Now You See Me... (5 page)

Chapter 8

Rabbi Bailor was in the dining room where I had left him, reading from a large text to the young boy on his lap.

“This is Yonatan,” the rabbi told me. “Say hello to Mrs. Abrams, Yonatan. I was her teacher many years ago.”

“Hello,” the boy said shyly. He was blond and blue-eyed, like his mother.

“Yonatan is seven, but he gets to stay up late on Thursdays so that we can learn Torah. And tonight he asked a question I couldn’t answer. Right, Yonatan?”

The boy grinned, producing dimples and revealing a gap where his two bottom front teeth should have been.

“I’m going to talk to Mrs. Abrams, Yonatan. Get ready for bed, and I’ll come up and say
Sh’ma
with you.”

Rabbi Bailor kissed the top of his son’s head and eased him off his lap. He watched him leave the room, then faced me.

“You talked to Aliza? She’s a lovely girl, isn’t she?”

“Very.” I considered telling him his daughter was worried about her weight, but it wasn’t my business. “She told me you had a psychologist talk to the students.”

“Dr. McIntyre. He came to counsel students after the Weinberg girl died, and this year he’s teaching a class for us. Batya’s death was the third tragedy in that class. Aliza told you? It was a terrible time, terrible.” The rabbi sighed deeply. “How do you explain the deaths of children to children? You talk about
Olam Habah.”
The afterlife. “You tell them
Hashem
is a loving Father, that He has a plan we can’t begin to fathom, that these souls have fulfilled their missions on this earth. But how can you expect them to understand when you don’t?”

I have only recently begun to work through my feelings about God and Aggie’s murder, so I had no answer for that.

“Did Hadassah talk to Dr. McIntyre?” I asked.

“Many times. She took Batya’s death hard. Dassie’s still seeing him. In fact, Dr. McIntyre is the first person I turned to when Dassie ran away. She’s not answering our calls, but I thought maybe she would take his.” The rabbi rubbed his palms against the edge of the table. “Dr. McIntyre said he can’t initiate the communication. Dassie has his number. She would have to contact him.”

“I’d like to talk to him. What about Hadassah’s teachers? Maybe one of them can give us a lead.”

Rabbi Bailor frowned. “I thought my brother-in-law explained, Molly. We don’t want this getting out.”

“I’m not planning to advertise your daughter’s disappearance in the
Jewish Journal.”
I blushed. “I’m sorry. That was
chutzpadik.”

“Yes, it was,” he said quietly. “But you’re right. You have to ask questions.” The look he gave me was filled with sadness.

I would have preferred anger. “About her teachers?”

“Dassie likes most of them.”

“Anyone in particular?” I prodded, curbing my impatience.

“She admired her history teacher, but he’s not at Torat Tzion this year.” Rabbi Bailor shut the text. “So did you learn anything from Aliza?”

I fingered the tags in my jacket pocket and told him about the instant message.

“At the time Aliza didn’t realize it was important,” I said. “Later, she was afraid you and your wife would be upset that she hadn’t told you right away.”

“Poor Aliza.” He sighed. “She must feel terrible, carrying that around, worrying about what we would say.”

“You should tell her that.”

His dark eyes narrowed. “I don’t need you to teach me how to be a parent, Molly.”

My face burned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

He took a deep breath. “No,
I’m
sorry. Obviously, I haven’t been doing a great job. Hadassah ran away. Aliza’s afraid to talk to me. Gavriel—” He stopped. “I’ll talk to Aliza. Thank you for telling me, Molly. I mean that.”

“You can’t blame yourself because Hadassah ran away, Rabbi Bailor.”

“Who
should
I blame?”

He walked me to the door and took my jacket out of the hall closet.

“I read a recent commentary about Dinah,” he said. “Before she was raped, the Torah refers to her as Leah’s daughter. After the rape, she’s
Jacob’s
daughter. The change suggests that her father and brothers should have been aware that Dinah left her tent to see the daughters of the land perform. And the Rambam’s son says her menfolk were negligent in guarding her. Not everyone agrees, but I can’t stop thinking about that.”

