“Liora said Yamashiro. Or the Grove, but that’s in the middle of the Orthodox community, so Dassie wouldn’t have risked being seen there. And Dassie mentioned Yamashiro to her sister, and to her best friend.”
After leaving the Bailors, I had phoned Sara, then my sister Liora. Then Zack. He’d been happy to accompany me, but had insisted on driving. He claims I have a lead foot, and it’s a steep uphill drive to Sycamore near Franklin and Yamashiro, which is 250 feet above Hollywood Boulevard.
We walked toward the pagoda-style Mountain Palace (that’s what “yamashiro” means) and climbed the steps to the entrance—ten or twelve steps; I wasn’t counting. Definitely fewer than the original 300 that led up the hillside through magnificent Japanese gardens to the cedar and teak mansion, an exact replica of a palace near Kyoto, that the Bernheimer brothers completed in 1914 to house their Asian treasures. The treasures were auctioned off a decade later when one of the brothers died.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” I said.
From where we were standing, we could look up and see the 600-year-old pagoda the brothers had imported from Japan. The oldest structure in California, I’d read.
“Disappointed that I didn’t propose here?” Zack asked.
“Definitely not.” Relieved, to be honest. That was where Ron had asked me to marry him. In the Sunset Room, to be specific. “And chocolate is always romantic.”
Last Chanukah Zack had presented me with a huge dreidel filled with Godiva chocolates and a princess-cut diamond ring.
It was 9:50, too late to be seated in the dining room, we were informed with polite regret by the maître d’ standing behind the tall, intricately carved hexagonal red desk in the lobby.
“I was hoping you could help me.” I showed him Hadassah’s photo. “My cousin was here Sunday night with a young man. Her parents haven’t heard from her since, and they’re beginning to become concerned, but they don’t want to report her missing, because she’s probably fine, and that would be embarrassing, if you know what I mean.”
“Quite.”
“The thing is, the young man probably knows where she is, but we don’t know his name. My cousin may be with him right now, which is why we’d like to contact him. I really, really hope you can help us.”
The maître d’ frowned. “I’m not sure how.”
“Could you show her photo to the staff? She was wearing a black skirt and long-sleeved black top, kind of clingy? Maybe someone can recall her, and the man she was with, maybe his first name? And then you could look through your receipts and find his last name.”
The man sighed. “I don’t have Sunday’s receipts. Even if I did, it would take hours to go through all of them. And you’re assuming that someone will remember this man’s first name. That’s highly unlikely, madam.”
It was. Ridiculous, really. “Right. Sorry.”
“Could you at least verify that my wife’s cousin was here?” Zack said. “We’d appreciate your help.”
The maître d’ hesitated. Zack slipped him a twenty.
“I’ll see what I can do.” The maître d’ palmed the bill. “You may want to wait in the lounge. The bar is open until one during the week, and the view is quite spectacular.”
“I hope it won’t take him till one to learn something,” I whispered to Zack as we left the lobby.
Zack had never been here, so we walked to the heated, open-air garden court and strolled around, admiring the koi and silk tapestries and exotic plants.
“I wonder if those tapestries are the original ones,” Zack said. “Yamashiro was restored, you know.”
“Since when are you an expert on Yamashiro?”
“I read up on it. I always wanted to come here.”
The lounge was crowded, but we nabbed a small table near the windows and ordered drinks that arrived almost immediately. A piña colada for me; a diet lemon Coke for Zack, who would be driving home—soon, he figured. He was certain the maître d’ would strike out.
Gazing through the windows at the panoramic view of Hollywood and all of Los Angeles, I wondered which tiny dot of light signaled the room where Hadassah was. I sighed.
“Thinking about Hadassah?” Zack said.
“So much for romantic ambience. Sorry.” I tasted my drink. The pineapple and rum mixture was sweetly tart, delicious. “I can understand why the Bailors are frantic. I would be, too, if my child ran away with a stranger. But it’s sad that Hadassah’s actions will taint her reputation forever, and her family’s.”
“That’s the reality, Molly.”
“Well, I don’t have to like it.” I sipped my drink.
