Now You See Me... (18 page)

Chapter 32

I had been to the West L.A. station many times, but never to have my fingerprints taken. I parked on Butler, passed through the Pizza Hut orange tile entry and, feeling like Hester Prynne walking around with that A on her chest, took the stairs to the second floor detectives’ room.

Jessie Drake wasn’t at her desk, but she had left word that I would stop by. Another detective rolled my prints.

“Detective Drake needs this for purposes of elimination,” I told him, though he hadn’t asked.

“Uh-huh. Did you want to leave a message for Detective Drake?”

I debated writing a note saying I had information and a possible lead regarding Shankman’s murder. Bubbie G’s cautionary words flashed in front of me.

“No, thanks. Please tell her I was here.”

I spent an hour copying crime data at the station, then drove to the Wilshire station, where I did the same and exchanged a warm greeting with Detective Hernandez, and a lukewarm one with Detective Porter, who liked me better before I helped solve Aggie’s murder, but now seemed to be thawing.

I arrived home after four and checked my voice mail. Zack had phoned to say he had to visit a congregant in the hospital, so I should eat without him. My sister Edie reminded me that mah jongg would be at her house tonight, instead of Gitty’s. “Be on time,” she added. And my friend Penny wanted to know if I’d disappeared.

There was no message from Melissa Frank. I hadn’t really expected to hear from her.

I returned Penny’s call. I hadn’t seen her since my wedding, and I missed her. We spoke for over half an hour, covering much of what had happened to both of us in the past seven months. Between Zack, my family, and my writing projects, I often find myself too busy to stay connected with many of my friends, so I enjoyed catching up.

We made a date to see a movie the Saturday night after Thanksgiving—Penny and her husband Bob, Zack and me. I wrote the information in my planner and checked my e-mail. My Amazon numbers had improved
—Sins
was now 22,800—but someone had posted a nasty review. Probably Ron.

I had stopped at the Fairfax Fishery on the way home. I sprinkled garlic salt, paprika, and teriyaki sauce on two trout fillets, covered one in plastic wrap, and put it in the fridge. I broiled the other, ate it with a salad and couscous, and slapped a Post-it on the fridge with cooking instructions for Zack. I added a heart.

I phoned the Bailors and spoke to Nechama. She told me Dassie was resting more comfortably, but wasn’t talking much.

“I don’t know if you heard the news, Molly. A man who was Dassie’s teacher last year died in a car accident. We don’t know if we should tell Dassie.”

I didn’t know whether Nechama Bailor was a great actress, or whether her husband was keeping another secret from her. I didn’t want to think about the possibility that the rabbi was keeping other, darker secrets.

“Mom’s playing instead of Gitty,” Edie told me as I was hanging my coat in the entry closet. “I think she’s pregnant.”

“Mom?” I like teasing Edie because she’s so easy.

“Very funny. Did Gitty say anything to you?”

I shook my head. Even if my sister-in-law
had
told me, I wouldn’t have admitted that to Edie. She takes her seniority seriously, and she would have been hurt.

My mother and Mindy were in the breakfast room, setting up the tiles. Aside from having inherited our mother’s brown eyes and brown hair, my sisters and I don’t look alike, although people see a familial resemblance. Edie, five feet two, is the shortest, with chin-length highlighted hair (she and I are both assisted blondes). Mindy, next in line, is five-ten. I’m five-six; Liora is five-four.

My mother, who taught all us Blume girls mah jongg, has been playing every Monday for over thirty years, but her group has extra players, which is why she could sub for Gitty. Liora plays, too, but she’s not as passionate about the game as we are, and most of her nights are occupied with dating. Like Aliza Bailor, I thought.

I took out my four dollars and placed my tiles on my rack. Mah jongg has elements of fourteen-card gin and Rummy Q. It involves luck and strategy and a familiarity with the numbered Chinese characters painted onto the ivory-like tiles (Cracks, Bams, Dots, Flowers, Soaps). No matter how tired or preoccupied I am when I arrive, I know I’ll find relaxation and comfort in the form of nosh and conversation, which is rarely serious.

Tonight was no different until the second game, when Edie brought up Shankman’s fatal crash.