“You warned Dassie about chat rooms,” I said. “You couldn’t control her actions. Teenagers break rules. They take risks. It’s almost an eleventh commandment.”

“I was arrogant,” he said, his voice humbled with anguish. “I thought that what happens to others would never happen to my family. I urge parents to use computer spyware, to Google their kids’ names to see if any websites come up with their personal information. I didn’t do that with Dassie. I thought she was safe.”

His pain filled me with sorrow. I wished I had more to offer than words. “Dassie told Aliza she
is
safe, Rabbi Bailor. Until we know otherwise, I think you should take comfort in that.”

Reaching into the closet, he removed a small manila bubble mailer from the inside pocket of his coat and handed it to me. “I received this at the office in today’s mail.”

There was no return address. Inside the mailer was a gold mesh bag with silver foil–wrapped chocolate coins, the kind kids get on Chanukah, along with a computer-printed message on a small sheet of paper that I was careful to hold by its corners:

What DOES become of the broken-hearted?

A penny for your thoughts, Rabbi. Or should I say a shekel? Or fifty?

There was no signature.

“That’s a song reference. ‘What Becomes of the Broken-Hearted?’ ” I looked up. “It’s from him, right? Why didn’t you show this to me earlier?”

“Because I’m not sure it
is
from him, and I don’t want Nechama to know about it. I was hoping you’d say I was jumping to conclusions.”

“Who else would send you an anonymous note?” I said, unable to check my irritation. I read the note again. “Do you have any idea why he chose this song?”

“Dassie must have told him I’m a fan of oldies. But why
this
song?” The rabbi shrugged. “Maybe he means he’ll break Dassie’s heart. Or maybe he’s enjoying the fact that Nechama and I are broken-hearted. He’s right about that.”

“And the shekels?”

The rabbi hesitated. “It could be a biblical reference to the fine a rapist pays. Fifty silver shekels—a large amount in those days. That’s aside from fines for pain, suffering, humiliation.”

“How could you keep this from me?” I said again, angry now. “This changes everything. You have to go to the police.”

He took the note from me, slid it back into the envelope, and dropped it in the mesh bag with the coins.

“If he raped her,” I said, ignoring the pain that tightened the rabbi’s face, “you have no choice. If the police can lift fingerprints from the note or the coins, and if he’s in the system, they can identify him.”

“You’re friendly with the police, Molly. Can you ask them to check for fingerprints without telling them why? I touched the note, by the way, not the coins. I didn’t think to be careful. I thought it was an early Chanukah gift.”

I stared at him. “This man may have raped your daughter, Rabbi. Don’t you think that’s more important than her reputation?”

“If the police can’t identify him, Molly, giving them Dassie’s name is pointless.”

I wanted to shake him. “Rabbi—”

“First, show them the note and the coins.” He handed me the mailer. “Dassie told Aliza she’s safe. Maybe he’s just playing with me.”

“And if he’s not?” I said.

Chapter 9

“I hope this won’t take long,” Mrs. Mellon said after inviting me into her home. “It’s almost nine, and Sara has a math exam tomorrow. I’m Faith, by the way.” She frowned. “You said your name is Molly Blume? I thought Rabbi Bailor said
Abrams.”

She was five ten or eleven, slender and practically hipless in a fitted midcalf black skirt. She had short auburn hair and hazel eyes that picked up the olive of her cashmere sweater and took my measure.

“Abrams is my married name. I use Blume for my ‘Crime Sheet’ column and articles. And I’m married only eight months. Old habits. . . .” I smiled.

She didn’t. “I don’t read police blotters. They make me nervous.”

“They make
me
nervous, too.”

She studied me to see if I was making fun, which I wasn’t. “Molly Blume.”

