Now You See Me... (19 page)

Chapter 34

Tuesday, November 23, 9:18 a.m. Along Kingsley
Drive and Sunset Boulevard, a 54-year-old suspect
assaulted a 19-year-old female until she lost consciousness. The suspect later fled the scene.

I’d been sorely tempted to phone Connors as soon as I hung up with Irene Jakaitis, but my vindication came with a stiff price tag. Zack had commiserated with me about my dilemma. Sleep on it, he’d advised.

Morning didn’t bring wisdom or resolution. I was anxious to redeem my good name with Connors and repair our bruised friendship. Irene would verify that someone had dogged my steps and learned the license plate number of the car that belonged to the man who had lured Hadassah away from her home, a man who now lay in a morgue, a victim of foul play. In all likelihood that someone was Rabbi Bailor.

Before falling asleep, I’d reconstructed what I thought was a logical sequence of events, based on two facts and on numerous assumptions—never a wise idea.

The facts: Late Thursday night I’d told the rabbi I had a possible lead, but I’d refused to elaborate. Friday afternoon, someone spoke to Irene Jakaitis and elicited the license plate number of Dassie’s date’s vehicle.

My assumptions: Rabbi Bailor had questioned my story about the fender-bender. His suspicions raised, he’d queried his daughter Aliza about my second visit Thursday night and learned that I’d wanted to know where someone would go on a romantic date, that the place was Yamashiro, and that I suspected Dassie had gone there Sunday night.

My deduction: Rabbi Bailor had spoken to Irene.

Another assumption: The rabbi had recognized the license plate and had known on Friday afternoon that the man he was seeking was Greg Shankman.

And then what?

That was the question that had given me a restless night, the reason I was loath to report my conversation with Irene Jakaitis to Connors.

And I could be wrong. I had no proof that Rabbi Bailor had made the call, no reason to think he’d recognized the license plate aside from the fact that Shankman was dead. Even if the rabbi
had
identified Shankman, I had no proof that he’d acted on that knowledge. He could have shared what he’d learned with someone else. His son, his brother-in-law, Dr. McIntyre.

I needed to know the truth. I needed to know whether Rabbi Bailor had manipulated me, just as Connors had been convinced that I’d manipulated him. So I drove to Torat Tzion, and I fervently hoped that my assumptions, like Connors’s, were wrong and I would learn that, as Bubbie G would say, “something” was in fact “nothing.”

Two local television news vans were stationed in front of “the Orthodox Jewish school in the heart of Beverly Hills.” I parked around the corner and walked to Burton Way. When I neared the school, I looked straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with three reporters who were leaning against the vans, lying in wait. I have several contacts at the L.A. Times but almost none in television or radio, so I wasn’t worried about being recognized.

I did recognize Lydia Martin, the field reporter who had covered Shankman’s death. She was tiny in person, almost skeletal in a black wool pants suit. She caught up with me as I headed to the lobby.

“Do you teach at Torat Tzion?” Lydia asked, mangling the school’s name.

“No.” I tried opening the lobby door. It was locked.

“Did you know Greg Shankman, the history teacher who died Friday night?” she asked.

Answering her had been a mistake. I rapped on the glass.

“What about Hadassah Bailor, the principal’s daughter? We’ve learned that the police have talked to her about Mr. Shankman’s death.”

Someone, either at Hollywood or at West L.A., had obviously leaked the connection. I did my best to keep a blank expression. It’s no secret that the media rely on “unnamed sources” at police stations around the city. I wondered if the unnamed source was Connors, or Jessie Drake. Maybe they’d wanted to shake things up.

“Can you tell me anything about Mr. Shankman’s relationship with Hadassah Bailor?”

The guard approached. He’d been casually efficient on Friday. Now he stood with his feet spread apart and his muscular arms folded across his puffed out chest. Mr. Clean, or Popeye after ingesting a can of spinach.

“No media,” he said.

“I was here Friday.” My business card says I’m a columnist and freelance reporter. I took out my driver’s license and held it against the glass door.

He scanned the license. “What’s the nature of your business?”

“I’m here to see Sue Horowitz.”

The guard walked to his desk and picked up the phone.

“Who is Sue Horowitz?” Lydia asked. “Is she connected with Hadassah Bailor?”

Lydia was like a puppy yipping at my heels. I continued to ignore her, and after half a minute she gave up and walked back to the van. Part of me was annoyed with her persistence. The other part sympathized. I am often that yipping puppy.

