Now You See Me... (24 page)

Chapter 43

I took Coldwater Canyon, one of the serpentine roads that connects L.A. to the San Fernando Valley. The road climbs until it reaches Mulholland. Then it descends. When I reached Mulholland I thought about the spot where Greg Shankman’s car had careened off the road onto the rocks below, but I had no interest in viewing the scene of the crime.

McIntyre lived on Whitsett, north of Ventura Boulevard. Like many of the homes in the Valley, his was ranch style. There was a car in the driveway, but no one answered the door after I rang the bell several times. To the side of the door were editions of the L.A. Times, from Sunday through Wednesday. I wondered if he’d gone on vacation.

Nancy McIntyre lived less than half a mile away. I wasn’t sure what she could tell me, if anything, but as long as I was here I decided to pay her a visit. I didn’t know whether she was Dr. McIntyre’s mother or sister, or another family member.

As it turned out, she was his ex-wife. She was in her early fifties, I guessed, petite and trim, with short dark brown hair and hazel eyes. She was wearing a hot pink sweater and black slacks.

I introduced myself, told her I wanted to talk to her ex-husband in regard to an article I was writing about teens and the Internet, that I’d learned he wasn’t in his office today, but hadn’t found him at home, either.

“How did you get my home address, Molly?” she asked.

“I looked it up online,” I said.

“Try again.” She folded her arms. “My address isn’t listed. Neither is John’s. You have ten seconds to tell me how you found me and what you’re doing here. At that point I will definitely shut the door, and I may call the police.”

I didn’t need ten seconds. “I got hold of your husband’s file at the school where he works,” I said.

She frowned. “Why? And please don’t insult my intelligence by repeating that lie about your article.”

“One of his students, Hadassah Bailor, is also his patient. She ran away with—”

“John told me about her,” Nancy interrupted. “He was terribly distressed. And then yesterday I heard on the news that the girl had a relationship with a teacher whose car crashed off of Mulholland Friday night, correct?” The woman narrowed her eyes. “What’s your connection?”

“I was asked by the family to find her.”

“I see. And what’s John’s connection? Aside from being this girl’s teacher and therapist?”

“I think Hadassah phoned him that night for help.”

Nancy stood for several seconds, her arms folded, not really looking at me. “I think I liked your story better,” she said. She opened the door. “Come in.”

We sat in a small den on a hunter green chenille love seat that showed signs of wear. Against one wall was a cherry desk with one of those vintage phones with the round dial. On another wall was a bookcase filled with books and photos.

“Please sit down,” she said. It was more like an order than an invitation.

I sat. She remained standing and rested a hip against the desk.

“John hasn’t been himself the past few days,” Nancy said. “I knew something was wrong.”

“When did you last talk to him?”

“This morning. I talk to him every day. Sunday we were supposed to have dinner, the way we do most Sundays. John said he was coming down with a cold, but I knew better. I know what you’re thinking: How nice that we’ve managed to stay amicable. We’re not amicable, Molly. John loves me. I love him. We are best friends. We just can’t live together.”

“I see.”

The look she gave me was fierce. “No, you
don’t
see, so why do you feel compelled to say you do? I find it tiresome and condescending. What do you know about John?”

“I’ve only talked to him once. Rabbi Bailor speaks highly of him. The rabbi’s assistant, Mrs. Horowitz, told me Dr. McIntyre is a good teacher and a good man.”

“He is. Did she tell you we lost our daughter?”

I nodded.

“Did she tell you how?”

“No.” I had the feeling I didn’t want to hear.

Nancy took a photo from the bookcase and handed it to me. “That’s Victoria.”

I looked at the young face in the photo. Dark brown hair, blue eyes, a sweet smile.

“She killed herself when she was fifteen,” Nancy said. “She met someone online ten months before that. They started instant messaging. He told her he was sixteen. He was fifty-three. He taught high school math in Dallas. He came to the house one day when he knew John and I were at work, and he molested her.”

Her recital had been unemotional, flat. I supposed that was the only way she could bear telling it.

“I’m so sorry.” Tears welled in my eyes.

