Now You See Me... Page 5

  On the wall facing the beds were two desks, one of which belonged to Hadassah. I switched on her computer and checked the documents she had recently worked on. A paper on the Canterbury Tales, another on the French Revolution. One file folder, COLLEGE APPS, included several versions of the essay Hadassah had written. I would have liked to view the websites she’d visited, but neither Aliza nor her parents knew Hadassah’s password.

  They couldn’t tell whether any of her clothing was missing, either. Since she’d started driving, Hadassah usually shopped alone, and she often used her babysitting earnings for her purchases, so her parents weren’t aware of what she bought.

  Aliza wasn’t familiar with her sister’s wardrobe.

  “We don’t share clothes—well, except sweaters,” she said. “Dassie and I have different figures. She’s much taller, for one thing.”

  While Aliza sorted through the mounds of clothes on both beds, I rummaged through Hadassah’s drawers and found clothing typical of the average Orthodox Jewish teenager, along with assorted memorabilia. Ticket stubs to Jewish concerts, letters from camp friends, an elementary school autograph book. Included among the letters was a photo of a brown-haired girl. I showed it to Aliza.

  “That’s Batya Weinberg,” she said, her somber tone telegraphing bad news. “She was in Dassie’s class. She died last May.”

  I looked at the thin young face and felt a twinge of sadness for someone I didn’t even know. “What happened?”

  “She had a heart attack. It happened very fast—like with that athlete who died on the field? They didn’t know he had a heart condition. After Batya died, my dad had a psychologist talk to all the students. It wasn’t just because of Batya. A boy in their class who had cancer died a few months before Batya. And the year before, another girl lost her sister in a car accident.”

  A heavy load of grief for one class. “Did Hadassah talk with this psychologist?”

  “I guess. She was depressed about Batya and the other kids who died. Everybody was. But you’d have to ask my father.”

  I made a mental note to do that. “Aside from Sara Mellon, who else would your sister have confided in?”

  Aliza looked sheepish. “Like I said, we’re not close.”

  The backpack and overnight bag that Hadassah had taken to Sara’s were in a corner of the room. The bag held her school uniform, underwear, opaque tights, and a pink vinyl zippered bag with toiletries. The school bag contained spiral notebooks, a notepad, pens, folders. I checked the folders and notebooks (in high school I’d written “Mrs. Zack Abrams” countless times), but I found no clue to the identity of Hadassah’s Internet boyfriend.

  In the closet I flipped through the clothes in the section Aliza indicated was Hadassah’s. Most of the skirts and blouses (all long-sleeved, as Rabbi Bailor had said) were size two. A few were size 0, a size I’ll never understand. And Abercrombie and Fitch, I heard, sells clothes in size 00.

  “Dassie can eat a dozen doughnuts and not gain an ounce,” Aliza said with envy when I remarked on the sizes. “I gained fifteen pounds in Israel and still haven’t lost everything.”

  “Everybody gains weight in seminary.” The wonderful fresh bread, the falafel, the chumous and tehina. “You look fine, Aliza.”

  “That’s what my parents say, but tell it to the guys. They all want skinny, skinny, skinny.” She sucked in her cheeks, then let out her breath with an uncertain laugh. “And tall. I’m short, so every ounce shows. But I’m on South Beach now, and I lost three pounds.”

  I’ve tried the South Beach diet. And The Zone, and a few others. So have my sisters and my mother, who is struggling with the pounds menopause has added. I mostly struggle with chocolate.

  Aliza moved back to the bed and picked up a black sweater. “Dassie reads everything you write. She wants to be a lawyer, so I guess that’s why.” She folded a sleeve of the sweater, her eyes on me. “My father said you worked with the police to solve some cases.”

  “Not in an official capacity. But I was able to help them,” I said, not wanting to sound immodest, yet hoping to give her assurance.

  “Do you think you can find Dassie?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going to try.”

  She finished folding the sweater. “I don’t care what people say if they find out. I just want Dassie home.” Tears flooded her eyes. “I keep thinking, what if I’d told my parents about the IM. . . .”

  “Don’t.” I took her hand. “If Dassie was determined to meet this man, she would have figured out a way, even if your parents had kept a watch on her.”

  “You really think so?”

  I nodded.

  Aliza left the room in search of luggage. I took advantage of her absence to poke through the trash can at the side of Hadassah’s bed. Underneath crumpled papers, a handful of used unbent staples that poked my fingers, soiled cotton balls, and tissues stained with dark red lipstick, I discovered tags from Forever XXI, a trendy store. That was interesting. So was the stack of magazines under the bed: In Style, Us, Teen Ink, Seventeen. Maybe typical reading for a Torat Tzion girl, but it didn’t fit with the girl who kept a basin and laver at her bedside so that she could perform the ritual morning hand-washing.

  I pushed the magazines back under the bed, but kept the tags.

  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 h
ave 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.
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  “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.”