”
Her arms lay on top of the white lace-bordered sheet. I reached over and took her slender hand. She jerked her hand up, bending her elbow, as if she were swatting at a fly. The wide sleeve of her pajama rode up, and I found myself staring at the red cuts that began at her wrist.
I followed Rabbi Bailor downstairs.
“I don’t know what I’m going to tell Nechama,” he said. “For the first time in almost a week, we woke up happy.”
My grandmother says, what’s the use of a beautiful dream if the dawn is chilly?
Chapter 28
Hadassah was afraid to dream.
Friday night, after her mother had hugged her and gripped her face so tightly with both hands as she kissed her that Hadassah winced; after her mother undressed her and cried, “What happened to you, my poor baby!”; after she helped her into her pajamas and into bed— after that Hadassah had fallen into a deep, restless sleep.
When she woke up it was the middle of the night and the house was still. She needed to use the bathroom. She flipped back her comforter and swung her legs off the bed, and that was when she saw the blood that trickled down her arms and legs and dripped onto the pale hardwood floor as she hurried past the kitchen and the dining ell to the closet where she had hidden when she heard the key in the lock, the shard of glass in her sweaty hand— Don’t drop it, Dassie! When she heard his footsteps, she had held her breath so tightly that she could feel her ribs. If he looked for her in the bedroom—Dassie, honey, where are you? Why is the light out? Are you okay?—if he did that, she could unlock the front door and run down the stairs and pound on someone’s door, Help me! Please help me! But the footsteps came up to the closet. She could hear his breathing, could hear the squeak of the knob as he twisted it, could see a tiny, dim sliver of reflected candlelight when the door opened. What the hell? he yelled. He grabbed her arm, and she lunged at him, the pointy end of the shard aimed for his throat.
It had taken her a few seconds to realize that she’d been dreaming. She lay drenched in sweat, her heart beating too fast, pumping the blood too quickly all through her body. A dream, she told herself. She was in the bed that had been hers since she was three. She was safe. The bleeding had stopped. But she didn’t want to have that dream again, because the next time she didn’t know if she could make it out of the closet. Her father had told her people never died in their own dreams, but she had read that wasn’t so. And if she died in her dream, she knew she would really die, forever. That was why she had taken the shard and shoved it between the mattress and box spring, just in case.
Shabbos morning, after her father and the boys left for
shul,
and her mother had checked on her before going downstairs to say her prayers—“How are you doing, sweetie? Can I get you anything?”— Hadassah had slipped out of bed and found two boxes of the No-Doz tablets she kept hidden in an old shoe box filled with tapes. Her friend Tara had given her some Ritalin pills that she’d filched from her brother, who had ADD. A lot of the kids used Ritalin, especially before finals and AP exams, but Hadassah had been too nervous to try it, and No-Doz did the trick.
And last night, she hadn’t dreamed. That was good.
Everyone was so concerned. Her mother, her father, her uncle, Dr. McIntyre. Even Gavriel had come into the room, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot. “I’m glad you’re okay, Dassie.” Sara kept calling and wanted to see her. “I told her you’re resting, honey,” her mother said. And Aliza had come home from her weekend reunion late this morning. Hadassah could tell that Aliza was uncomfortable, tiptoeing around the room, talking in a whisper on the phone, coming over to the bed every once in a while. “Do you want to talk, Dass? I was so scared for you, I cried every night.”
Most of the time Hadassah hadn’t answered. Sometimes she had shaken her head, or nodded. After a while she realized that if she lay still and stared straight ahead, people would leave her alone. She didn’t know how long she could do that. A few days. Longer, if she had to. But then what? And even with the No-Doz she would have to sleep eventually. And then the dream would return.
Molly Blume had been here. She had touched Hadassah’s hand, and Hadassah had instinctively jerked her arm. That had been a mistake. Hadassah hadn’t seen Molly’s face, but Molly must have noticed the marks. There was nothing Hadassah could do about that now. She was relieved that Molly had seen her left hand, not her right. Hadassah hadn’t realized at first that the shard had lacerated her right palm. Her mother had gasped when she’d seen the cuts.
“You must have fallen on something terribly sharp,” she said. She had applied antibiotic ointment and wrapped her hand in a gauze bandage. “If it’s not better by tomorrow, Dassie, if it looks infected, we’ll go to the emergency room.” Later that night her mother had unwrapped the bandage to show Hadassah’s father the cuts. “Do you think we should go to the emergency, Chaim? Or maybe we should take Dassie to Dr. Miller. He’s only three blocks away.” But her father had said no. And an hour ago he’d reapplied the ointment and replaced the bulky gauze with several small bandages that weren’t noticeable.
“The police will be here soon, Dassie,” he had told her, smoothing the last bandage onto her palm. “They want to talk to you about Greg Shankman. Greg is dead, Dassie,” her father said, still holding her hand. “He was in his car when it crashed. Molly wouldn’t say, but I think the police believe he was killed.”
Hadassah’s eyes filled with tears. She stared at the wallpaper and imagined tiny cells of fear attaching themselves to the oxygen cells her heart was pumping through her body.
Her father blotted her tears. “They’ll want to know how you got away, Dassie, how you got home, all the details. But you don’t have to tell them anything you don’t want to, Dassie. We love you, Dassie.”
The police came an hour later. Two of them, a man and a woman. “My daughter may be sleeping,” she heard her father say, so she arranged her hands, palms flat against the comforter. After the man made Hadassah’s parents leave the room, the woman took a chair from Hadassah’s desk and put it next to her bed.
“I’m Detective Jessie Drake,” she told Hadassah. “You can call me Jessie. I know you’ve gone through a terrible ordeal, Hadassah, but we have to ask you a few questions.
“Do you remember what happened Friday night, Hadassah?
“What time did you get home?
“Did you walk home all the way, or did you get a ride?
“Did you call anyone to help you, Hadassah?
“Was Mr. Shankman there when you left the apartment?
“Did he try to hurt you, Hadassah?
“We want to help you, Hadassah.
“Is there anything you want to tell me, Hadassah?”