“Everyone is sorry, when they hear.” Nancy took the photo and held it to her chest. “Vicky didn’t tell us right away. She was ashamed. She was afraid we’d be angry, that we’d blame her for giving this man information that allowed him to find her. We knew something was wrong. She wasn’t eating. She had difficulty sleeping. Her grades were falling. She was obviously depressed. I did something I’d never done before. I read her journal. She’d written everything down.”

Nancy studied the photo before returning it to the shelf. “She was angry at first, because I’d violated her privacy. But I think she was relieved that her terrible secret was out. John didn’t want to treat Vicky himself, so he took her to a therapist, who put her on an antidepressant. Vicky seemed better. We all felt safer. Three months later she hanged herself. A few months ago we learned that the antidepressant she was taking can cause suicidal tendencies in some teenagers. Apparently, it had been banned in Britain last December.”

I had read articles about the FDA report and its findings. Prozac, I recalled, had been cleared. But a list of other antidepressants hadn’t. And families were urged to take a depressed teen not to a pediatrician, but to a psychiatrist, who would provide therapy and carefully monitor the dosage and effects of the antidepressant.

“Vicky died five years ago,” Nancy said. “John has been punishing himself ever since. He spent his life helping people deal with emotional and psychological problems so that they could lead healthy, fulfilling lives. But he couldn’t save his own child. He couldn’t understand why Vicky hadn’t come to him earlier, why he hadn’t seen that something was terribly wrong when she was on the antidepressant. It ate at him.” Nancy paused. “People say they understand. They can’t possibly. I hope they never can.”

I nodded.

“You know they say losing a child can either bring a couple together or destroy their marriage? After a year and a half, I realized we couldn’t continue living each day as a memorial to Vicky. Every day we were dying a little more. So I called friends I hadn’t talked to in over a year. I took an interest in my appearance. I went back to work. I’m an occupational therapist. But John?” Nancy sighed. “John couldn’t do it. And he resented that I could. He accused me of betraying Vicky’s memory. And I was afraid he was going to pull me into Vicky’s grave with him. So we divorced.”

Nancy put her hands on the desk. “Do you want to know what John does almost every night, Molly? He eats dinner—usually by himself, unless I join him. He’s lost touch with most of his friends. Then he goes out. To a singles bar, to a club. He watches young girls, and if he sees them talking to men, he goes over and warns them to be careful. And when he comes home, Molly, he goes online and visits teen chat rooms and warns kids not to reveal personal information.”

“Lucky7,” I said.

Nancy looked startled. “How did you know?” she demanded.

I told her about my visits to J Spot.

“That was Vicky’s screen name,” Nancy said, her voice gentled. “John took it over. I think it makes him feel she’s still alive.”

“When did he start visiting J Spot?” I asked.

“After Hadassah Bailor ran away. He hadn’t thought to monitor J Spot. He’s blaming himself for that.” She stood straight. “Tell me why you think Hadassah contacted John on Friday night.”

“It’s just a theory,” I said, and explained my reasoning.

“John is obsessed with protecting young women,” Nancy said when I had finished. “A few months ago he followed a man and a young woman from a bar to the man’s apartment. The man spotted him lurking and called the police. They arrested John. He called me. I talked to the police and explained.” Nancy sighed. “At the school where he was teaching before Torat Tzion, parents complained that he was asking his female students questions about their boyfriends and their Internet habits. Things like that. Needless to say, John wasn’t rehired.”

“Nancy, would Dr. McIntyre have moved Greg Shankman’s body and staged the car accident?”

“The John McIntyre I married?” Nancy shook her head. “The John McIntyre trying to atone for his daughter’s death?” She left the question unanswered. “Aren’t you going to ask me if John would have killed to protect Hadassah?”

I couldn’t tell what she wanted. “Would he?”

“I don’t know, Molly. That’s sad, isn’t it? I’ve urged him to see someone, to get help. Maybe now he’ll listen.”

If it wasn’t too late. “When I stopped at his house, before I came here, I saw Dr. McIntyre’s car in the driveway, but he didn’t answer the door. And Mrs. Horowitz told me he called in sick on Monday.”

Chapter 44

The car was still there.

I parked on the street behind Nancy and followed her to the front door. She picked up the newspapers, rang the bell several times, then unlocked the door with a spare key. Like Saturday night all over again, I thought, as I followed her inside. I hoped the ending was different.