“Not all the Yamashiro history is romantic, you know,” Zack said. “Rumor has it that during the Depression, starving actresses hung out here hoping to be hired for the evening by men who could afford their company.”
“Hooray for Hollywood,” I said.
“After Pearl Harbor, a false rumor circulated that Yamashiro was a signal tower for the Japanese. The place was vandalized, and because of the anti-Japanese paranoia, the owners camouflaged the Asian architecture and used black paint to cover the carved woods.”
“Is this supposed to cheer me up?”
“Rumors are powerful, Molly, even if they’re not true. When the war ended, Yamashiro was converted into apartment units. A few years later, a new buyer planned to demolish the entire property and build a hotel and apartment building. But as the demolition was about to begin, he discovered all that beauty underneath the black paint.”
“What’s your point?”
“Sometimes we can’t see behind the black paint, Molly. But the truth often emerges, eventually.”
“I don’t think that’s a consolation for the Bailors.” I stared into the darkness. “From what we know, this guy hasn’t harmed Hadassah— yet. And he hasn’t asked for money. Well, he joked about wanting a hundred grand, but then he said it wasn’t about money. So what’s in it for him?”
“Power, control. There are hundreds of predators like him lurking in chat rooms, pedophiles who prey on children, men who lure young girls and women to meet them.”
And sometimes rape them, or kill them. I knew that’s what Zack was thinking. The possibility made me shudder.
“A real estate agent from Anchorage had seventeen screen names,” Zack said. “He’d pretend to be a girl and strike up a friendship with lonely girls. Then he’d try to set them up on a date with a teenage boy—himself. I’m sure Hadassah’s guy made her feel safe, Molly. And he must have sensed her vulnerability. That’s why he chose her.”
I stirred my drink. “I don’t think he happened to meet Hadassah in the chat room. I think he knew her.”
Zack frowned. “What makes you think that?”
“Sara, the best friend, told me he knew things about Hadassah. That her favorite color was green, for example.”
“Green is a favorite color for many people, Molly.”
“He knew she was going to be a lawyer, Zack. He knew her favorite music. He’s like a magician who sets up his cards, or a fortune teller who gets information on the client before the reading. The whole thing is rigged.”
“What’s this guy’s motive?”
“Revenge? Rabbi Bailor wanted to expel a senior. He didn’t, but there’s still friction. Maybe this guy is trying to get back at the rabbi through Dassie.”
“He’s too young to fit with what Sara told you.”
“Dassie could’ve given Sara misleading information. Or it could be someone else in the family. Like the brother.”
“You’re reaching, Molly.”
“Maybe.” I took another sip. “There’s something personal about this. The note to Rabbi Bailor, the phone call. This guy has Dassie under his control. If he’s not after money, why is he taunting them? And I’m bothered by what he said. About consummating the marriage?”
“From Hamlet.” Zack nodded. “ ‘ ’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.’ ”
“Hamlet’s not talkin
g about having sex with Ophelia. He’s contemplating suicide. This guy also made a reference to Romeo and Juliet.”
“Because Dassie ran away to be with him, because her parents wouldn’t approve of him,” Zack said, but he was frowning. “Did you mention this to the Bailors?”
“No. If I’m wrong, I didn’t want to add to their worries.”
The maître d’ appeared. Behind him was a tall, leggy waitress, her platinum blond hair practically white against the black of her uniform shirt, on which “Yamashiro” was stitched in gold.
“This is Irene Jakaitis,” he told us. “She remembers serving your cousin and the gentleman on Sunday night.”
I jumped up so quickly that I rattled the table. Zack stood, too. The maître d’ gave me a disapproving look as he handed me Hadassah’s photo. Then he bowed and left.
“Irene, I really appreciate this,” I said. “You’re sure this is the young woman you saw?”
“Uh-huh. Her name was really different. Not Daisy, but close to it.”
“Dassie?”
“That’s it.” Irene beamed. “She was a toothpick, even in this winter white outfit she was wearing. I mean, who can wear white, right?”
“I thought she was wearing a black outfit.”
