“Yum.”
“Thank
you.”
“Don’t thank me. I may check it out, see if the guy has a rap sheet, see if I can ID prints on the note, although my guess is the only prints we’ll find will belong to your friend, the rabbi. Even if I identify this guy, I’m not promising I’ll share the information with you.”
My car was on Wilcox, in front of the station. I sat inside a few minutes, my hand on the ignition key, thinking about my conversation with Connors, about Hadassah Bailor.
’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. . . .
I took my hand off the ignition key and found my cell phone in my purse. After obtaining the number for my auto insurance broker, I phoned him and told him I’d been sideswiped in a hit-and-run but had managed to get the license plate of the car that had struck me.
“I’d like to know who owns that vehicle, Marty,” I said.
“Sorry, but we don’t have access to that information, Molly. We used to.”
Damn. “What about the insurance company?”
“I’ll check and call you back.”
“It’s important, Marty.”
I gave him my cell number, turned on the radio, and listened to “Going to the Chapel.” When my phone rang two minutes later, I flipped it open quickly.
“Did you get the name of the car owner, Marty?”
“This is Rabbi Bailor.”
I should have looked at the LCD display. “Sorry, I thought you were my insurance company.”
“You sounded anxious, Molly. Are you okay?”
“Annoyed, really. I had a little fender-bender, and the person who hit me just drove off. But I’m fine.”
“Good. I hate to push, but did you learn anything about Dassie?”
“I don’t have anything to tell you, Rabbi Bailor. I’ll call as soon as I do.” That was close enough to the truth.
“I have the phone numbers you wanted. Do you have pen and paper?”
My phone signaled that I had another call. I glanced at the display. The insurance broker. “I’m coming to the school today to talk to some of the students, so I’ll get the information from you then. Thanks.”
“About that. It seems—”
“I have another call, Rabbi Bailor. I’ll see you later.” I pressed the button to accept the new incoming call. “Marty?”
“I talked to the insurance company, Molly. You’d have to file a claim and fill out an insurance report, and then you still wouldn’t get the information. And to be honest, unless the damage to your car is extensive, I’d advise you to pay for the repairs yourself. You had a claim a little over six months ago. If you file, your rates may go up.”
“Even though I’m not at fault?” I asked, outraged by the unfairness of a rate hike resulting from my hypothetical damage.
“Two incidents in one year to one car is never good.”
Neither is perjury. I’ve fibbed on more than one occasion to obtain information—I’d done so last night, with the maître d’ and with Irene. I’m not happy about lying, but I do it when I think it’s necessary, and when I’m not harming someone. That’s a convenient rationalization, I know. But officially accusing someone of hit-and-run, even if I thought that person was despicable, or filling out an insurance report and signing the part where it says something to the effect that everything you’ve written is, to the best of your knowledge, true . . .
“Suppose I don’t file,” I said. “Suppose we just make inquiries? I just want to know who hit my car.”
“It doesn’t work like that. Sorry, Molly. You know what I say? Get the car fixed and be happy you weren’t injured. Life’s too short.”
Chapter 16
Torat Tzion is a brick-faced, two-story building on Burton Way just east of Doheny. Burton Way, by the way, is one of those sneaky, curvy L.A. streets that confuse tourists and even some native Angelenos. It’s a wide boulevard, separated by a median, that starts at San Vicente and heads west. After passing Rexford (and the Beverly Hills library and police department), Burton Way morphs into Little Santa Monica, narrows as it continues through the retail mecca of Beverly Hills (think “Pretty Woman” and Rodeo Drive) and Century City, and finally merges with Santa Monica Boulevard. Along Burton Way are posh hotels, like the Four Seasons and the unknown boutique gem, L’Hermitage, where celebrities are known to stay and where, more important, Zack and I spent our wedding night. I imagined that the rents in this upscale neighborhood were upscale, too, so the school probably had some angels.
I found a spot directly in front of the school, but by the time I entered the lobby, it was 12:40. I had hoped to be here earlier, but despite my best efforts, I hadn’t finished my column until minutes before noon. Since
Shabbat
would start around 4:30, I assumed school would be out in less than an hour. Not much time to interview students.