“John?” she called. “It’s Nancy.”

There were no house sounds—no music, no TV, no dishwasher running, no drone of a vacuum that would explain why he didn’t respond.

“John?”

A shrill whistle broke the silence. I jumped at the sound. So did Nancy. We passed through the living room and dining room to the kitchen, where a kettle was boiling. She turned off the flame. The sink and counters were filled with dishes.

He was in his office. Nancy entered the room. I stayed in the hall, but from where I was standing, I could see Dr. McIntyre sitting at his desk. His hands were on the keyboard of one of the two computers that faced him.

Nancy stood behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “John, didn’t you hear the doorbell? Or the kettle?”

“Just a second,” he said, not turning around.

“John, honey, I was worried about you.”

“I told you I was fine,” he said, irritated. “I think I had a touch of the flu.”

“You canceled all your classes this week, John.”

“Stupid!” he exclaimed. “You see that post, Nancy?” He pointed to the screen. “The poster said she takes gymnastics. She named the sports center, and the city! Anyone can find her.” His fingers flew on the keyboard.

Nancy massaged his shoulder.

“I can’t be everywhere, Nancy.”

“I know, honey. That girl you told me about, Hadassah Bailor? I know you were terribly worried when she ran away with that man.”

“Hadassah’s safe now.”

“That’s wonderful. I think you helped her, John. Did you?”

I held my breath.

He moved the computer mouse and clicked. “Do you have any idea how many chat rooms there are, Nancy?”

“Did you help Hadassah Bailor, John?”

He inched the chair to the right and rested his hands on the keyboard of the second computer. “She called my emergency number. Friday night. She left a message.”

“So you went to Mr. Shankman’s apartment? John, this is important.” She removed his hands from the keyboard and moved the mouse away. “John, tell me what happened.”

He dropped his hands to his lap. “She was whispering, but I could hear how terrified she was. ‘Help me, please.’ That’s what she said. She gave the address and the apartment number. I had to help her, Nancy.”

“Of course you did, John.” She squeezed his shoulder. “So what happened?”

“I didn’t get the message right away. There was a problem with my service. When I got to the apartment, the door was unlocked, but Hadassah wasn’t there. He was on the floor, lying on his side.”

“Mr. Shankman?”

McIntyre nodded. “I checked for a pulse. He was dead, Nancy. His shirt was covered with blood. There was a gash in his throat. And his head. . . .” McIntyre made a retching sound.

“Why didn’t you call the police, John?”

“I was afraid they would arrest Hadassah.”

“But she called you for help, John.” Nancy stroked his arm. “On your emergency number. If he assaulted her, and she killed him in self-defense, the police wouldn’t have arrested her.”

“The back of his head, Nancy. It was . . . horrible. Somebody . . . There was a marble statue on the floor. An owl. It was covered in blood. I was afraid the police would say it wasn’t self-defense. Because why didn’t she run after she stabbed him? Why did she smash in the back of his head? If I had gotten there in time, Nancy. . . .”

“You did your best. John, did you take Hadassah’s belongings from the apartment?”

“She must have panicked, Nancy. She was terrified. But she shouldn’t go to jail. Shankman was a monster. He deserved to die.”

“Did you move Shankman’s body to his car, John?”

“No.”

“Someone moved his body to his car and crashed the car, John. I heard that on the news. I’m sure you did, too.”

“I didn’t move his body. Why would I do that?”

“To protect Hadassah.”

“I didn’t move his body, Nancy.”

“Are her things here in the house, John?”

He didn’t answer.

“John, the police know Hadassah Bailor was at Shankman’s apartment. We have to call them. You understand that, don’t you? Where are her things, John?”

“I took the marble statue. I wiped off the blood, and the fingerprints.”

“John—”

“They’re going to think I killed him, Nancy. They’re going to find out about Vicky, and the other incidents.”

“I’ll stay with you, John. I’ll explain everything, and they’ll believe me. Where are Hadassah’s things, John?”

“In my bedroom closet.”

He returned his hands to the keyboard and typed. Nancy turned to me and nodded. She put her arms around him and kissed his head.

I phoned Jessie Drake.