Now You See Me...

by Rochelle Krich

  “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.

  Chapter 26

  Sunday, November 21, 11:03 a.m. Corner of Santa Monica Boulevard and Vine Street. A 21-year-old man refused to hand over his cell phone to the suspect and was punched in the face. The suspect grabbed the phone before fleeing westbound on Santa Monica Boulevard.

  Connors’s gray Cutlass was parked in front of our house when I returned from paying a shiva call to Mrs. Kroen. I’d phoned him early that morning, but he hadn’t answered. I’d left a message telling him I would be home after eleven and would phone again. “I have to talk to you, Andy. Please.”

  At least he was willing to talk.

  I walked up the driveway and entered the kitchen through the side door. Zack was brewing coffee—French roast vanilla. The smell was enticing and so was he. I’d been up for almost an hour after Connors’s call until I fell asleep, and I hadn’t heard Zack when he left for shul. He was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and looked mighty fine. I wished I could kiss him. I wished Connors weren’t there.

  “How was the game?” I asked.

  Zack plays basketball every Sunday. He needs the exercise, and it’s his only break from the pressures of being a rabbi.

  “We won. They got here a few minutes ago, Molly.”

  “They?”

  “They” made it official. I hung my car keys on a hook, took off my jacket, and folded it over a kitchen chair.

  “Connors and another detective. A woman. She didn’t give her name. I told them I didn’t know how long you’d be, but Connors said they would wait. I offered coffee, and they said yes.”

  “So we’re entertaining them before they slap the cuffs on me?”

  “Connors obviously thinks you told Rabbi Bailor about Shankman. You’ll explain that you didn’t, and everything will be okay.”

  “Right.”

  “I put them in the dining room—mainly because we have no living room furniture and I didn’t think you’d want them to sit on the floor.” He smiled. “Sorry, that was lame.”

  I smiled back. “Lame is welcome.”

  “I can cancel my meeting.”

  Not a good idea. He was meeting with the shul board. “I’ll be okay. Go change into something more rabbinic.”

  I watched him as he headed out of the room and almost called him back. He must have sensed my indecision, because he turned around.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  I filled two mugs with coffee and took them into the dining room. Connors was sitting at the table next to a strikingly pretty slender woman in her midthirties with shoulder-length dark wavy hair and green eyes that you’d have to be blind not to notice. She was wearing a camel sweater and had tied a multicolored wool scarf around her neck. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her.

  Connors took the mugs. “Thanks. These are for us, right? What about you?”

  “Maybe later,” I said.

  He put one mug in front of the woman, kept the other, and sat down. “Molly, this is Detective Jessie Drake. Detective Drake, Molly Blume.”

  “Abrams,” I said. I’m not sure why. All week I’d been explaining my different surnames to people. It was getting tiresome.

  “Your husband is Zack Abrams?” Detective Drake said. She had a pleasantly husky voice, like Demi Moore’s but not as raspy. “He didn’t give his last name when we met. He teaches at Ohr Torah?”

  “One class.” Apparently, she’d checked out not only me but Zack. I found that interesting, and disturbing. I wondered if she was trying to intimidate me.

  “Detective Drake is with West L.A., Homicide Division,” Connors said, emphasizing the “homicide.”

  I sat down. “I know people at West L.A. I go there weekly to collect data for a column.” That’s probably where I’d seen her.

  “The ‘Crime Sheet,’ ” Jessie said. “Detective Connors told me. I’m surprised we haven’t met. Who do you know at West L.A.?”

  “Is this a coffee klatch?” Connors said.

  I ignored him and named a number of detectives, including Phil Okum.

  “My partner,” she said. “We’d like to talk to you about Greg Shankman, Mrs. Abrams.”

  Down to business. “Call me Molly.” I faced Connors. “I don’t have more to tell you than I did last night.” I almost said “Andy” but thought better of it.

  “This is a courtesy, Molly,” he said. “Detective Drake could have called you down to the station.”

  “Then you wouldn’t be enjoying this freshly brewed coffee,” I said.

  Connors gave me a warning frown. I thought I saw a smile sneak across the other detective’s face.

  “Why don’t we start over,” she said. “I’ll tell you what I know, and you can correct me if I get anything wrong. Okay?”

  As if I had a choice. “Okay.”

  “You told Detective Connors you were concerned about a friend’s daughter who ran away with a man she met in a chat room. You asked him to help you find this man, based on a license plate number you provided. Nicely done, by the way.”

  “Thanks.”

