Now You See Me...

by Rochelle Krich

  Irene had obviously not seen the news about Shankman. “I’m sorry to say he was in a fatal car accident, Irene. It was on the news today.”

  “Oh, my God! What about your cousin?”

  “She wasn’t in the car.”

  “Thank God. That’s why I don’t like watching the news or listening to it. It’s always so depressing.” Irene sighed. “They were such a sweet couple, you know?”

  Chapter 33

  Hadassah wondered when the detectives would be back.

  They had searched the house yesterday evening, when they came a second time. Hadassah had heard them walking up the stairs. Her father had just returned from shul. She heard him say, “My daughter’s resting, she’s not up to talking,” speaking louder than he usually did, so she knew he was trying to warn her, like last time. When they entered the room, her arms were under the comforter, and the shard was where she had put it, between the mattress and box spring. She kept her eyes sealed while the detectives opened her dresser drawers and the closet door.

  The male detective said, “Rabbi Bailor, we have a witness who saw a young woman Friday night a few blocks from Mr. Shankman’s apartment building. The woman fits your daughter’s description. She was wearing a white blouse and skirt. She was running and she looked upset. Where are the clothes your daughter was wearing when she came home Friday night?”

  Her father said, “I don’t know. I’ll ask my wife.”

  Hadassah didn’t know what her mother had done with the clothes. She hadn’t asked Hadassah about the white silk sweater and satin skirt she’d never seen before, or about the stains splattered across both— stains she must have suspected were blood. She had bundled the skirt and sweater and taken them away after she’d helped Hadassah into pajamas and bandaged her palm. Or maybe before. Hadassah couldn’t remember, and some things weren’t clear. Her mother must have shown the clothes to Hadassah’s father. “Chaim, what should we do with these?”

  Her father hadn’t mentioned the clothes to Hadassah. Maybe he had thrown them away in a stranger’s trash bin. Hadassah hoped so. She never wanted to see them again.

  The detectives left the room. Hadassah wasn’t sure whether they were gone for good, so she didn’t move. When the woman returned twenty minutes later, her partner, Phil, wasn’t with her. Neither was Hadassah’s father. Jessie shut the door and pulled over a chair, the way she had the first time. Even when Hadassah’s eyes were open, she looked straight ahead, so she didn’t really know what Jessie looked like, just that she had long dark hair. But her voice was low and soothing, and she spoke as if she had all the time in the world. She had the kind of voice that made you feel safe, like Dr. McIntyre’s.

  “How are you, Hadassah?” she asked. “I’m sure you’re frightened. I would be, if I were you. You went through a terrible ordeal, and we’re all glad that you’re okay.

  “We know that you were at the apartment with Greg Shankman, Hadassah. We found his blood in the apartment. We found someone else’s blood, too. Was it yours, Hadassah? If he tried to hurt you and you fought him, you have nothing to worry about, but you need to tell us.

  “Maybe you were scared and phoned someone to help you. I can understand that. I would have been scared, too. Did you phone someone, Hadassah? Did Greg try to hurt the person you phoned? That would be self-defense, too, Hadassah. We just want to know what happened.

  “We have the clothes you were wearing Friday night, a white skirt and blouse. Your mother washed them, even though they say ‘dry clean only.’ I guess she wanted to get the blood out. Greg’s blood. The thing is, Hadassah, even if you wash clothes, it’s hard to get all the blood out, especially in the seams. I think there is blood in the seams. The lab guys will find it, even the tiniest amount. And lab tests will tell us if it’s Greg’s blood. But it would be so much easier if you told us now. Then we won’t have to bother you again.

  “I think Greg tried to hurt you, Hadassah,” Jessie said. “I think you fought him off, and I’m so glad you did. I think that’s how you got his blood on your white blouse and skirt. It is his blood, isn’t it?

  “And then you phoned someone you could trust. You needed help. I would have phoned for help, too. And that person said, ‘Get out, Hadassah. I’ll take care of everything.’ And he did take care of everything, because there’s nothing of you in that apartment, Hadassah. Not your clothes, or makeup, or cell phone. But we know you were there, Hadassah.”

  Hadassah decided her father was with the other detective, Phil. That’s why he wasn’t here with her.

  “We talked to your friend Sara,” Jessie Drake said. “Sara told us that when you left her house you were wearing a black skirt and sweater, and you had a black purse. And inside your purse were your wallet and your cell phone and makeup and house keys. But we didn’t find any of those things in Greg’s apartment, Hadassah. Not the clothes or purse or wallet or cell phone or keys. And we didn’t find any of those things here, in your house.