She tapped a finger against her lips. I was prepared for a comment about my name, which I share with James Joyce’s lusty heroine. I’m often teased about that, and I blame my high-school-teacher mother, who should have known better.

Instead, Faith said, “Are you related to Steven Blume?”

“My father.”

“He remodeled our kitchen. He did a fine job, but we’re having problems with the dishwasher. That’s not his fault, though.” Her tone was grudging.

Thank God, I thought.

“And your mother’s at Sharsheret, right? Celia Blume? Sara’s older sister, Ronit, went there. Your mother taught her AP English. Ronit got a two on the exam, so she wasn’t exempt from taking freshman English.”

Unlike with the dishwasher, I sensed that blame was being assigned.

“You were divorced, right?” Faith said.

“Yes.” The woman probably knew my bra size.

She nodded. “I know your ex–in-laws, the Hoffmans. They’re nice people. Look, Molly, can I be direct?”

I wondered how she would characterize the conversation we’d had till now. Interrogation, really. “Absolutely.”

“We love Dassie. We feel terrible for her parents. I can’t begin to imagine what they’re going through. But we don’t want people finding out about Sara’s involvement with Dassie’s running away.”

“I understand.”

“Don’t get me wrong. We don’t approve of the fact that Sara covered for Dassie. Or that she lied to us.” Faith Mellon’s lovely mouth hardened. “But she’s not to blame for what happened.” The sharpness in her tone and eyes dared me to say otherwise.

“The Bailors don’t blame your daughter.” A half truth. “They’re hoping I can help Sara remember something that may tell them where Hadassah is. Or who she’s with.”

Faith opened her mouth to say something, then clamped her lips together and turned on her heel. I followed her to a small den, where her daughter was sitting, rigid as stone, on a brown leather sofa. She jumped up when I entered, as though someone had poked her.

“This is Mrs. Abrams,” Faith told her daughter. “She’s here to talk to you about Dassie.”

The teenager had her mother’s willowy frame, though she wasn’t as tall, and her eyes and long, straight hair were brown. She was wearing a long-sleeved blue oxford shirt, a pleated gray skirt that stopped inches above her ankle, and navy tights—the Bais Rifka school uniform my younger sister Liora had proudly worn for four years, similar to the Sharsheret uniform I’d been eager to chuck.

“It’s nice to meet you, Sara. Call me Molly.” I turned to the mother. “I’d like to talk to Sara privately, if that’s all right.”

I could tell it wasn’t—not for mother or daughter. After aiming a look at me that could have split a diamond, Faith left the room and pulled the door shut with a click.

I sat on the sofa. After a moment Sara joined me. She chose the far end, and from the way she hugged her arms, I figured she wished there were more than several feet between us. A country, maybe.

“I can imagine how hard this must be for you, Sara. You and Dassie are best friends, right?”

“I don’t know where she is. Honest.” Her tone was defensive, but tears filled her eyes. She wiped them with her fingers.

“I believe you. How long have you known Dassie?” I was anxious to get answers, but knew I had to proceed slowly.

“Since kindergarten. We were in the same class until high school.”

“You go to Bais Rifka, right? My sister Liora graduated from there two years ago. And my brother Judah teaches two classes there.”

“Mr. Blume is your brother? I had him last year for Jewish History. He’s cool. And Liora was choir head when I was a freshman.” Sara lowered her arms. “My mom wanted me to go to Sharsheret. That’s where my sister Ronit went? But most of my friends are at Bais Rifka.”

“Except for Dassie.” At the mention of her friend’s name, Sara tensed. “I’m sure you want to help us find Dassie and bring her safely home. Tell me about Sunday, Sara. Dassie told her parents she was spending the night with you, right?”

The girl’s face reddened. She studied her lap. “That was wrong. I know that.”

“We all make mistakes,” I said gently. “I’ve made plenty. What was Dassie wearing, by the way?”

“A black skirt and black sweater. She had the things in her overnight bag.”

“Dressy clothes?”

