Chapter 3
We found a table at the back of the hotel’s restaurant. Jastrow was silent while the waitress took our orders—the man was obsessive about privacy, though I doubted that anyone nearby was interested in our conversation—so I followed his lead.
“You should be talking to the police, not to me, Mr. Jastrow,” I said when the waitress left. “Have you contacted them?”
“We don’t want to involve them. And it’s not a police matter. My daughter wasn’t kidnapped. She ran away. And she’s eighteen, legally an adult.” He pushed his glasses against the bridge of his thin nose. “We know you’ve helped the police. That’s one of the reasons I came to you.”
Over the past year I had become involved in several criminal investigations, a fact I still find hard to believe. The first two times, I’d been drawn by intriguing items I’d read while collecting data for my crime column. The third had been personal. Each had ultimately been a harrowing experience, and while I didn’t regret my involvement, my brushes with violence and my mortality still gave me nightmares. I wasn’t eager to incur more.
I didn’t feel the need to explain all that. “I’ve never tried to find a missing person. I wouldn’t know where to begin. You need a professional.”
“You found Aggie Lasher’s killer. The police didn’t, for almost six years.”
Aggie was my best friend. Her murder was the personal investigation. Though I had found a measure of solace in the truth that eluded everyone for so long, and in the knowledge that justice was finally served, thinking about her brought a stab of fresh loss. So I was offended by what I saw as Jastrow’s manipulation.
“New evidence came up,” I said, making light of a situation that had been anything but. “I was lucky.”
“From what I heard, you were persistent. And smart.” He leaned toward me. “And discreet. That’s what I admired about your book, too, and your comments at the Thousand Oaks’s signing. You protect your sources.”
His flattery was car-salesman cloying. “What if your daughter didn’t run away?” I said. “Have you checked the hospitals? She may have been involved in a car accident.”
Or worse, I thought, blinking away a kaleidoscope of gruesome images. Collecting data for my column has made me uncomfortably aware of how vulnerable we all are.
“She’s with a man she met on the Internet, in a chat room. She phoned her sister Monday, and again this morning. She doesn’t want us to worry.” Jastrow grunted. “It’s an Orthodox Jewish chat room, so she thought it was safe,” he added, the irony tinged with bitterness. “Dinah thought
she
was safe when she left her family’s tent to see the town.”
The biblical Dinah, Jacob’s daughter, raped by Schechem and then held against her will. I’ve heard too many stories about teenage girls and adult women, lured into danger by men they’ve met on the Internet. Like Kacie Woody, who was kidnapped, sexually assaulted, and murdered by a forty-seven-year-old man who befriended her in a Christian chat room.
My heart ached for the man sitting across from me. “So you think your daughter was . . .”
“We’re trying
not
to think. We’re praying that he didn’t . . . that she’s. . . .” Jastrow had been playing with his knife. He set it down, clanking the foot of his water goblet. “She doesn’t realize this could ruin her life. Not just
her
life. Her older sister and brother are of marriageable age, and there are younger siblings. If this gets out. . . .”
This was the “delicate” part. The Orthodox community I know and love is close-knit and supportive, but a hint of unconventional behavior can be the kiss of death for a family when parents vet prospective spouses for their children. And a teenage girl who runs away with a man . . .
“If your daughter left three days ago, Mr. Jastrow, people must know by now.”
“Outside of the family, only the friend where our daughter was supposedly spending Sunday night.”
“What about people at her school? Where does she go, by the way?”
“Torat Tzion. Only the Jewish studies principal knows. He won’t say anything.”
I was familiar with the modern Orthodox high school. “And the secular studies principal?”
“Dr. Mendes. She doesn’t know. The official story is that my daughter flew to New York for a cousin’s wedding. She developed bronchitis and can’t travel until she feels better. Next week is Thanksgiving, so that gives us more time. And we’re praying she’ll be home before then.”
A good story, I thought, but one that would work for only so long. “How do you know about the chat room?”
“From the friend. She claims she doesn’t know this man’s name, but she may be protecting my daughter, and herself.” His pursed lips indicated what he thought of the friend. “We’re hoping you can find out what she
does
know.”
I was moved by his plight. I wanted to help. I doubted I could succeed. “I am
so
sorry about your daughter, Mr. Jastrow. I understand your concern about keeping this quiet, but you really need a private detective. I can ask my police contact for recommendations.”
“A detective is a last resort,” he admitted. “This friend won’t be as forthcoming with a detective as she’d be with you. Her parents may not even let her
talk
to a detective. You’re
frum,
Miss Blume. You’re part of the community. You’d know what to say, what not to say. And as you mentioned, you have police connections. Maybe you could get them to help you, unofficially. Also—” Jastrow stopped.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw our waitress approaching. Jastrow fidgeted with a napkin while she set down his iced tea and my coffee. From his strained smile and thank you, I could tell he was eager for her to be gone.
“It’s not just
finding
my daughter,” he said when we were alone again. “It’s convincing her to come home. She’s more likely to listen to you than to a stranger. You were her counselor in B’nos. She was five at the time, but you made an impression.”