The guard put down the phone and nodded at me. A moment later he unlocked the lobby doors.

“Not you,” he told Lydia, who had returned faster than a stain on a newly shampooed carpet.

“Are you an attorney?” the reporter called as I slipped into the lobby.

But she was talking to glass. After relocking the doors, the guard checked the contents of my purse. I passed through the metal detector and was headed to Sue’s office when I saw Dr. Mendes exiting an office. Same suit, different blouse.

She turned and headed in the opposite direction.

“Dr. Mendes,” I called, hurrying to catch up. “Molly Blume?” I added, when she didn’t acknowledge me.

She stopped and turned around. The principal looked harried and had shadows under her eyes.

“I can’t talk to you now, Molly. I assume you heard about Mr. Shankman? The students are upset, of course. Many of them knew him. And I’m sure you saw the media camped outside?”

I nodded. “I can imagine this is a tense time for everyone.”

“Yes, and I don’t think it’s going to get better any time soon.” She smoothed her hair behind her ear. “So I’m afraid we’ll have to indefinitely postpone your interviewing students. I’m sorry.”

“I understand. I
would
like to discuss something with you, when you have a moment. There’s been talk about cheating going on at Torat Tzion.”

“Cheating is a fact of life at every school, Molly.” Her words were measured, her patience strained. “I’m sure your mother will tell you the same thing.” She glanced at her watch.

“I don’t mean students. Apparently, there was a problem with Mr. Shankman and the APs he proctored.”

Dr. Mendes stiffened. “Where did you hear that?” she asked, her voice razor sharp.

“I’m afraid I can’t reveal my source. Is that why Mr. Shankman was fired, Dr. Mendes?”

“I can’t comment about Mr. Shankman, Molly. As far as I know, there was no irregularity with any of the APs he gave or proctored. Mr. Shankman was a dedicated teacher, always professional. I would be surprised and saddened to find out that he tampered with exams.” She sighed. “Although from what the media is saying, there’s a side to Mr. Shankman none of us knew.”

“So you’re saying he
may
have tampered with exams?”

She frowned. “I’m not saying anything of the sort. That would be irresponsible and slanderous and unfair. Mr. Shankman can’t defend himself. And rumors about what he may have done wouldn’t be fair to his students, or to the school. Promise me that if you learn anything else from your source, you’ll come to me before you print anything?”

I promised that I would.

Sue was on the phone when I entered. She held up two fingers and motioned for me to sit. I gazed at the ceramic birds on the filing cabinet.

“You picked a bad day, darlin’,” she said when she hung up. “The phone hasn’t stopped ringing since I got here, and I’ve got more than twenty calls to return. Y’all heard what happened to Greg Shankman, right?” She sighed. “It’s too much to take in. First they said he’s dead. Now they’re saying he was killed.”

“The media?” I hadn’t listened to the news this morning. Obviously, a mistake.

“Them, too.” Sue puckered her lips. “Two detectives came yesterday. A pretty woman and a mountain of a man. They searched Rabbi’s office and his closet, and Dassie’s locker. I can’t imagine what they thought they’d find.”

The woman, I guessed, was Jessie Drake. The man didn’t sound like Connors. Probably Phil Okum, Jessie’s partner. “Did they take anything?”

“Nothing from Rabbi’s office or closet. I don’t know about Dassie’s locker. They asked me about Mr. Shankman. Why he was fired, did he have run-ins with kids, and if yes, which ones. I told them they’d have to talk to Dr. Mendes. She has Mr. Shankman’s file.”

I was gratified to learn that the police were pursuing other avenues. “Is Rabbi Bailor in today, Sue?”

“He is, but he’s not taking calls or seeing anyone. Dr. Mendes is dealing with the press and the parents. I don’t know which is worse.” After a quick glance at the door to the rabbi’s adjoining office, Sue leaned across the desk. “Now they’re saying Mr. Shankman is the one Dassie ran away with,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “The media, I mean. I still can’t believe it, but I guess it’s true. They said he had a little girl, that he was depressed because his girlfriend broke up with him. But why would he do that to Dassie? And why would she run away with him? Did Rabbi tell you anything?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t have the heart to ask him,” she said. “He’s been going around in a daze since Monday.”

The phone rang. Sue picked up the receiver and told whoever was on the line that she’d be happy to take a message for Rabbi Bailor.