“She was when they arrived. She changed in the restroom. I kidded her date. ‘Sweetie,’ I said, ‘you’d better feed your girlfriend or she’s gonna disappear.’ But your cousin said she keeps kosher and there wasn’t anything she could order. So I’m thinking, wow, that must be hard, right?” She studied us, her eyes lingering on Zack’s yarmulke. “You two keep kosher, too?”
I nodded. “Do you remember the man’s name, Irene?”
The waitress shook her head. “Like I said, your cousin’s name was unusual. But I hear so many names, I hardly remember any of them. Well, unless Brad Pitt walked in. His name I’d remember.” She winked.
“What does this guy look like?” Zack asked.
She eyed Zack. “You’re over six feet, right? He’s a couple of inches shorter. Nice looking, but not drop-dead gorgeous. Brown hair, I think. He was wearing a beanie like yours. And they were into each other, you know? But without touching. Like, not even holding hands or anything.” Irene placed a hand on her hip. “So kosher, huh. No bacon, right? What about wine? Does that have to be kosher, too?”
“Yes. How old do you think he is, Irene?” I asked.
“Midtwenties? Definitely older than your cousin.” A frown clouded the waitress’s amiable expression. “Are you cops or something? Is she under age?”
“We’re not cops,” Zack said. “We just want to find her, Irene. Honest.”
“So how old is she? Twenty?”
“Almost,” I lied, taking pity on Irene.
“I think it was all that makeup.” The waitress sighed. “She definitely looked older.”
“They had drinks?”
Irene nodded. “He did, a few. When she went to the restroom, he told me he was planning to pop the question, and he needed to get up the nerve to do the deed. Your cousin ordered a diet Coke, but she was getting mellow, if you know what I mean, so she probably had more than a sip or two of his. No wine, though. I brought over champagne after he proposed, on the house. Your cousin said no thanks. That’s why I asked you about the wine.”
“You heard him propose?” I asked.
Irene shook her head. “He did that outside. A lot of people get married at Yamashiro, because the view is so romantic. Anyway, when they came back in, your cousin had a ring. A plain silver band, but she didn’t seem to care. And she had it on the index finger of her right hand. But then she moved it to her ring finger.”
Eight months earlier, Zack had slipped a wedding band on the index finger of my right hand.
“They looked so happy,” Irene said. “It was a perfect night. Well, it would’ve been, if not for his car. He came back in after they left and told the manager the valet dinged the driver door. I felt so bad for him. He was trying not to lose his cool, but he was really upset.”
“So what happened?” I hoped a report had happened. A report would have a name and address, a phone number.
“The valet insisted the ding was there when he received the car. He’d written that on the parking ticket. My manager said your cousin’s boyfriend could fill out a report, but he didn’t want to. So they left.”
So much for a report. I repressed a sigh.
“The truth is, it wasn’t a big deal,” Irene said. “You could hardly see the ding unless you were looking for it.”
“You saw the car?” Excitement fluttered in my chest.
“A silver Altima. It looked brand-new. I felt like I was the maid of honor, you know? So I went to take a look, see if I could help.”
“Did you happen to notice the license plate?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. It was one of those personalized plates, you know? R-C-K-Y-R-D. Rocky Road. That’s my favorite ice cream, too.”
Right now it was mine, too. I grinned so hard my cheeks ached. “I love you, Irene.”
Irene laughed. “Hey, when you see your cousin, wish her Mazal to f. That’s what you say when someone Jewish gets married, right?”
Chapter 14
Hadassah couldn’t believe she was married. She didn’t feel married, but the ring, a plain silver band, said she was.
She slipped it off and studied the indentation on her finger. There had been no rabbi, no witnesses, just the stars above them. She had asked her father about that a few weeks ago. “Why do you want to know, Dasseleh?” she had thought he would ask, had wanted him to ask. “Are you thinking of getting married?” Maybe he would have laughed.
But her father had asked nothing. He had frowned and told her, his voice uncharacteristically stern, that the ceremony could be binding, there could be serious ramifications. For a moment Hadassah had thought: He knows. But then he’d said, “This isn’t a prank, Dassie. If any of your friends thinks . . .” Then he’d glanced at his watch.