I added sweetener to my coffee and stirred. I hadn’t thought about the
Shabbat
afternoon program in ages. During my four years of high school, I’d probably been in charge of hundreds of ponytailed little girls who had come for the games and stories and nosh. Twenty-some years ago, I’d been one of those little girls.
“She follows your work,” Jastrow said. “She admires you.” He removed an envelope from his briefcase and took out a photo that he slid toward me. “That’s her.”
It was a glossy five-by-seven with a swirled blue background similar to the one my three sisters and I had posed against when we were seniors. Jastrow’s daughter was pretty, with curly shoulder-length strawberry-blond hair, bright lively blue eyes, full lips that allowed a timid smile, a hint of dimples. Heavy makeup (de rigueur for the yearbook, aka a
“shidduch
book” perused by parents seeking mates for their sons) made her look glamorous and sophisticated, closer to twenty-two than eighteen.
In spite of my reservations I was being drawn in. “What’s her name?” I asked with reluctance. A name would make it harder to walk away. I took a sip of coffee.
“Hadassah. So you’ll do it? You’ll help?” His tone was imploring, urgent.
I nodded and hoped I wasn’t getting in over my head. “Hadassah Jastrow,” I said. “I have to be honest. I don’t remember her.”
He returned the photo to his briefcase. “Actually, her last name isn’t Jastrow.”
“She’s your stepdaughter?”
He looked uneasy. “My niece. I was afraid if I told you right away, you wouldn’t give me a chance to explain.”
For a moment I was too shocked to speak. I glared at him. “You
lied
to me?”
“She’s not my daughter, no. But everything else I told you is true. Her last name is Bailor.”
“Why would I—” I jostled my cup as I set it down. Coffee sloshed over the rim and onto the table. “Rabbi Bailor’s daughter?
Chaim
Bailor?”
The Judaic studies teacher I had adored, the man who had later made me feel that I was a disappointment to him, to the school, to the community, to the world.
Jastrow’s silence was an answer.
“So Rabbi Bailor sent you,” I said, my face tingling. “He was afraid to approach me himself.”
Set the hook, reel me in. No wonder Jastrow was confident that the Jewish studies principal of Torat Tzion would keep Hadassah Bailor’s disappearance under wraps. Rabbi Bailor
was
that principal.
“My brother-in-law doesn’t know I’m here. When I heard about your Dutton’s signing, I thought, This is
bashert.
I told Nechama and Chaim, but they were sure Hadassah would come back on her own. Now they realize she isn’t going to.”
My mind was whirling. I blotted the table and saucer with a paper napkin. “Maybe he doesn’t want my help.”
“He does. He’s certain you’ll say no. I’m hoping you’ll prove him wrong.”
The man was good. “If I agree to help—and I’m not saying yes,” I said, raising a warning hand. “If I do it, I’d have to have access to Hadassah’s things. Her computer, papers, books. Her friends.”
Jastrow nodded. “The one friend I told you about, yes. I don’t know about the others. The more questions you ask, the more talk there will be. That’s what we want to avoid.”
This, I guessed, was the “complicated” part. “I can’t exactly find Hadassah if I don’t ask questions.”
“You can ask about her indirectly. Maybe you can say you’re doing an article on Jewish chat rooms or the school. Something like that.”
I doubted that the idea had popped into Jastrow’s head. He’d probably been confident that I’d agree. That annoyed me, but I had to admit his suggestion had merit.
“I’d have to ask the family questions that might make them uncomfortable,” I said.
“I don’t know that you’ll find answers. Hadassah is a good girl. None of us saw anything that would explain why she would run away.”
“Good girls run away sometimes,” I said. “And they usually don’t decide to do it overnight.”
Chapter 4
From the lobby I watched Jastrow fold himself into a dark blue Volvo that the valet had brought to a screeching halt in the semicircular driveway. Minutes after Jastrow left, I walked to my car and drove to Sheila’s, a kosher restaurant, where I enjoyed a salad, grilled chicken, and a giant chocolate chip cookie. I was the only lone diner in a restaurant packed with families, but Sheila treats customers like friends, and she stopped by frequently to chat. I bought several more cookies and half a dozen biscotti to take back to the hotel. When you’re on tour, comfort food is essential, and I needed extra comforting.
I was in a tank top and pajama bottoms, lying on my bed and watching
Law and Order,
when Zack phoned me on my cell phone. I had talked to him throughout the day, including several times on my drive down to San Diego and once after the book signing. Hearing his voice eased my loneliness and intensified it at the same time, if that makes any sense.
I lowered the volume on the TV. “Now I understand why the rabbis say you’re not supposed to be apart during the first year of marriage.”
“Rabbis are smart,” Zack said. “How was dinner? How are
you?”
“Fine and fine.”
“You don’t sound fine. You sound glum. Something on your mind?”
Hadassah Bailor. But there was no point in telling Zack about her over the phone. “I wish I were home.”
“Me, too. Where are you right now?”
“In my room, on a king-size bed that’s
such
a waste.” God, I missed him. “How’s Mrs. Kroen?”