The walls of the Feldman Family lobby, high-ceilinged and domed, were filled with a multitude of framed brass plaques. A host of angels, I thought. I read the names on a few of the plaques as I waited for the laconic guard to confirm that I had reason to be here before he checked my purse and had me pass through a metal detector. The presence of guards and other security measures in most Jewish schools and centers became a necessity five years ago, when Buford Furrow fired more than seventy bullets from an assault weapon into a Granada Hills Jewish community center and shattered our illusion of safety.
The bell clanged. Seconds later, doors to classrooms along a wide hall to my right and left were flung open, and teens came rushing out, like the bulls at Pamplona. The boys wore black slacks and white button-down shirts. The girls wore gray skirts with yellow sweaters or yellow blouses. Not the colors of my uniform, but for a surreal moment I was back in high school, washed in memories I didn’t particularly like. The cliques, the blossoming doubts about religion, the boys (including Zack, who had dumped me without explanation) for whom I never felt pretty enough or sexy enough or thin enough or clever enough. Rabbi Ingel, who had accused me of something I didn’t do. Rabbi Bailor, who had turned out to have feet of clay.
The rabbi, I learned, was in a meeting, but he’d left an envelope containing contact information for Cheryl Wexner and Greg Shankman with his assistant, Sue Horowitz, a buxom woman in her fifties with curly auburn hair, green eyes, and a warm smile. The lines around Sue’s eyes and the deeper ones from her nose to her corallipsticked mouth suggested that she smiled often. Her southern drawl (she was born in Memphis, she told me) had me at “Hi, darlin’.”
“Rabbi said to help any way I can,” Sue told me. “Where would y’all like to start?”
She shut the door to her office, which she had made cozy with potted plants, one of which threatened to overtake her desk. Posters brightened the ecru walls, and a collection of vibrant-colored ceramic birds eyed me from the top of the black filing cabinet in the corner.
Sue offered me a seat, along with a cup of coffee I declined. I’d had two cups at home while working on my column and felt like the Energizer Bunny on speed.
“I’m writing an article about Torat Tzion,” I began, but she stopped me.
“Rabbi told me about Dassie, Molly,” she said in an undertone. “Can I call you Molly? I’d flay my skin before I breathed a word he told me in confidence,” she continued before I could respond. “He’s going through something awful, you know.”
I told her I knew.
“So what do y’all need, Molly?”
“I’d like to talk to Dassie’s friends. Tara and Becky. I don’t know their last names.”
“Tara Edelson and Becky Rothman.”
“And since Rabbi Bailor doesn’t want me to single them out, he said he’d arrange for me to talk to the girls in a group. I know it’s late, but—”
“Didn’t Rabbi reach you?” Sue asked. “He planned to tell the seniors first thing this morning that you’d be interviewing them, but Dr. Mendes—she’s the secular studies principal. She said there was a problem.”
So I had rushed here for nothing. My fault. While working on my column, I had shut off my cell phone and ignored a call on my home line from Rabbi Bailor. I’d assumed he wanted a progress report.
“What about Dr. McIntyre?” I asked. “Does he teach a class today?”
The door opened and a student poked his head in.
Sue scowled at him. “Don’t y’all know how to knock, Brian?”
“Like this?” He rapped his knuckles on the door.
“You think you’re cute, do you?”
“Kind of.” He grinned. “Did Rabbi Bailor finish my letter of recommendation, Mrs. Horowitz?”
“When he does, you’ll be the second to know. And if you don’t learn some manners, I may just misplace it. That would be a shame.”
The boy looked sheepish. “Sorry, Mrs. Horowitz.” His head disappeared, and he pulled the door shut.
“Kids.” Sue clucked. “Brian’s okay, but some of them think because their parents pay tuition, they own the school.”
“And the ones with parents on the board?”
“They
do
own the school.” Sue laughed. “It doesn’t make a difference to Rabbi Bailor. He’s a principal with principle.”
“What about Dr. Mendes? I understand that she and the rabbi don’t see eye to eye, and he’s worried about his job.”
“Rabbi told you, huh?” Sue nodded. “Dr. Mendes is close to the board members, and to Robert Hornstein. He founded the school, and he hired Dr. Mendes.”
“So Mr. Hornstein sides with Dr. Mendes?”