“They didn’t identify the school,” Edie said, naming a tile and tossing it onto the table, “but it’s obviously Torat Tzion. I hope there’s no scandal involved. Have you heard details from the cops, Molly?”

“Not that I can say.” I scooped a handful of warm popcorn from the bowl.

She looked at me shrewdly. “So there
is
something.”

I tossed a tile. “Three Bam.”

“If Shankman was planning to reconcile with his girlfriend, why would he kill himself?” Edie asked.

“Maybe it was just a terrible accident,” my mother said. “Why read into it? Let him be.” Her tone was sharp. For my mother, that’s unusual.

“You sound as if you knew him, Mom,” I said.

“He gave a session on teaching AP classes at an all-day educators’ conference sponsored by the Bureau. He impressed me as being knowledgeable and passionate about his students. And he was so young. Not even thirty.”

We finished the game without much talking. Mindy won. We turned the tiles facedown, mixed them, and set up for another round.

I passed Edie three tiles. “Speaking of APs, I hear that kids cheat on them.” Not my smoothest segue. “Is that going on at Sharsheret, Mom?”

“There’s definitely cheating, although I don’t know about on the APs,” she said. “We talk about it at every faculty meeting. We’re vigilant, but students are creative. And cheating is epidemic.”

“And endemic,” Mindy said. “If there’s a test, someone will cheat. How are they doing it now?”

“The usual. They write information in teeny letters on their palms or on the inside of their fingers, or on a stretched rubber band. Two weeks ago my colleague caught a student who peeled off a water-bottle label, printed math theorems on the back, and glued the label back on.”

“Clever,” Edie said.

“And cheating has gone hi-tech,” my mother said. “Kids text-message answers with their cell phones. At one school, they used a device to get their teacher’s password and steal his exams and his answers. And they buy term papers online. It’s big business. Go to Google, type in ‘term paper.’ You’ll get thousands of sites. ‘Plagiarism-free papers, guaranteed. Custom research. Best prices.’ It’s sickening.”

“It’s commerce,” Mindy said.

“How do I cheat—let me count the ways.” I poured myself a glass of diet peach Snapple.

“Why is that legal?” Edie asked Mindy. “Why don’t they stop the people who are selling the papers?”

“They claim they’re providing a service. They’re not in control of whether the student neglects to credit his sources.” Mindy shrugged. “A Wal-Mart heiress allegedly paid her roommate twenty thousand dollars over three and a half years to write papers and other assignments.”

“I heard that.” Edie nodded. “They named a university sports arena after her.” She frowned. “What was her name?”

“Paige.”

“How much per page per Paige?” I said, and we all laughed. “But that can’t work for the APs, Mom. Students don’t know the questions or essay topics until they’re in the room taking the exam.”

“No, but someone who takes the exam in New York or Ohio phones the answers to a friend in an earlier time zone.” My mother looked at her tiles. “And with camera phones, they can take a picture of the questions or material and e-mail the page or pages.”

“So why don’t schools ban cell phones during exams?” Mindy asked.

“That’s Sharsheret’s new policy. I’m sure other schools have done the same. But parents complain. They want to be able to be in touch with their children, in case of an emergency. Anyway, as soon as we figure out how to stop one form of cheating, they come up with another method.”

“Like car thieves,” Edie said. Her Suburban had been stolen and stripped two months earlier. “I knew kids who cheated in high school and in college. They thought it was cool, no big deal.”

“It’s more complicated,” my mother said. “There’s incredible pressure for students to excel, to get into the Ivy Leagues. And the competition can turn ugly. A friend at another school told me that a top-ranked senior lowered her rival’s grades on her transcripts to improve her own chances of getting into the top schools. Eventually, the truth came out, but still.”

“What happened to the girl who changed the grades?” I asked.

“All her college acceptances were withdrawn, and she didn’t graduate with her class. I don’t know what she’s doing now.”

“Writing term papers for sale,” Mindy said. “Or running a political campaign.”

“Obviously, that’s an extreme example,” my mother said. “But kids in college prep tracks have insane schedules. Sixty or seventy pages to read a night, labs, term papers, exams they have to ace every semester—double all that if they’re in a yeshiva. Plus all the extracurricular programs they
have
to take, because every other student is taking them to show admission boards that they’re well-rounded, exceptional students and leaders of tomorrow.”

