Shabbos morning, after her father and the boys left for shul, and her mother had checked on her before going downstairs to say her prayers—“How are you doing, sweetie? Can I get you anything?”— Hadassah had slipped out of bed and found two boxes of the No-Doz tablets she kept hidden in an old shoe box filled with tapes. Her friend Tara had given her some Ritalin pills that she’d filched from her brother, who had ADD. A lot of the kids used Ritalin, especially before finals and AP exams, but Hadassah had been too nervous to try it, and No-Doz did the trick.
And last night, she hadn’t dreamed. That was good.
Everyone was so concerned. Her mother, her father, her uncle, Dr. McIntyre. Even Gavriel had come into the room, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot. “I’m glad you’re okay, Dassie.” Sara kept calling and wanted to see her. “I told her you’re resting, honey,” her mother said. And Aliza had come home from her weekend reunion late this morning. Hadassah could tell that Aliza was uncomfortable, tiptoeing around the room, talking in a whisper on the phone, coming over to the bed every once in a while. “Do you want to talk, Dass? I was so scared for you, I cried every night.”
Most of the time Hadassah hadn’t answered. Sometimes she had shaken her head, or nodded. After a while she realized that if she lay still and stared straight ahead, people would leave her alone. She didn’t know how long she could do that. A few days. Longer, if she had to. But then what? And even with the No-Doz she would have to sleep eventually. And then the dream would return.
Molly Blume had been here. She had touched Hadassah’s hand, and Hadassah had instinctively jerked her arm. That had been a mistake. Hadassah hadn’t seen Molly’s face, but Molly must have noticed the marks. There was nothing Hadassah could do about that now. She was relieved that Molly had seen her left hand, not her right. Hadassah hadn’t realized at first that the shard had lacerated her right palm. Her mother had gasped when she’d seen the cuts.
“You must have fallen on something terribly sharp,” she said. She had applied antibiotic ointment and wrapped her hand in a gauze bandage. “If it’s not better by tomorrow, Dassie, if it looks infected, we’ll go to the emergency room.” Later that night her mother had unwrapped the bandage to show Hadassah’s father the cuts. “Do you think we should go to the emergency, Chaim? Or maybe we should take Dassie to Dr. Miller. He’s only three blocks away.” But her father had said no. And an hour ago he’d reapplied the ointment and replaced the bulky gauze with several small bandages that weren’t noticeable.
“The police will be here soon, Dassie,” he had told her, smoothing the last bandage onto her palm. “They want to talk to you about Greg Shankman. Greg is dead, Dassie,” her father said, still holding her hand. “He was in his car when it crashed. Molly wouldn’t say, but I think the police believe he was killed.”
Hadassah’s eyes filled with tears. She stared at the wallpaper and imagined tiny cells of fear attaching themselves to the oxygen cells her heart was pumping through her body.
Her father blotted her tears. “They’ll want to know how you got away, Dassie, how you got home, all the details. But you don’t have to tell them anything you don’t want to, Dassie. We love you, Dassie.”
The police came an hour later. Two of them, a man and a woman. “My daughter may be sleeping,” she heard her father say, so she arranged her hands, palms flat against the comforter. After the man made Hadassah’s parents leave the room, the woman took a chair from Hadassah’s desk and put it next to her bed.
“I’m Detective Jessie Drake,” she told Hadassah. “You can call me Jessie. I know you’ve gone through a terrible ordeal, Hadassah, but we have to ask you a few questions.
“Do you remember what happened Friday night, Hadassah?
“What time did you get home?
“Did you walk home all the way, or did you get a ride?
“Did you call anyone to help you, Hadassah?
“Was Mr. Shankman there when you left the apartment?
“Did he try to hurt you, Hadassah?
“We want to help you, Hadassah.
“Is there anything you want to tell me, Hadassah?”
Chapter 29
Monday, November 22, 9:38 a.m., 5500 block of Carlton Way. A married couple got into an argument, and the woman attempted to stab her 49-year-old husband in the chest with a knife. The woman failed to cause any serious injury to her husband and fled the scene.