  If she wanted to play good cop, that was fine with me. It felt strange, though, to have Connors playing bad cop. I’ve had run-ins with other detectives, mostly those at Wilshire whom I had nagged for almost six years about Aggie’s murder. I’ve never been on the outs with Connors. It made me angry, and sad.

  “Last night Detective Connors told you the owner of the car was Greg Shankman,” Jessie continued. “He instructed you not to give that information to your friend.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Then how do you explain the fact that Greg Shankman is dead, Molly?” Connors said.

  “You said his car went off the road and crashed on some rocks. That would pretty much do it.”

  He glared at me. “You’re hardly in a position to be a smart-ass. I trusted you.”

  “I trusted you, too.” I glared back, then addressed Jessie. “I told Detective Connors that I feared Shankman would try to kill himself. Apparently, he did.”

  “There’s a problem,” Jessie said in a pleasant, unhurried voice. “The medical examiner believes that Mr. Shankman was dead before the car crashed.”

  I just sat there.

  “Cat got your tongue?” Connors said.

  I cleared my throat. “What was the cause of death?”

  “That’s not information we can share,” Jessie said. “But you can see our problem, Molly. You had the name of the person who ran off with your friend’s daughter. You left a message telling Detective Connors the daughter had returned home. When did she return home, by the way?”

  “Friday night.”

  “Mr. Shankman died Friday night. So within a few hours of the time this girl suddenly returned home, the man she ran off with was killed.” Jessie took a sip of coffee. “This is delicious. French roast?”

  I nodded. In my mind I saw the reddish-brown spots on Shankman’s hardwood floor.

  “You were desperate to find her,” Connors said. “I can understand that, Molly. Just tell me the truth, that you told the father.”

  I clenched my hands. “I didn’t tell him.”

  “Then explain Shankman’s death. Come on, Molly. You said you didn’t know Shankman’s name when we spoke Saturday night. Obviously, you did hear my message, and passed on Shankman’s name to your friend.”

  “I didn’t know his name. I heard you say you wouldn’t know till the next day. I thought you meant the car owner’s name. And you phoned on the Sabbath, Andy. You know I don’t use the phone on the Sabbath. I’m Orthodox,” I told Jessie.

  “Very convenient,” Connors said.

  “But if you thought it was a life-and-death emergency, you could phone, right?” Jessie said. “And you feared Shankman would kill himself, and the girl. I’ve been studying Orthodox Judaism,” she told Connors, who was staring at her, his mouth open. “I didn’
t know I was Jewish until a few years ago. Long story.” She returned her attention to me.

  “I didn’t hear the message.”

  “Well, it’s there,” Connors said. “Why don’t we play it so Detective Drake can hear it?”

  “I erased it. I didn’t see a reason to keep it.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “When have I ever lied to you, Andy? I can’t believe that you think I went back on my word.”

  “You went to Shankman’s apartment when I told you not to, didn’t you?”

  “You said not to get his address from my friend. I didn’t. I already had it.”

  Connors grunted.

  “If you didn’t tell the girl’s father, Molly, who did you tell?” Jessie asked.

  “No one.”

  “You told Zack,” Connors said with a “gotcha” tone. “He went with you to Shankman’s apartment.”

  “Zack didn’t phone anyone. We left for Shankman’s apartment right after I talked to you.”

  “Let’s assume you didn’t tell anyone, Molly,” Jessie said. “I see several possibilities. One, this girl’s father, or someone else, picked up on something you said and used it to find Shankman. Two, the daughter, possibly in self-defense, killed him and staged the fatal car accident— with someone’s help. I can’t see her moving Shankman’s body to the car on her own. Three, the daughter contacted someone who came to her rescue, killed Shankman—again, maybe in self-defense— and staged the car accident to avoid notoriety and protect the girl’s name.”

  Those were all reasonable possibilities. I didn’t like any of them. “Four,” I said, “Shankman was killed by someone unrelated to my friend. Shankman’s girlfriend filed a restraining order against him. I’d start with her.”

  Jessie nodded. “We intend to talk to her. But the timing is suggestive, wouldn’t you agree? Why would the girlfriend choose this Friday night to kill him? And why would your friend’s daughter leave that same night?”

  I thought for a moment. “Suppose the girlfriend found my friend’s daughter at the apartment and got into a heated altercation with Shankman. My friend’s daughter was frightened,” I said, thinking out loud. “She left. The altercation became violent. The girlfriend killed him and called someone to help her get rid of the body.”