“That’s quite a speech.” Mindy smiled.

“It was, wasn’t it?” My mother’s laugh was self-conscious. “I wish I had answers. In the meantime, kids come to class like zombies because they drink coffee or take caffeine tablets so they can pull all-nighters. If it’s not caffeine, it’s Ritalin.”

“Like the mom on
Desperate Housewives,”
Edie said. “Desperate Schoolchildren.”

“It’s not funny.” My mother gave her a warning look.

“Or Desperate Teachers,” Mindy said. “I heard that’s going on, too.”

Edie looked appalled. “Teachers cheating?”

“It’s the pressure,” Mindy said. “With the No Child Left Behind law, if kids don’t do well, the school could lose federal funding. So teachers ‘help’ students along.”

“How?” I asked.

“They drop hints during an exam, or write the correct answers on the board. They change answers on score sheets, give out the real exam as the sample test. Sometimes they give extra time to take a standardized exam, or they don’t include a poor student’s results.”

“But what about on an AP test?” I asked my mother.

“I don’t see how a teacher could tamper with the essay. But with the multiple-choice sections, the teacher could change the blackened ovals. Or the proctor could do it.”

“Why would a teacher do that?” Edie asked.

“Status,” Mindy said. “Bragging rights.”

“So this is what my kids have to look forward to?” Edie said. “Wonderful.”

“Next on
Oprah,
‘Teachers who cheat and the cheaters who teach them,’ ” I said.

Zack was studying Talmud on the phone with a friend when I came home after eleven. I blew him a kiss and went into the bedroom, where I changed into flannel pajamas. I save the sexy stuff for the right time of the month.

I was brushing my teeth when I heard the second phone line ring. I rinsed my mouth and hurried to my nightstand. Maybe Melissa Frank had changed her mind and was willing to talk to me.

I picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Molly? This is Irene.”

“Irene, this is
such
a coincidence. I was going to phone you tomorrow at the office.”

“At the office?” She sounded confused.

I realized the voice didn’t sound right. “You
did
say your name is Irene?”

“This is Irene Jakaitis. From Yamashiro? We met Thursday night?”

“Oh, of course. Sorry. I thought you were a different Irene.”

Irene Gurstner: my friend, and the therapist who helped me work through Aggie’s murder and other traumas.

“You said I should call if I remembered anything else,” the waitress said. “Well, I didn’t, but I thought you’d want to know that someone phoned about your cousin and the guy she was with. He said he was her father.”

I sat down on my bed. “When was this?”

“Friday afternoon, after four? The maître d’ said this man told him you were here Thursday night, asking about his daughter, Dassie, and the guy she was with. The maître d’ told him, yes, your cousin was here. The man wanted to know who you talked to, because he wanted to thank her. Meaning me. So the maître d’ called me to the phone, and the man thanked me and wanted to know what I told you, because he said you didn’t give him details. Did you?”

“Not so many, no,” I said, my heart sinking.

“Anyway, I told him about the wedding ceremony and about the damage to the car, how it almost ruined the evening. So he said, right, you told him about that. But I thought something was funny.”

“What do you mean?”

“He said he couldn’t remember the license plate number of the car. I mean, how can you forget Rocky Road, right?”

“Right.” Perspiration beaded my lip. “So you told him what it was?”

“Uh-huh. I didn’t see why not to. If he’s not your cousin’s dad, why would he be calling? But the more I got to thinking about it, the whole conversation was strange, you know? So that’s why I’m calling you. I thought you’d want to know. By the way, did you ever talk to the guy who was with your cousin?”

Irene had obviously not seen the news about Shankman. “I’m sorry to say he was in a fatal car accident, Irene. It was on the news today.”

“Oh, my God! What about your cousin?”

“She wasn’t in the car.”

“Thank God. That’s why I don’t like watching the news or listening to it. It’s always so depressing.” Irene sighed. “They were such a sweet couple, you know?”

Chapter 33

Hadassah wondered when the detectives would be back.