“Uh-huh.” Sara hesitated. “The skirt was shorter than she usually wears, and the sweater wasn’t low-cut, but it was clingy. Her mom definitely wouldn’t have been happy.”

Clothes that probably belonged to the Forever XXI tags. “Did Dassie tell you where she was going that night?”

“To meet him. I don’t know his name.” A hint of sullenness suggested she’d been asked this question too many times. “Dassie wouldn’t tell me.”

“Not even a first name?”

She shook her head.

“Where were they planning to meet?”

“She wouldn’t tell me that, either.”

Sara sounded disappointed. I sensed that she’d experienced a vicarious thrill through her friend’s illicit adventure.

“Had Dassie ever asked you to cover for her before?”

The girl’s blush was an answer. “Twice. She told me she was going out with kids from school.”

“Didn’t your parents wonder where Dassie was going?”

“They go out a lot, and Dassie always made sure to be back before they came home.” The blush deepened. “Sunday I knew she was lying. She kept checking her watch, and she had her makeup done. She said it was for fun, but I got her to tell me the truth, that she was seeing him that night and they’d met twice before. She was so
excited.
I think she wanted to tell
someone.”

Someone who would keep her secret. “If she met him before, Sara, why was she so excited Sunday night?”

“They were going someplace really romantic. I
tried
to talk her out of going. What if he was just pretending to be
frum?
What if he was a psycho? What if he tried to . . .” The girl’s voice trailed off. “Dassie said the other times, he didn’t touch her. She trusted him completely.”

That was part of the seduction. I thought again about the note, the reference to the shekels. The word “rape” flashed through my mind.

“Did he pick Dassie up Sunday night from your house?”

Sara shook her head. “She met him around the corner, on Alcott. He called her on her cell phone when he got there. I
tried
to talk her out of going,” she said again.

“So how long have Dassie and this guy known each other, Sara?”

“A couple of months. I’m the only one Dassie told,” Sara added with a touch of self-importance, forgetting for the moment that being the sole recipient of that confidence incurred responsibility, and guilt.

“Did Dassie tell you how old he is?”

“Twenty. She said he’s really mature.”

He could be twenty. He could be fifty. “Do you know what school he goes to, or what kind of work he does?”

“No. I
told
you, I don’t know much about him. But no one believes me.” The girl was on the verge of tears.

“I believe you, Sara.” I patted her knee. “Tell me about the chat room.”

“J Spot. J for Jewish? Dassie heard about it at school. You can meet people you wouldn’t meet otherwise. And this one is safe, because everyone’s
frum,
so you have a lot in common and a lot you can talk about, and—” Sara stopped. When she continued, she sounded flustered. “Anyway, that’s what Dassie told me.”

Sara had spoken with the authority of first-hand knowledge. I filed that away. “And then she got hooked. Why do you think that was?”

The girl hesitated. “It’s tough when your dad is principal of your school. Dassie couldn’t hang out with a lot of the kids, because her parents didn’t approve of them. The school is Modern Orthodox, but some of the kids eat non-kosher food outside of school, and a few of them do other stuff.”

“By ‘stuff,’ you mean sex and drugs?”

Sara nodded. “Dassie said some of the kids fooled around with marijuana. She
never
did,” Sara added quickly.

I was saddened, but not shocked. The Orthodox community tries to shelter its children from the dangers of the secular world, but no community, I have learned, is invulnerable.

“What about her friends from Bais Rifka?”

“They kind of drifted apart. Different schedules . . .” Sara shrugged. “Dassie’s still friends with some of them, but it’s not the same when you don’t see someone every day. And she doesn’t like having to defend her school to them.”

I could understand that. “Let’s get back to Sunday night, Sara.”

The girl picked up a needlepoint pillow. “Dassie said she’d be out till eleven. When she wasn’t back by midnight, I was nervous, because my parents said they’d be home by one. So I tried her cell. Again and again and again.” Sara’s voice had taken on a breathless quality, as if she were reliving her anxiety. “Finally she answered. She said she’d be out late and would sleep at home and figure out something to tell her parents.”