“On what day?” Sue sniffed. “Mr. Hornstein agrees with the last person he talked to. But Dr. Mendes has his ear. She’s his golden child. Since she’s been here, the number of kids being accepted into the Ivies has gone way up.”
“Rabbi Bailor doesn’t produce results?”
“ ’Course he does. The kids love Rabbi, and he’s changed lives. But the fact that kids are studying Torah in Israel and committing to keeping kosher and
Shabbat
isn’t as sexy or exciting to the board as the fact that they’re going to Harvard or Columbia or Penn.”
“Do you think the rabbi may lose his job?”
“Not if the board members have half a brain among them. If Rabbi goes, I go.” Sue pursed her lips. “But you were asking? Oh, right. Dr. McIntyre. He finished his class and said if anybody asked, he’d be in the teachers’ lounge, photocopying an exam.”
“Where’s the lounge?”
“First floor. Take a right when you leave my office, then a left, and go down the hall. There’s a plate on the door on your left. He’s a good man, Dr. McIntyre, and a good teacher. The two don’t always go together. I could tell you stories—but I won’t.” Smiling, she pulled an imaginary zipper across her mouth. “Rabbi would kill me.” Then she turned serious. “He’s been through a lot. Dr. McIntyre, I mean. He lost a child a few years back.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It can try your faith, losing a child.” Sue pressed a hand against her bosom. “Rabbi says God put Dr. McIntyre here so he could connect with the kids when these tragedies happened. Rabbi said he told you about that, right?”
I nodded.
“And I do think being here, talking to these kids, is helping Dr. McIntyre. It gives him hope and a purpose.”
“Speaking of teachers, Sue, do you know if Mr. Shankman is working in another school?”
“I don’t. Back in October we had several calls about him. Nothing recently, so maybe he found another position. I hope so. Mr. Shankman is good people,” Sue said. “Rabbi was sorry to see him go. I was, too.”
I hadn’t thought that Rabbi Bailor had lied to me, but confirmation is always gratifying. “Why was he let go?”
Sue pulled the imaginary zipper across her lips again.
“Shabbat
shalom,
y’all.”
Chapter 17
I found the lounge and knocked before entering. A copy machine was humming, spitting out pages. Hunched over a keyboard in front of one of several computers on a table that ran the length of the room was a middle-aged man with thick, unruly graying hair that matched the gray in his argyle vest. A slender, brown-haired woman in her forties was slipping folded yellow flyers into cubbies on the opposite wall. She was wearing a navy suit with a cream-colored blouse, plain blue pumps, and small pearl earrings. Administration, I decided.
“Dr. McIntyre? I’m Molly Blume. Rabbi Bailor may have mentioned that I’d like to talk to you?”
He looked at me, his fingers still on the keyboard, a blank expression in his brown eyes. Then he nodded. “Oh, right.”
He swiveled and stood. He was taller than I’d realized, broader-shouldered. He turned to the woman. She was gazing at me, curious.
“Miss Blume is . . .”
“Doing a story on teenagers,” I finished for him.
“You’re the reporter,” she said. “I’m Dr. Janet Mendes, secular studies principal. What paper do you write for, Miss Blume? Rabbi Bailor didn’t say.”
“Please call me Molly. I’ve written for the L.A. Times and other papers and magazines. I freelance.”
The copy machine had stopped. McIntyre removed the page he’d been photocopying and placed another page on the window. The machine resumed its humming.
“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with your work,” Dr. Mendes said. “Tell me more about this story.”
Though my family thinks I’m a threat to Ann Rule, the queen of true crime, I’m constantly reminded of my anonymity. Right now anonymity was a plus.
“It’s about teens and the Internet. I thought I’d interview students from private schools.”
A cell phone rang.
“Sorry.” McIntyre flipped open a phone he removed from a holder clipped to the waistband of his black slacks. He spoke quietly, then looked up. “I have to take this call. It may be a while.”
I told him I’d wait. He left the room.
Dr. Mendes inserted the last flyer into its slot. “Rabbi Bailor said he was your teacher years ago, at Sharsheret. A small world. Is your mother Celia Blume?”
“She is.”
“I’d never poach, but if she decides to leave Sharsheret, we’d love to have her teach here.” Dr. Mendes smiled. “When you say ‘teens and the Internet,’ Molly, what exactly do you mean?”