  “Do you know where your clothes are, Hadassah? Or your cell phone or wallet? Or your purse? Or your keys?

  “What do you remember, Hadassah?

  “Is that Greg’s blood on the clothes you wore Friday night, Hadassah? If you tell us, you’ll feel much better, I promise. I know you don’t want to get anyone in trouble, Hadassah, especially people you love. But you know the truth is going to come out, don’t you? If you called someone to help you, and if that person protected himself against Greg, well, we understand that. It’s self-defense.

  “Was it your father, Hadassah?

  “Was it your brother?

  “Don’t be afraid, Hadassah. Just tell me the truth.”

  Hadassah wasn’t sure how long Jessie Drake stayed, although she seemed to be talking and talking forever in that slow, quiet voice that made Hadassah want to open her eyes and tell her everything. She couldn’t tell Jessie, ever, but she longed to tell someone. If she did, maybe the sounds and smells and images would go away and she wouldn’t be afraid to sleep. The click of the key turning in the lock. The scent of her own fear as she cowered, shivering, in the total darkness of the closet. The impossibly rapid beating of her heart when she heard the doorknob being twisted open. The shock in his eyes when she jammed the glass shard into his throat, his howl, the blood that came spurting out when she yanked the shard out, prepared to strike again.

  He had pressed his hand against his throat and staggered backward. She had shoved him, hard. So hard that he lost his footing. Even before his head slammed onto the hardwood floor with a loud thunk, she ran to the door. Sliding the deadbolt, she pulled the door open. She found the stairwell and, her footsteps echoing like artillery fire, raced down the stairs to the ground floor.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror in the lobby. Blood was on her hand, her face, stark against the white of her clothes. The blood was warm, sticky, metallic. She wiped her face with her hands. Hugging her arms to camouflage the stains on her chest, she fled the building.

  Right or left? She didn’t know. And she couldn’t ask anyone. She couldn’t risk drawing attention to herself.

  She turned right and ran blocks before she realized she was going in the wrong direction. A man walking by stared at her. She waited until he passed. Then she turned and jogged up dark streets until she saw the bright lights she hoped were Olympic Boulevard. Her breath was ragged. She had miles to go. The shard was in her hand. She had become aware of the stinging pain coming from her palm. She stopped and saw the blood that oozed from the cuts. She continued moving, but slowed her pace.

  She remembered with sudden panic that she had called for help. She didn’t know if he’d received her message. If he had, he would be arriving any second to save her. She wanted to warn him, but the phone was on the closet floor. She had needed to keep one hand free, and in the other she had been gripping the shard. She’d been terrified that the phone’s ringing would betray her, so she had switched it to vibrate mode and flipped it shut after whispering into it the address
she’d found on an envelope in the box.

  It’s Dassie. Help me, please.

  She heard footsteps now, coming up the stairs. Maybe it was the police. But it was her mother, wanting to know if Hadassah needed anything before she went to sleep. Hadassah shook her head. “Sweet dreams, baby,” her mother said.

  Hadassah wondered at what point, if ever, Dinah had allowed herself to sleep without worrying that Schechem would plague her dreams. She had been thinking about Dinah since Friday night. She had many questions she would have liked to ask her father, though she didn’t know if he had answers.

  Had Dinah tried to escape after Schechem kidnapped and raped her and held her captive? Had she waited, certain that her father or brothers would save her? How had she felt, knowing that two of her brothers had killed to avenge her? And how had those brothers felt about the blood they had shed? And what about the rest of the family? After the fact, did they ever talk about what had happened?

  Hadassah’s father had told her that, according to the Midrash, Dinah had been taken in by one of the brothers who had rescued her. She had given birth to Schechem’s daughter, Osnath, who was adopted by a wealthy Egyptian, Potiphar, and eventually married her uncle, Joseph. He recognized her through the amulet her grandfather, Jacob, had given her.

  But that was in the Midrash, not in the Torah. The Torah never mentioned Dinah again. It was as though she had ceased to exist. Because Dinah’s story was concluded, her father explained.

  Sometimes Hadassah thought it would be easier if she ceased to exist. Other times she wished she had a protective amulet, like Osnath’s. She wedged her hand between the mattress and box spring and touched the shard. She wondered when her own story and that of her family would be concluded, and how.

  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, w
hen 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.”