“Is there something y’all wanted to ask me, Molly?” she said when she hung up. “To be honest, I was surprised when the guard told me you were here, now that Dassie’s safe at home. Thank God,” she added. “That’s a miracle and a half, isn’t it? That she got away, I mean. She could’ve been in that car with Mr. Shankman.”

I nodded. “I wanted to talk to someone who knew Mr. Shankman, to try to get a handle on why he would do that to Rabbi Bailor’s family. You said the rabbi liked him.”

“He did. I think that’s why Rabbi is taking this so hard, Molly.”

“Maybe Mr. Shankman just lost it, you know? Being fired, losing his girlfriend, losing his daughter. I heard he bought a new car right before he was fired. I guess he thought he’d lose that, too, if he couldn’t make the payments. Did you ever see it?”

Sue shook her head. “It’s not like we have a parking lot for faculty or staff. Just two spots—one for Rabbi, the other for Dr. Mendes. The rest of us have to find street parking. I’ve had my share of parking tickets, thank you very much.” She sniffed.

A dead end, I thought.

“I know Greg was excited when he bought the car,” Sue said. “It was his first new one.”

“Maybe Rabbi Bailor would know,” I said. “Men are into cars.”

“Darlin’, Rabbi wouldn’t know a Moped from a Lexus. Ask him anything about the Torah, and he’ll cite chapter and verse. But cars?” Sue smiled.

“I think they said on the news that Greg Shankman had one of those specialty license plates.”

“Did he? Oh, right. I remember he talked about getting one.” The phone rang again. Sue picked up the receiver. “Torat Tzion. I can check, but it’ll take a few minutes.” She placed her hand on the receiver. “It was nice seeing y’all. You take care now.”

Chapter 35

Lydia Martin and company were still on the sidewalk when I exited the lobby. Pretty soon they would take root and sprout leaves, I thought as I headed for the corner. Lydia took a few steps toward me but stopped and turned her attention to a man who was approaching the school from the other direction. Lucky me. Poor him.

Fifteen minutes later I was home. After putting a load of laundry into the washing machine and talking to Zack, I sat at my desk and began entering the data I’d collected yesterday from Wilshire and West L.A. It’s not an exciting activity, and the column doesn’t pay much, but I’d hoped that a byline would give me a toehold in the media world. Five years later I haven’t won a Pulitzer, but I’ve developed contacts at several papers for whom I freelance regularly. And once in a while I come across a crime I find puzzling or intriguing, enough to make me investigate. One investigation turned into the true crime book I’d recently finished,
The Lady From Twentynine Palms.

Today I didn’t find anything intriguing—mostly car thefts, residential burglaries, a number of street muggings. While my fingers typed, my mind returned to my conversation with Sue. Not a total waste. I’d learned that Jessie Drake was investigating possible run-ins between Shankman and one or more of his students. I wondered whether the detective was merely being thorough or whether she was following a lead. And if so, what lead.

I had also learned that Rabbi Bailor was oblivious to cars. If so, he probably wouldn’t have recognized Shankman’s license plate number. And if he’d tried to identify the car owner, he would have reached a dead end, as I had.

So maybe Rabbi Bailor
hadn’t
known on Friday that Hadassah was with Greg Shankman . . .

Then why had Hadassah left that night? I pictured the wounds on her arm, the blood on the floor, on the box. There had been more blood, Jessie Drake had said.

Hadassah’s blood? Shankman’s?

I wrote both names on a sheet of paper, circled them, and connected the circles with a line.

Shankman must have assaulted Hadassah. Somehow she escaped. Had she killed him in self-defense?

Someone had tried to remove the blood. The same person who moved Shankman from his apartment to his car and drove the car off the road? Hadassah wouldn’t have been up to the task. Someone had also removed any signs that Hadassah had been in the apartment. From the little I knew about the teenager, I didn’t think she would have had the presence of mind to eliminate evidence.

Unless someone had directed her.

Jessie had suggested that Hadassah had phoned for help, and I had to admit that made sense. But whom had Hadassah phoned?

And what if Shankman was alive when Hadassah phoned? Shimon and Levi, Dinah’s brothers, had murdered Schechem and his towns-people to rescue their sister and avenge her honor.

With an objective mind and a heavy heart, I wrote Rabbi Bailor’s name and Gavriel’s, drew circles around them, and connected them to Hadassah. I debated, and added a circle for Reuben Jastrow.