“I left her a few hours ago. Her brother is with her, plus several friends. I don’t think the reality of her husband’s death has struck yet, but she’s a strong woman.”
“Please tell her I’m sorry I can’t be at the funeral tomorrow morning. I’ll pay a
shiva
call on Sunday.”
Though as the rabbi’s wife I’m not obligated to attend every congregant’s funeral, I knew Mrs. Kroen and wanted to be there for her. But I had a newspaper interview and two radio interviews scheduled for tomorrow.
“I’ll tell Mrs. Kroen,” Zack said. “So what are you doing right now?”
“Watching TV and eating chocolate chip cookies—my idea of multitasking. I’d offer to save a cookie for you, but I have no willpower.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“Speaking of honest, how was my meat loaf?”
“Speaking of honest, I froze it. My parents invited me to dinner.”
I frowned. “But you told them I prepared dinner, right? I don’t want them to think I’m neglecting you.”
“I did. They don’t. I’m the one who pushed you to go, remember? They’re proud of you, Molly. They send their love. So does your family. Edie, Mindy, Judah, your mom. They all invited me to dinner. And Joey asked if I wanted to play a pickup game.”
“You’re not annoyed, are you?”
As an only child Zack is still adjusting to being part of my large, boisterous family. There are seven of us Blume siblings—four female, three male. I’m number three, and sometimes
I
feel overwhelmed.
“Actually, being doted on is fun,” he said. “I could get used to this.”
“Don’t.”
“Right.” He laughed. “Ask me what I’m doing right now, Molly.”
If I knew Zack, he’d taken advantage of my absence to unpack the boxes that were occupying most of the space in the second bedroom, even though we’d moved into our house six months ago. That’s what I told him.
“A good idea, but guess again,” he said.
“Polishing your
drash
for
Shabbos.”
“Already polished, with your edits. Living with a writer has its perks. FYI, I undangled the participle.”
“Participles should never dangle. So what
are
you doing?”
“Making a delivery.”
“What kind? I assume you don’t mean a baby.”
“That would be correct, and lucky for the baby and mother. Why don’t you open your door?”
I turned my head toward it. “Why would I do that?”
“Because the bell is ringing.”
It was. My heart skipped a beat. “You’re kidding, right?” I scurried off the bed and hurried to the peephole.
He was wearing navy Dockers and a powder blue V-neck sweater that showed the white of his T-shirt. His black velvet yarmulke was off-center on his black hair, the way it usually is.
“I can’t believe you drove two hours just to be with me,” I said when he was inside the room.
“Chocolate chip are my favorites.”
He put his hands on my waist and licked the crumbs off my lips. He’s over six feet tall, and I was barefoot, so he had to bend down to kiss me. It was a long kiss that left me breathless and curled my toes and probably gave him a permanent crick in his neck, but he didn’t complain.
Later, lying next to him, I told him about Reuben Jastrow and felt his muscles tense.
“I didn’t want to spoil the mood, Zack, but I had to tell you.”
“So I wasn’t the only one to drive two hours to see you,” he said, his gray-blue eyes somber. He folded his arms beneath his head. “I can’t imagine what the Bailors are going through. I wish I could do something.” He turned to me. “Should I call Rabbi Bailor?”
Rabbi Bailor had been Zack’s teacher, too. Zack had been a grade ahead of me at Sharsheret (the high school has a coed population but separate buildings for girls and boys), along with my ex-husband, who is on the board of the synagogue where Zack is rabbi. Life is complicated.
“Definitely not. Jastrow didn’t even want me to tell
you.
I told him I don’t keep secrets from my husband.”
Zack nodded. “Anyway, Rabbi Bailor might feel awkward if I called him. It must have been hard for him to ask you for help.”
“Technically, his brother-in-law asked. I’m not even sure Rabbi Bailor
wants
my help. And I have no idea where I’d start looking for his daughter.”
“You’re a reporter, Molly. You’re good at getting information out of people. And Andy Connors may be willing to help you.”
“Maybe.”
Connors is an LAPD detective with whom I’ve become friendly over the past five years. He’s generous with information when he can give it, but I’ve never asked him for a personal favor. I explained that to Zack.
He raised himself on one elbow. “This isn’t about Connors helping you. You don’t want to do this, do you?”
“I have mixed feelings.”
He linked his fingers with mine. “Why are you resisting? Is it because she’s Rabbi Bailor’s daughter?”
“That’s part of it. I don’t like the fact that Jastrow lied to me, for one thing.”
“Jastrow explained why. If he’d told you right away that he was here on behalf of the Bailors, would you have given him the time of day?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Meeting with Rabbi Bailor will be awkward, Zack. And yes, I’m still hurt by what he did. But that’s petty, considering what he and his wife are going through. I feel terrible for them.”
“I guess you have your answer,” Zack said.
“What if I can’t find her, Zack?”
“Then the Bailors are no worse off than they are now.”
“They could be wasting precious time. I still think they should go to the police, Zack. I told that to Jastrow again, before he left. Just because Hadassah told her sister she’s safe doesn’t mean she is.”