They had searched the house yesterday evening, when they came a second time. Hadassah had heard them walking up the stairs. Her father had just returned from
shul.
She heard him say, “My daughter’s resting, she’s not up to talking,” speaking louder than he usually did, so she knew he was trying to warn her, like last time. When they entered the room, her arms were under the comforter, and the shard was where she had put it, between the mattress and box spring. She kept her eyes sealed while the detectives opened her dresser drawers and the closet door.

The male detective said, “Rabbi Bailor, we have a witness who saw a young woman Friday night a few blocks from Mr. Shankman’s apartment building. The woman fits your daughter’s description. She was wearing a white blouse and skirt. She was running and she looked upset. Where are the clothes your daughter was wearing when she came home Friday night?”

Her father said, “I don’t know. I’ll ask my wife.”

Hadassah didn’t know what her mother had done with the clothes. She hadn’t asked Hadassah about the white silk sweater and satin skirt she’d never seen before, or about the stains splattered across both— stains she must have suspected were blood. She had bundled the skirt and sweater and taken them away after she’d helped Hadassah into pajamas and bandaged her palm. Or maybe before. Hadassah couldn’t remember, and some things weren’t clear. Her mother must have shown the clothes to Hadassah’s father. “Chaim, what should we do with these?”

Her father hadn’t mentioned the clothes to Hadassah. Maybe he had thrown them away in a stranger’s trash bin. Hadassah hoped so. She never wanted to see them again.

The detectives left the room. Hadassah wasn’t sure whether they were gone for good, so she didn’t move. When the woman returned twenty minutes later, her partner, Phil, wasn’t with her. Neither was Hadassah’s father. Jessie shut the door and pulled over a chair, the way she had the first time. Even when Hadassah’s eyes were open, she looked straight ahead, so she didn’t really know what Jessie looked like, just that she had long dark hair. But her voice was low and soothing, and she spoke as if she had all the time in the world. She had the kind of voice that made you feel safe, like Dr. McIntyre’s.

“How are you, Hadassah?” she asked. “I’m sure you’re frightened. I would be, if I were you. You went through a terrible ordeal, and we’re all glad that you’re okay.

“We know that you were at the apartment with Greg Shankman, Hadassah. We found his blood in the apartment. We found someone else’s blood, too. Was it yours, Hadassah? If he tried to hurt you and you fought him, you have nothing to worry about, but you need to tell us.

“Maybe you were scared and phoned someone to help you. I can understand that. I would have been scared, too. Did you phone someone, Hadassah? Did Greg try to hurt the person you phoned? That would be self-defense, too, Hadassah. We just want to know what happened.

“We have the clothes you were wearing Friday night, a white skirt and blouse. Your mother washed them, even though they say ‘dry clean only.’ I guess she wanted to get the blood out. Greg’s blood. The thing is, Hadassah, even if you wash clothes, it’s hard to get all the blood out, especially in the seams. I think there
is
blood in the seams. The lab guys will find it, even the tiniest amount. And lab tests will tell us if it’s Greg’s blood. But it would be so much easier if you told us now. Then we won’t have to bother you again.

“I think Greg tried to hurt you, Hadassah,” Jessie said. “I think you fought him off, and I’m so glad you did. I think that’s how you got his blood on your white blouse and skirt. It
is
his blood, isn’t it?

“And then you phoned someone you could trust. You needed help. I would have phoned for help, too. And that person said, ‘Get out, Hadassah. I’ll take care of everything.’ And he
did
take care of everything, because there’s nothing of you in that apartment, Hadassah. Not your clothes, or makeup, or cell phone. But we know you were there, Hadassah.”

Hadassah decided her father was with the other detective, Phil. That’s why he wasn’t here with her.

“We talked to your friend Sara,” Jessie Drake said. “Sara told us that when you left her house you were wearing a black skirt and sweater, and you had a black purse. And inside your purse were your wallet and your cell phone and makeup and house keys. But we didn’t find any of those things in Greg’s apartment, Hadassah. Not the clothes or purse or wallet or cell phone or keys. And we didn’t find any of those things here, in your house.

“Do you know where your clothes are, Hadassah? Or your cell phone or wallet? Or your purse? Or your keys?