She looked at the ring and wondered what would have happened if her father had asked.
She wasn’t sure who had come up with the plan, when the plan had become real. “Your parents will never approve of me,” he’d said the last time they talked, “especially your father.” He had been so depressed that night. “Maybe we should stop seeing each other, Dassie. We have no future.” The thought had paralyzed her. “No,” she’d told him, “no.”
“Then what?” he’d said. “We get married?”
Maybe, she’d told him, only half joking, because she couldn’t bear the thought of not having him in her life. She was eighteen, an adult according to the law. She knew a lot of girls who were married at eighteen. If they were married, her parents would have to accept him. Maybe not right away, but eventually, because they loved her, and would come to love him and see how wonderful he was, how kind and caring, how much he loved her.
“He lied to you,” her parents would say. “He tricked you, pretended to meet you when all along he knew who you were.”
But that wasn’t true. He hadn’t known until she revealed her name, and that was when they started IM’ing, days after they’d met in the chat room. He’d been stunned, afraid to tell her the truth, afraid he would lose her. That’s why he had e-mailed her someone else’s photo.
She had thought there had been some mistake the first time they’d met, in the library. Her face had turned red with anger and confusion when she’d seen him. “What are you . . . ?” She had run out of the library, but he’d caught up with her, had explained why he’d kept the truth from her. “Your parents would have poisoned you against me,” he’d told her.
And they had obviously been destined for each other. Forty days before a male child is conceived, he’d told her, a heavenly voice announces whose daughter he will marry, who will be his bashert.
“You are my bashert, Dassie, and I am yours. Soul mates. How else can you explain the way we met?”
She would tell that to her parents
when their anger subsided. She had wanted to tell her mother tonight, but they’d had only a few seconds, and her mother had sounded so sad. Come home, Dassie. Her mother had cried. Hadassah had cried, too.
“That’s why I don’t want you to talk to your parents,” he’d said when he came back into the room. “That’s why it’s best that I keep your phone. Not until they’re ready to accept us. I don’t want anyone to make you sad, Dassie.”
And he was right, of course. He was right about so many things. He knew her so well. He had sensed even before they’d first talked that she’d been depressed. “You lost someone close to you, didn’t you?” he’d said. It was almost as if he’d known about Batya.
Her parents were probably disappointed, not just angry. She knew all their arguments. What about seminary, Dassie? What about college and law school? “We thought you would marry someone more learned in Torah, someone with a frum background.” She didn’t need seminary, she would tell them. She could go to college in L.A., then law school, if that’s what she still wanted. And maybe he wasn’t as learned as her father or Gavriel, and he didn’t have the perfect background, but he wanted to learn more, he loved Torah. Wasn’t that the main thing? She would remind them that one of the greatest sages, Rabbi Akiva, hadn’t started learning Torah until he was forty, that Rabbi Akiva’s father-in-law, who hadn’t approved of the man his daughter had wanted to marry, had come to love and admire his son-in-law.
They would tell her she was too young. “You have your whole life ahead of you, Dassie. You don’t know what you’re doing.” Batya Weinberg had thought she had a long life ahead of her, she would answer. And Noah, who died of bone cancer, and Lisa, who was killed in a car crash.
She hadn’t known it would happen Sunday. She had been surprised when he presented her with a silky white sweater and ankle-length white satin skirt, but she’d still had no idea. “Wear these for me,” he’d said, so she had changed in the restroom. “Lovely,” he’d said when he saw her. “Perfect,” he’d said after he pinned a white orchid to her sweater. But she hadn’t expected to stand with him under the night sky, the stars twinkling above, the lights of the city twinkling below them as he recited the blessing and slid the ring onto her finger. The truth was, she didn’t really remember leaving the table or walking outside. She’d felt light-headed, wobbly. She rarely had alcohol—a little wine on Shabbos, four cups at the Pesach Seders. By the second cup, she was always dizzy. But he’d said, “This is a special occasion, Dassie,” so she’d tried his drink and liked it.
Now You See Me... Page 8