Shankman’s death made the morning news.
I was chugging along on the treadmill in our spare room, working up a sweat while watching a local station to make the time pass and reach my goal of two miles more quickly. So far the news had been unremarkable. The original Scott Peterson jury would sit for the penalty phase; Dan Rather would probably be stepping down, and maybe Tom Brokaw (I’d much rather lose Rather); Arnold “The Governator” Schwarzenegger was urging a California football team to play only in-state games; Eisner was still battling Disney. Traffic was next, then the weather, reported by a pretty, voluptuous young woman who was pointing to a map of the San Bernardino Mountains and talking about a cold front. I found her Dolly Parton twin peaks distracting and imagined that the temperatures of male viewers were rising. No cold front here—more like hot and bothered.
I was about to switch the channel when I heard the gray-haired male anchor say, “. . . breaking news about the death of a popular local high school teacher.”
I brought the treadmill to an abrupt stop, my heart pounding from exertion and anxiety. A second later Shankman’s photo filled the screen. It was a formal shot—he was in a dark suit and tie, his light brown hair carefully combed. I wondered where the station had obtained it.
“Lydia Martin is coming to us live from Mulholland Drive about a mile west of Coldwater Canyon, where twenty-nine-year-old Greg Shankman met his death,” the anchor continued. “Lydia.”
Now the screen showed a thirty-something woman. The wind was blowing her long dark hair as she stood at the side of the two-lane road.
“Kevin, I’m only feet away from the spot where, some time Friday night, Greg Shankman’s car plunged onto the rocks below,” the field reporter said, pointing to her left. “Shankman left his apartment in West Los Angeles. But where was he headed? And what happened? Police have few clues and no witnesses, and ask anyone with information to contact the West L.A. station.”
“Do they think it was suicide, Lydia?”
“It’s possible, Kevin. Neighbors told us Greg Shankman was depressed. In September he suddenly left the Orthodox Jewish high school in the heart of Beverly Hills where he had been teaching for several years. And his girlfriend of five years, Melissa Frank, had ended their long-term relationship and obtained a restraining order.”
“Thanksgiving is in three days, and psychologists talk about holiday pressure,” the anchor said. “Do we know why Shankman left the school?”
“School officials won’t comment. The sad irony is that reconciliation was in the air. Melissa and their four-year-old daughter, Kaitlin, returned last night from Seattle, where they had hoped Shankman would join them for the Thanksgiving weekend. Melissa and Greg were talking about getting married. But this Thanksgiving will be sad for Melissa and Kaitlin. And there will be no wedding bells, and no holiday celebration for Greg Shankman. Back to you, Kevin.”
I wasn’t surprised that the media had picked up the story. The estranged girlfriend, the restraining order, the violent car crash, the fact that Shankman had taught at an Orthodox Jewish school—all that made for interesting material. Janet Mendes was no doubt grateful that the reporter hadn’t named the school. I didn’t know whether other media would mention it. And if other reporters followed the story, they would soon learn that there was only one Orthodox Jewish high school “in the heart of Beverly Hills.”
At least the media didn’t know that the police suspected foul play, I thought as I took off my sweats and sneakers and prepared to shower. I wondered again whether I should have refused to give the police Rabbi Bailor’s
name. Melissa Frank had returned last night. They would have obtained the name of the school from her.
“You did the right thing,” Zack had told me when he returned from his board meeting.
That’s what Connors had said, too, his tone somewhat conciliatory.
I still felt miserable—about giving the police Rabbi Bailor’s name, about my rift with Connors and what was possibly the end of our friendship, about the concerns I was having about Hadassah Bailor and the marks on her arms.
Thinking about the police reminded me that I’d told Jessie Drake I would stop by today to have my fingerprints taken—“for purposes of elimination,” she had said. I generally collect data for my column on Mondays and Tuesdays. I would start at West L.A.
I had finished reciting my daily prayers and was putting on makeup when the phone rang. I hurried to my nightstand and picked up the cordless receiver.