“What do you remember, Hadassah?

“Is that Greg’s blood on the clothes you wore Friday night, Hadassah? If you tell us, you’ll feel much better, I promise. I know you don’t want to get anyone in trouble, Hadassah, especially people you love. But you know the truth is going to come out, don’t you? If you called someone to help you, and if that person protected himself against Greg, well, we understand that. It’s self-defense.

“Was it your father, Hadassah?

“Was it your brother?

“Don’t be afraid, Hadassah. Just tell me the truth.”

Hadassah wasn’t sure how long Jessie Drake stayed, although she seemed to be talking and talking forever in that slow, quiet voice that made Hadassah want to open her eyes and tell her everything. She couldn’t tell Jessie, ever, but she longed to tell someone. If she did, maybe the sounds and smells and images would go away and she wouldn’t be afraid to sleep. The click of the key turning in the lock. The scent of her own fear as she cowered, shivering, in the total darkness of the closet. The impossibly rapid beating of her heart when she heard the doorknob being twisted open. The shock in his eyes when she jammed the glass shard into his throat, his howl, the blood that came spurting out when she yanked the shard out, prepared to strike again.

He had pressed his hand against his throat and staggered backward. She had shoved him, hard. So hard that he lost his footing. Even before his head slammed onto the hardwood floor with a loud thunk, she ran to the door. Sliding the deadbolt, she pulled the door open. She found the stairwell and, her footsteps echoing like artillery fire, raced down the stairs to the ground floor.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror in the lobby. Blood was on her hand, her face, stark against the white of her clothes. The blood was warm, sticky, metallic. She wiped her face with her hands. Hugging her arms to camouflage the stains on her chest, she fled the building.

Right or left? She didn’t know. And she couldn’t ask anyone. She couldn’t risk drawing attention to herself.

She turned right and ran blocks before she realized she was going in the wrong direction. A man walking by stared at her. She waited until he passed. Then she turned and jogged up dark streets until she saw the bright lights she hoped were Olympic Boulevard. Her breath was ragged. She had miles to go. The shard was in her hand. She had become aware of the stinging pain coming from her palm. She stopped and saw the blood that oozed from the cuts. She continued moving, but slowed her pace.

She remembered with sudden panic that she had called for help. She didn’t know if he’d received her message. If he had, he would be arriving any second to save her. She wanted to warn him, but the phone was on the closet floor. She had needed to keep one hand free, and in the other she had been gripping the shard. She’d been terrified that the phone’s ringing would betray her, so she had switched it to vibrate mode and flipped it shut after whispering into it the address she’d found on an envelope in the box.

It’s Dassie. Help me, please.

She heard footsteps now, coming up the stairs. Maybe it was the police. But it was her mother, wanting to know if Hadassah needed anything before she went to sleep. Hadassah shook her head. “Sweet dreams, baby,” her mother said.

Hadassah wondered at what point, if ever, Dinah had allowed herself to sleep without worrying that Schechem would plague her dreams. She had been thinking about Dinah since Friday night. She had many questions she would have liked to ask her father, though she didn’t know if he had answers.

Had Dinah tried to escape after Schechem kidnapped and raped her and held her captive? Had she waited, certain that her father or brothers would save her? How had she felt, knowing that two of her brothers had killed to avenge her? And how had those brothers felt about the blood they had shed? And what about the rest of the family? After the fact, did they ever talk about what had happened?

Hadassah’s father had told her that, according to the
Midrash,
Dinah had been taken in by one of the brothers who had rescued her. She had given birth to Schechem’s daughter, Osnath, who was adopted by a wealthy Egyptian, Potiphar, and eventually married her uncle, Joseph. He recognized her through the amulet her grandfather, Jacob, had given her.

But that was in the
Midrash,
not in the Torah. The Torah never mentioned Dinah again. It was as though she had ceased to exist. Because Dinah’s story was concluded, her father explained.

Sometimes Hadassah thought it would be easier if she ceased to exist. Other times she wished she had a protective amulet, like Osnath’s. She wedged her hand between the mattress and box spring and touched the shard. She wondered when her own story and that of her family would be concluded, and how.