“Molly writes true crime books,” Connors said. “You can tell she has a fertile imagination.”
Jessie looked thoughtful. “Why would the girlfriend kill him?”
“In self-defense? She filed a restraining order. She must have had a reason.”
“In that case your friend’s daughter is a material witness, and we still need to talk to her. What did her father tell you about her return, by the way?”
“He said his daughter realized she’d made a mistake and came home. That was it.” I wasn’t about to tell them that Hadassah wasn’t talking, that she might be in shock.
“You weren’t curious?” Connors said. “That would be a first.”
“I’m sure I’ll hear the details at some point. They just got their daughter back, Andy. They’re overwhelmed with relief and joy. I didn’t want to intrude.”
Jessie took another sip of coffee. “So what’s the girl’s name?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“You may not have a choice,” she said in that pleasant voice. “We can subpoena you, get a bench warrant for your arrest if you don’t cooperate. I’d hate to go that route.”
Connors said, “Even easier, we can ask the girlfriend what school Shankman was working at when he was fired in September. Then we’ll have your friend’s name.”
“Then you don’t need me to tell you.” I didn’t feel the need to volunteer that the girlfriend wouldn’t be back until after Thanksgiving.
“We haven’t reached her. We’d like to talk to the daughter as soon as possible. We’re not saying she’s involved with Shankman’s death, Molly. And if Shankman was killed in self-defense . . .”
“I promised I wouldn’t reveal her name, Andy. I told you that from the start. My friend is concerned about her reputation.”
“A man is dead,” Connors said. “I’d say that changes things.”
“You were at Mr. Shankman’s apartment last night, by your own admission,” Jessie said.
I faced her. “Right.”
“According to the manager, Mr. LaSalle, you were on your hands and knees, looking for a lost contact lens. Did you find the lens?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“What were you looking for, Molly?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Not the lens?” She smiled.
“Aside from the lens.” My palms were clammy.
“While you were looking for the lens, did you happen to notice bloodstains on the hardwood floor?”
“I can’t say that I did.”
“Careful wording. Oh, I forgot. You’re a writer.” Jessie smiled again. “When you left a message for Detective Connors last night, telling him the girl was safely home, you didn’t tell him you saw blood spots on the floor.”
“I didn’t know there were blood spots.”
“But that’s what you suspected. You write true crime books and a crime column. So your instincts are sharper than the average person’s, and if you saw reddish-brown spots on a floor, and you had reason to think something violent may have taken place in a room, you’d think blood. You violated a crime scene, Molly.” Jessie sounded regretful, more than angry.
“I had no idea it was a crime scene.”
“You were on your hands and knees, examining the floor. You picked up a rug and looked under it, too. Who knows what evidence you disturbed?”
“I was careful.” I realized too late what I’d said. She had trapped me.
“Why would you be careful if you didn’t know it was a crime scene, Molly?”
I just sat there, trying to meet those green eyes, wondering how much trouble I was in.
“Well, let me ask you this,” she said. “If you had come home from Shankman’s apartment, and you hadn’t heard from your friend that his daughter was back home, would you have mentioned those spots to Detective Connors and assumed that something had happened in that apartment? That someone may have met with foul play?”
“Do I need a lawyer?” I managed to make that sound casual, but I was quaking.
“That depends,” Jessie said. “What’s your friend’s name?”
I shook my head. “I have to think about this.”
“Don’t think too long,” Connors said.
“There was more blood,” Jessie said. “Especially near the closet, and under the rug. Someone cleaned up, but it’s hard to get rid of blood. What else did you notice, Molly?”
“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.
Now You See Me... Page 16
