Now You See Me... Page 6

  “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 t
hat 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.”

  “So how many times have you been to J Spot, Sara? The truth—I won’t tell.”

  “Maybe six or seven.”

  I mentally multiplied that by ten. “So you could have been in the room with this guy.”

  “Maybe.” The thought clearly troubled and intrigued her. “But I don’t know his screen name. Honest.”

  “When were you in the chat room last?”

  “Monday night. I just lurked. I don’t even know why I went. It’s not like Dassie or this guy would be there.”

  I pulled out my notepad and wrote down the URL for the chat room. “You said Dassie heard about this site from kids at Torat Tzion. Can you give me some names?”

  She licked her lips. “Are you going to talk to them? Mrs. Bailor said no one’s supposed to know about Dassie.”

  “I’m telling people that I’m writing an article about Jewish chat rooms, or the school. The names?” I prompted.

  “Dassie mentioned two girls. Tara and Becky. I don’t know their last names. She was friendly with another girl, but she died.”

  “Batya Weinberg.”

  “You heard about her?” Sara looked surprised. “Oh, the Bailors told you. Dassie was really upset about her.”

  I put my notepad back in my purse. “So I guess other kids from Bais Rifka visit this chat room, right?” I asked, aiming for casual.

  “A few,” she said, wary again. “I can’t tell you who.”

  “I’m not asking. Sara, you do understand that chat rooms can be dangerous, don’t you? Even frum ones?”

  “I’m careful. I never give away any personal information. Neither do my friends.”

  “Dassie probably thought she was careful, too, Sara.”

  The look she gave me was filled with alarm and resentment. “You promised you wouldn’t tell my parents.”

  “I’m going to honor that promise, Sara. I think you should tell them. They’ll probably let you continue, with some guidelines.”

  “They won’t.” She slumped down on her chair.

  “Think about it.” I would be thinking about it, too. “Another question, Sara. Do you know Hadassah’s password?”

  “No. I wish I did know.”

  The good news was that I believed her. That was the bad news, too.

  Chapter 10

  I had learned enough to understand why Hadassah had been easy prey for someone she’d met in a chat room, but I still had no idea how to find her. Driving around the corner, I parked on Alcott and knocked on the doors of several houses on the chance that someone had seen the car that had picked her up Sunday night.

  Of course, no one had.

  I was on Pico, heading home, when I had a thought and drove back toward the Bailors’ house. The street was filled with cars, and I had to park halfway up the block. My parents speak with nostalgia about the Los Angeles of their childhood, when you could leave your door unlocked and walk at night without fear, but I’ve read too much data about muggings in middle-class neighborhoods like this one, muggings that take place even in broad daylight.

  So I hurried along the sidewalk, eager to escape the chill of the evening and the darkness that the street lamps did little to dispel, and when I heard footsteps behind me as I turned onto the Bailors’ walkway, I tensed and whirled around, my car keys in my hand, poised to attack.

  It was Reuben Jastrow. He was wearing a yarmulke and no glasses.

  I dropped my hand. “Stalking me again?”

  His face reddened. “I’m visiting my sister and brother-in-law.”

  Sometimes I speak without thinking. “That was a joke—obviously, not a good one. Sorry.”

  “My wife often says I should lighten up. She’s probably right.” He smiled tightly. “Did you learn anything from Hadassah’s friend?”

  I frowned. “How did you know I was there?”

  “My sister told me you were planning to go there.”

  “Maybe you should be doing the detecting. That’s not a joke.”

  “I’m sorry. My wife also tells me I can be pushy.” Jastrow followed me up the walkway. “I’m anxious to find Hadassah. We all are.”

  Jastrow rang the bell. A moment later Gavriel Bailor opened the door and stepped aside to let us into the small entry off the living room. He looked surprised to see me with his uncle.

  “This is my nephew, Gavriel,” Jastrow said. “Gavriel, this is Mrs. Abrams.”

  “We met earlier today.” I was struck again by how much the young man resembled his father. The same nose, minus the bump; the same soulful, dark brown eyes.