“How they use it,” I said. “What they enjoy most about it. Socializing in chat rooms, doing research, shopping, connecting with other teens. My pieces tend to evolve.”
“And you’ve interviewed students at other schools?”
Ten to one, Dr. Mendes would check. “Torat Tzion is first on my list. I thought I’d start with the top.”
I don’t know why I said that—I was so obviously kissing up. But Dr. Mendes seemed pleased.
“We’re proud of our students, and of our teachers who help them meet their goals. Your story sounds very current, Molly, but as I told Rabbi Bailor, I have concerns. For one thing, I wouldn’t want classes disrupted, particularly since our students are preparing for midterms.”
“I’d be happy to work around their schedule.”
“More important, before we can allow you to interview any students, we would need parental permission.”
Which ruled out talking to anyone today. “I wouldn’t have to use names, Dr. Mendes. I’m trying to get an overall picture.”
“Still, there may be liability issues. I could consult with the school attorney, but I’d prefer to take the safe route—and one that doesn’t entail legal fees. And I’d like to see the questions you’ll be asking.”
While I wished she weren’t so cautious, I could understand her concerns. “As I said, my piece is about how teens use the Internet. The frequency of use, patterns, the advantages and pitfalls.”
Dr. Mendes frowned. “Pitfalls?”
“Or not,” I said, backtracking as smoothly as a Michael Jackson moonwalk. “As I said, my story is elastic right now.” Like my lies, I thought.
“All right. I’ll send a letter to parents on Monday, with a release form. So perhaps you can do the interviews a few days after that.” She frowned. “Although next week is Thanksgiving. Well, we’ll see. In the meantime, please fax or e-mail me your questions. You can ask Sue Horowitz for my contact information.”
“I’ll do that.”
“I’m sorry about the wasted trip, Molly. I hope you understand.” Dr. Mendes walked to the door and had one hand on the knob when she turned toward me. “Can I show you around the school? We’re proud of our facilities.”
“Another time, thanks. The lobby is beautiful, by the way. I noticed that it’s named for the Feldman Family. Is that the family with three Harvard men? Well, a father and one son so far. And a senior is headed for Cambridge next September, Rabbi Bailor said.”
“Did he?” Janet Mendes looked surprised. “Rabbi Bailor meant the Prossers. They’re one of the school’s founders. Adam is one of our brightest stars. He hasn’t made a decision yet, but we’re assuming he’ll follow in his brother Seth’s footsteps and choose Harvard.”
Adam Prosser, I repeated, committing the name to memory. “What are those, by the way?” I pointed to a stack of books I’d noticed on one of the tables that lined the walls. “Student yearbooks?”
“Faculty
yearbooks, and pages for the senior yearbook. Mr. Hernandez, our history department chair, is the yearbook advisor, the lucky man.” Dr. Mendes’s tone was wry. “The seniors are planning to use one or more photos from each instructor’s yearbook. They’re aiming for nostalgia. Nostalgia can be quite embarrassing, I’m afraid, but the staff are all being good sports.”
“What about you?”
“Oh, they won’t find anything scandalous. I was always the good girl.” She smiled and opened the door. “Would you like me to show you the way out? It’s a large building, and you wouldn’t be the first visitor to get lost.”
“No, thanks.”
“Oh, right. You’re here to talk to Dr. McIntyre. So your trip won’t be wasted after all.” Again, there was a question in her eyes.
“Unless he needs parental permission.”
She surprised me and laughed. “Touché. We live in litigious times, Molly. I don’t like it, but it’s a fact. Are you talking to Dr. McIntyre for your story?”
“Background information,” I said. “The mystery of the teenager.”
“When you solve it, I hope you’ll share the secret. At school I pretend to know what I’m doing, but my two teenagers will tell you it’s all a facade. It was nice meeting you, Molly Blume. I’m looking forward to getting your questions, and to seeing you next week.”
Next week would be too late for Hadassah, who was counting the days before she went to the
mikvah
so that she could be intimate with a controlling man who joked about wanting a hundred thousand dollars and made allusions to suicide.
Maybe it wasn’t a joke. Maybe I should have let Connors think blackmail was involved. That would have given him a legitimate reason to search for Hadassah.