It was Cheryl Wexner.
I’d forgotten that I’d told her I’d call her about Hadassah. So much had happened since Friday. I felt as though a week had gone by. I apologized and told her things had come up—a lame equivocation, but the best I could do.
“I understand completely,” Cheryl said. “When I didn’t hear from you, I was going to phone you, but I got caught up in work, too. November and December are my busiest months, because of college deadlines. I do want to talk to you about Hadassah, Molly, but that’s not why I’m calling you. I heard on the news that Greg Shankman died in a horrible car accident. I thought you might know Greg? He taught at Torat Tzion, and you’re close to Rabbi Bailor.”
“I never met Greg, but I know he was Hadassah’s teacher last year.” I wondered what Cheryl would say if she knew that until last week I hadn’t spoken with Rabbi Bailor in almost fourteen years. “I did hear about his death. It’s a tragedy.”
Whatever Shankman had done, it was a tragedy—for his parents and any siblings he might have, for his little girl, for his girlfriend, whether or not she had been planning to reconcile with him.
“I saw him less than two weeks ago,” Cheryl said. “I can’t believe he’s dead.”
“How did you know him?”
“Dr. Mendes, the secular studies principal at Torat Tzion, introduced us. I met with her soon after I moved here and told her I’d appreciate referrals from the school. I have a B.A. in history, and Greg teaches history. We got to talking, and we became friends. The reason I’m calling, Molly—the TV reporter said people who have information about Greg should call the police. Friday night your ex-husband said you deal with the police, and you write true crime books. So I was hoping you could advise me. Justin, really. He’s the one with the information.”
I was glad she couldn’t see my face. “What kind of information?”
“He’d rather explain in person. I know you’re busy, but he’s home now, and if you could meet with him as soon as possible?”
Chapter 30
Cheryl lived on the corner of Ogden and Oak-wood in Beverly-Fairfax, only blocks from Bubbie G, on the ground floor of the two-story building with multiple turrets that my sisters and I had called “the castle” when we were kids. My parents lived in the area before they bought their house on South Gardner. So did many Orthodox Jews before they moved half a dozen blocks east toward La Brea.
The neighborhood is a mix of old and new. The “new” includes the Bicentennial Post Office, a natural foods store, and the huge mustard-colored Broadcast apartment building above it. The “old” is Television City and the CBS building, where my mom and her friends used to spend their summers watching quiz shows being filmed. Some of the “old” is now a memory, like the Pan Pacific Theater, where my parents went on their first date, and the Art Deco Pan Pacific Auditorium, where in the 1960s you could see the annual Home Show or GM’s Motorama, or a boxing or wrestling match, or Elvis, live. My optometrist had a huge black-and-white panoramic aerial photo of Beverly-Fairfax and the Pan Pacific Auditorium. I loved looking at it, trying to locate my parents’ home and Bubbie G’s apartment. A few years ago he remodeled his Wilshire office, and the photo came down.
The neighborhood is also populated more and more by hip singles who park their sporty cars fender to bumper on the narrow streets that were never meant to accommodate so many vehicles, parked or moving. Which is why I had to circle Cheryl’s block twice before I gave up and parked a block away.
Cheryl opened the door as soon as I rang the bell, and I had the feeling she’d been watching for my arrival. There was no entry hall. I stepped into a large barrel-ceilinged living room painted pale gray and furnished with a navy chenille sofa, a chrome-framed glass coffee table, and two tall chrome-framed cabinets, one on either side of a small plaster-faced fireplace, that held books and curios. Several plants added color to the room, along with framed museum prints on three of the walls.
“I’m afraid you may have come for nothing,” Cheryl said, her voice awkward with apology. “It was Justin’s idea to phone you, but now he’s having second thoughts. He doesn’t want to get anyone in trouble.”
She was wearing a black turtleneck sweater and jeans that made her look more hippy than she had in her skirt Friday night. I could tell she’d been crying.
“Why don’t you tell me what you know, and we’ll go from there.” I handed her a bag. “A little something from The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf and me to welcome you to Los Angeles. They’re all kosher, by the way.”