  “I’ll let my father know you’re here,” he told me. To his uncle, he said, “Ima’s in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll wait with Miss Blume.”

  Gavriel nodded and left us in the hall. I supposed Jastrow was being polite, but I had nothing to say to him.

  “He looks like a fine young man,” I said to fill the silence.

  Jastrow nodded. “Nechama gets phone calls almost daily from shadchonim. Gavriel is going out with an L.A. girl while he’s home. She’s lovely, from a wonderful family.”

  I heard Rabbi Bailor’s footsteps before I saw him hurrying toward us, his hand on top of his black yarmulke as if he were preventing it from flying off his head.

  “Did you learn something?” he asked me eagerly after acknowledging his brother-in-law with a quick greeting.

  Hearing the hope in his voice was painful. I shook my head and saw disappointment drag down the corners of his mouth. Jastrow’s, too.

  “Nechama’s waiting for you,” the rabbi told his brother-in-law. “Tell her I’ll be right there.”

  Jastrow hesitated. After giving his brother-in-law a look, he wished me good night and passed through the dining room to the kitchen. Odd, I thought.

  “So what did Sara tell you?” the rabbi said.

  I gave him an edited summary, leaving out Sara’s guess that Dassie had been drunk.

  Rabbi Bailor sighed. “I had no idea Dassie felt so lonely at school. She was always smiling, always looking happy. Why didn’t she come to us?”

  “She probably didn’t want to worry you, especially if she thought you couldn’t solve her problems.”

  In high school and during several years that followed, I’d presented a happy demeanor to my parents, even though I’d been struggling with teachers and broken friendships and my growing doubts about Orthodox observance. Afterward my parents had asked the same questions: How is it that we didn’t see, Molly? Why didn’t you tell us?

  “Sara mentioned that history teacher Hadassah liked,” I continued. “She said Dass
ie was close to him. Maybe they’re still in touch.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “It can’t hurt to check. What’s his name? Is he Jewish, by the way?”

  “Greg Shankman.” The rabbi said the name grudgingly. “Yes, he’s Jewish. Why?”

  His reluctance piqued my interest. “Just curious. I’ll call you tomorrow for his contact information. Sara said Shankman left in September because of a family emergency. You said he wasn’t at Torat Tzion this year.”

  “You’re nit-picking, Molly.”

  “ ‘Examine the Torah’s language carefully, and it will reveal fascinating meanings.’ Isn’t that what you taught us? Isn’t that what the commentaries do?”

  The rabbi forced a smile. “I’m delighted to know that you took my lessons to heart, Molly.”

  “There was no family emergency, was there?”

  “Mr. Shankman’s leaving has no bearing on Dassie.” He glanced behind him. “My wife and brother-in-law are waiting for me. If you’ll excuse me?”

  “Was Greg Shankman fired?” The rabbi’s stiffened posture gave me my answer. “He was, wasn’t he?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss Mr. Shankman.”

  His tone and diction spelled “lawsuit.” “Shankman left in September, right?” I said, thinking aloud. “According to Sara, that’s when Dassie met this man in the chat room.”

  “So?”

  “So if Shankman was fired, maybe he arranged to meet Dassie in the chat room, to get back at you. That would explain the personal tone of the note.”

  “Ridiculous.” The rabbi shook his head. “First of all,” he said, taking on the traditional sing-song Talmudic cadence, “according to Sara, the man Dassie met is twenty. Mr. Shankman is closer to thirty.”

  “People don’t always give correct personal data in chat rooms—or in personal ads, or online sites.”

  My last date via a Jewish site—“Tall, good-looking, spiritual, free spirit, affectionate”—had been a short, overweight, forty-year-old out-of-work computer programmer who thought buying me a drink entitled him to cop a feel.

  And Kacie Woody’s killer, I recalled, had pretended to be eighteen to gain her trust. And a thirty-four-year-old Phoenix police officer had pretended to be a teen when he sexually assaulted a thirteen-year-old boy less than two hours after he first met the boy in an AOL chat room.