“How did she sound?”

“Excited. She was giggling half the time and—”

“And?” I prompted.

“She sounded drunk. I didn’t tell her parents.” Sara picked at a thread on the pillow. “Monday she phoned me after school. She said she was sorry she got me involved, and told me she was with him. I couldn’t
believe
it. She said she was fine, everything would turn out okay. And she hung up. She didn’t
sound
fine.”

Almost the same thing Hadassah had told her sister. And like Aliza, Sara was looking at me for reassurance.

“Dassie’s mom said she didn’t blame me, but I know she did.” The heightened color had returned to the teenager’s face. “She wanted me to tell her everything I knew about this guy. But I don’t
know
anything. She asked if Dassie was planning to run away with him. I said no way. Dassie would have told me, for sure.”

My best friend, Aggie, I had learned years after she was killed, hadn’t told me everything. If she had, she might be alive. Then again, maybe not . . . I brushed away the thought and the accompanying pain, wondered again if I would ever be free of it.

“Did Dassie tell you why she was attracted to him?”

“She said he was amazing. He was smart and kind. He made her laugh. He e-mailed her a photo, but she wouldn’t show it to me. He made her promise, because what they had was private.” Something flickered across the teenager’s face.

Envy? Resentment at being shut out of her best friend’s life? I could relate to both.

“Dassie said he really
listens
to her,” Sara said. “And a couple of times he knew what she was thinking. Like one time, he said she’d make a great lawyer. That’s
before
he knew she was planning to go to law school. And he guessed her favorite color, green. And her favorite music, and things like that. Dassie said that showed they had a bond. Like some married couples who finish each other’s sentences? My mom and dad do that.”

Mine, too. “So Dassie was serious about him?”

“I didn’t think so when they started IM’ing. I thought it was just fun, you know? Talking to a guy, flirting, pretending he’s your boyfriend? There’s no harm in that, because he doesn’t know your real name, or where you live or anything.”

I had the feeling, again, that Sara was talking about herself. “What about teachers? Is Dassie close to any of them?”

“Not really. Well, her history teacher, but that was last year. I think she had a crush on him. She was hoping to have him for AP European History. He makes his students work like crazy, but almost all of them pass the AP test. She was upset when he left like that.”

An odd choice of words, I thought. “Like that?”

“In the second week of September? Without telling anyone he was leaving? Dassie’s father said the teacher had to quit because of a family emergency.”

Something Rabbi Bailor hadn’t mentioned. I wondered why. “You said Dassie’s at your house all the time. Did she ever use your computer to visit J Spot?”

From the way Sara shifted her eyes I suspected that she had, and that she was struggling with what to tell me.

“A couple of times,” she admitted.

“And you’ve been there yourself, right?” I said, stating my guess as fact.

She clutched the pillow to her chest as if it were a security blanket and slid down on the cushion. “Please don’t tell my parents.”

I promised I wouldn’t and wondered how many more secrets I’d be asked to keep before the night was over. “Can you take me to the chat room?”

“Now?”

Sara’s bedroom had pale yellow walls and a white daybed covered with a yellow lace coverlet. I stood a few feet from her desk while she logged onto the Internet.

“Okay,” she said less than a minute later.

I moved closer and glanced at the screen.

Birch2 has entered the room.

I scanned the names in the chat room. Seven, including Sara’s. “What’s Dassie’s screen name? You want to find her, right?” I said, toughening my tone when she didn’t answer. “You want her safe, back home?”

“ST613.”

ST. Estie. Esther is another name for Hadassah. 613 is the number of
mitzvot
in the Torah. “Is there a moderator in this chat room?”

Sara shook her head. “There’s a
frum
website with a moderator, but it’s not a live chat. You can talk about stuff that bothers you. J Spot is just for getting together with other Jewish kids.”