Maybe Hadassah hadn’t phoned anyone. Maybe she ran home and told her family what had happened. And Rabbi Bailor, alone or with Gavriel, went to Shankman’s apartment and removed Hadassah’s belongings. And transferred Shankman’s body to his car, and drove the car off the road?

Saturday night, after
Shabbat,
not Friday night. Rabbi Bailor wouldn’t have violated the Sabbath to protect his daughter. Or would he?

The ringing of the phone startled me. It was Cheryl Wexner.

“I’m afraid to turn on the news and learn the next awful development,” she told me. “They’re saying Greg was killed, that he had a relationship with Hadassah Bailor.”

“I know.” I told Cheryl about the reporters I’d seen in front of the school.

“Honestly, I don’t know what to think. My first reaction was that they’re making this up. But they’re careful about what they put on the air, aren’t they? They could be sued. And if what they’re saying is true . . .”

“I know,” I said again, trying to decide what to tell her.

“But I don’t—Oh.” Cheryl was quiet a moment. “When you phoned Friday, Molly, you said you needed to talk about Hadassah. It was about Greg, wasn’t it?”

“I didn’t know when I phoned you that Greg was involved,” I said, glancing at the circles I’d drawn. “Hadassah ran away with someone she met in a chat room. The Bailors asked me to help find her.”

“Because you have police connections,” Cheryl said.

“Something like that. Rabbi Bailor thought Hadassah might have confided in you and mentioned something that would help us identify who she was with.”

“She never said a word about Greg, probably because she knew I would have talked her out of getting involved with him.” Cheryl sounded pensive. “But didn’t you say Hadassah met someone in a chat room?”

“I think Greg pretended to meet her there. By the time they met face-to-face, Hadassah was hooked. And her friend told me Hadassah had a crush on him. I’m sure Hadassah didn’t know about his girlfriend or daughter. Rabbi Bailor didn’t.”

“But why would Greg do something like that? And why would he pick Hadassah?”

“Maybe he resented Rabbi Bailor for not going to bat for him, and took out his resentment on his daughter.”

“That’s not the Greg I knew.”

“Obviously, he had a psychological problem, Cheryl. He dated his high school student. He fathered a child with her.” On my paper I wrote “Melissa,” circled her name, and connected the circle to Shankman.

“One mistake doesn’t mean he was a predator,” Cheryl said, but her voice lacked conviction.

“Maybe he
was
harassing Amy.” And Batya Weinberg, I thought. “Greg may have been wonderful to Justin, and not so wonderful with young girls.”

Cheryl was silent. I added Batya’s name and a question mark.

“I can’t tell Justin,” Cheryl said. “This would break his heart. He’s been upset for months about Greg. When he heard Greg had died, he broke down and cried. He was much calmer after he talked to you, by the way. Thank you for coming.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You listened. You cared.”

“Has Justin decided to talk to the police?”

“Do you think he should?”

“I don’t know. If Greg wasn’t planning to go public with this whole thing, then I don’t see how Justin’s information would help the police in their investigation.”

“Into Greg’s murder, you mean. I can’t absorb that. Who would want to kill him?”

I decided to let Cheryl work that out for herself. “By the way, Cheryl. When we met, you mentioned you were concerned about Hadassah, too. Why?”

“I thought she was depressed. After you phoned me on Friday, I contacted Rabbi Bailor to make sure it was all right to talk to you. He told me you were a friend of the family and were trying to help Hadassah. I could tell that he couldn’t talk, that someone was in the office.”

“Could be.”

“The thing is, I feel guilty, Molly. I met with Hadassah several times. She was under tremendous stress. I don’t think she wanted to go to an Ivy League college, or law school. She was doing that for her father. And she talked about Batya Weinberg a great deal. The girl Justin mentioned, the one who had a heart attack? Hadassah hinted one time that Batya might have killed herself. So I was worried, because Hadassah and Batya were close, and I had recently read about cluster suicides.”

“I read about that, too.” A teen commits suicide. Soon after, one or more close friends do the same. A frightening thought . . .

“Anyway, I didn’t know if I should tell Hadassah’s parents. I didn’t want to alarm them unnecessarily. And I knew that Hadassah was seeing Dr. McIntyre, so I assumed she talked to him about Batya. And I told him what Hadassah was doing, just in case she
didn’t
tell him, and her parents didn’t know.”

“Doing?”

“Cutting herself. A lot of teens do it. I saw her arm. She made up some story about being scratched by a neighbor’s cat, but I didn’t buy it.”