“This is so sweet, Molly.” She opened the bag and inhaled. “Smells heavenly. You’ll have to share some of this with me.”
“I got an assortment of Danish, including the crumble cheese, which is my favorite. The coffee is Jamaican Blue Mountain regular and Mocha Java Blend decaf. I’ve never tasted either one, but they sounded good.”
I followed her through the dining room (“My office,” she said, pointing to a stack of folders, a thick college directory, and individual college catalogs piled on the table) to a breakfast nook off a galley kitchen with a pink ceramic tile counter and outdated wallpaper with pink and gray bubbles. While Cheryl put up a pot of the Jamaican, I sat at a round white Formica table and arranged the pastries on a platter she took down from a cabinet.
“I told you Greg and I are good friends?” she said when she joined me at the table. “Justin is close to him, too. That’s why he’s taking this so hard.”
“Do you have other children?”
“No. Justin has a half sister. I divorced his father when Justin was three. I should never have married Simon. He was head over heels in love with me, and well-to-do. He wanted to give me the world. I thought I loved him, too, but I was on the rebound. There’s nothing like a first love, is there?” She sounded terribly sad.
Zack had been my first love. We had dated in high school, and I’d had visions of happily-ever-after, but a carton of cottage cheese has a longer shelf life than our relationship did. I had pined for him long after we’d broken up. As for Ron, part of his attraction, I later admitted to myself, was the fact that he’d been Zack’s best friend. Easy loves, heavy damages.
“It can color your whole life,” Cheryl said. “It took me years to get over him, even after I divorced Simon. Sometimes I wish I’d never met him. He moved on, of course. Wife, kids. No picket fence.” She laughed uneasily. “God, listen to me. I’m not usually this maudlin. I think it’s because of Greg. One minute he was alive, the next . . . I was telling you about Justin. Where was I?”
“You said his father remarried.” I took a crumble cheese Danish from the platter and broke off a piece.
Cheryl nodded. “Stacy’s a nice woman. I’m glad they found each other. She and Simon had Tina soon after they married. From the time they brought her home from the hospital, Justin felt he came second. I’m not sure he did, but that’s how he felt. It’s not an unusual story, but when it’s your story, it’s the only one that counts. And Justin is creative, and creative people tend to be more sensitive, I think. Don’t you?”
I nodded. “Justin lived with your ex
?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes he lived with me. He couldn’t find his place. And it didn’t help that Simon and I aren’t on the same page about religion. I’m Modern Orthodox. Simon and Stacy are stricter. And Justin—well, until about a few months ago, he was ready to chuck the whole religion. Sometimes I think he was trying to get back at Simon and at me. But then Greg told him about Rabbi Bailor and convinced him to meet with the rabbi. They hit it off. But I’m not sure if Justin wants to continue learning with him.”
I could hear footsteps above us. Someone jumping. “When did Justin move to L.A.?”
“A year ago. After college he decided he wanted to write screenplays. He was always a writer, always making up wonderful stories.” Her smile lit up her face. “He moved here to pursue his career and kept telling me how wonderful L.A. is, so I came to visit and ended up staying.” She bit a piece of the croissant she’d taken. “This is amazing. How’s yours?”
“Too good,” I said, impatient to get to the reason I’d come.
“Anyway, I was ready to leave New York. I was never happy there. Business-wise, it’s worked out. I do much of my consulting and application guidance online, and I’m getting more and more referrals from local schools. And being with Justin is wonderful. He’s a part-time waiter—the typical Hollywood story—so it made sense for him to move in with me. I’ve learned not to ask where he’s going or what time he’ll be back, but it’s hard to accept that your little boy is all grown up when he still comes to you for money. And of course, you’re not allowed to ask what it’s for.” There was a hint of annoyance behind the smile. “I know Justin hates asking, and I don’t mind helping him. It’s only until he sells his first screenplay. I just know that’ll happen soon. He has the talent. It’s just a matter of time, and connections.”
Now You See Me... Page 17
