Now You See Me...

by Rochelle Krich

  “You jeopardized my credibility with him, Rabbi Bailor. You’ve probably ruined our friendship. That may not matter to you, but it matters a great deal to me.”

  Rabbi Bailor looked at his watch.

  “When I came here Sunday, you pretended to be shocked when I told you Shankman was dead, and that he was the man Dassie met in the chat room. But you knew it was Shankman.”

  “I was shocked that Shankman was dead. Again, you don’t have to believe me, Molly, but that’s the truth.”

  “But you knew on Friday that Dassie was with Shankman, didn’t you?” I demanded.

  He looked me in the eyes. “Yes.”

  “And Sunday you pretended you didn’t know.”

  He sat at his desk. “I’m sorry I misled you, Molly. It’s a difficult situation. I didn’t want to involve you more than you were already involved.”

  “That’s a long definition for lying,” I said.

  He flinched. I felt no satisfaction, only sadness. I had harbored resentment toward the rabbi, but had never doubted his honesty.

  “You’ve said your piece, Molly. I apologize. I can’t do more.”

  “You can phone Detective Connors and tell him how you tracked down Shankman’s identity.”

  “I didn’t track him down.”

  I thought about what Rabbi Bailor had answered, and what he hadn’t. I considered who else would have traced my steps and talked to Irene Jakaitis.

  “Your brother-in-law called Yamashiro, didn’t he?” I said. “He spoke to the waitress and got the license plate number.”

  The rabbi made no denial. That and a twitch in his cheek confirmed my guess. I should have realized it was Jastrow. He was determined to help his sister. He had come to three book signings to vet me. He had driven two hours to meet with me in San Diego and pretended to be Rabbi Bailor to accomplish what he wanted. The other day I had teased him about being a detective.

  “Reuben told you what he’d learned,” I said. “So you went to Shankman’s apartment.”

  “I didn’t know his address, Molly.”

  “You said Dassie walked four miles from his apartment. So you knew where he lived.” Another lie, I thought.

  “I knew he had moved to West L.A. His street address was in my Rolodex at school. I didn’t know it by heart. I don’t know the addresses of any of the Torat Tzion staff by heart,” he said with a surge of impatience. “Why would I?”

  “So you drove to the school Friday and—”

  “Ten minutes before Shabbos? That’s when I learned it was Shankman. And then I drove to his apartment? On Shabbos?”

  “If you thought it was a life-and-death emergency,” I said, using the same argument Jessie had used on Sunday.

  “From what Shankman told Nechama, nothing was going to happen until Monday. How could I risk being mechallel Shabbos if Dassie was safe?” Rabbi Bailor picked up a staple remover and clicked it several times. “I considered getting his address and walking there,” he admitted. “I decided to wait until Saturday night, when Shabbos was over.”

  I stared at him, incredulous. “So you went to shul, came home, made Kiddush, ate a meal with your family, and sang zemirot. You did all that knowing where Dassie was? That she was with a man who had taunted you and told you he raped her?”

  “But he didn’t rape her.” The rabbi put down the staple remover. “He was trying to brainwash her, yes. But twenty-four hours wouldn’t make a difference. I didn’t think she was in physical danger, Molly. His deadline was Monday.”

  I reminded myself that I’d never communicated my fears about the double suicide to Rabbi Bailor. Maybe that had been a mistake.

  “It was a test from Hashem,” the rabbi said. “Not an easy one. Maybe I learned that it was Shankman right before Shabbos so I wouldn’t be able to act on that knowledge. If I had gone there, if I had witnessed Shankman hurting her, who knows what I would have done?”

  “Did Dassie tell you he assaulted her?” I could tell that he regretted his words.

  “She didn’t tell me anything. She said he lied. She was emotionally spent.”

  “Shankman is dead, Rabbi Bailor. Somebody killed him. Why won’t Dassie tell the police what happened? Because she’s in shock?” I said, with sarcasm.

  He scowled. “Is that so hard to believe? She was with this man for almost a week. He had her under his control. Even if he didn’t assault her, Dr. McIntyre said Dassie could be suffering from posttraumatic stress.”

  “What time did she come home?”

  The rabbi sighed. “Is that important?”

  “It is, to me. You owe me answers, Rabbi Bailor. What time?” I asked again.

  “Around eight o’clock? Maybe a little later.”

  “You’re not sure?” I reviewed the little the rabbi had told me about Dassie’s return. “You said Dassie collapsed in your wife’s arms. You weren’t home, were you?”

  “I was at a sholom zochor, with Gavriel,” he said, his voice steady.

  “I see.”

  His face was flushed. “That’s the truth, Molly.”

  I let that hang in the air. “So what time did you return from the sholom zochor?”

  “Around ten. As soon as I arrived home, my Hatzolah radio went off. The call was for an address on Beverwil. I drove there, but two other members had already responded. So I drove home.”

  Hatzolah, which means “rescue,” is a community emergency response organization. My dad is a trained member. So is Zack. When you hear the call, you respond with your member number and wait until you’re authorized to drive to the location.

  “So you weren’t authorized to respond?” I asked.

  “I just went. I was thinking about Dassie, where she was.”

  Having caught the rabbi in one lie, I didn’t know whether I could believe anything he told me. He might have responded without authorization to the call. Or he might have used the call as an excuse to drive on the Sabbath without arousing his neighbor’s curiosity—but not to Beverwil.

  “And Gavriel?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure when Gavriel came home. He was planning to visit friends after the sholom zochor.”

  “Did you tell Gavriel about Shankman?”

  “I’m tired of this, Molly. This isn’t a courtroom.”

  “How did Dassie get away from Shankman?”

  He glared at me. “I don’t know.” Each word was a separate sentence.

  “When I was at his apartment Saturday night, none of her belongings were there. She must have had clothes, toiletries, a purse. And her cell phone,” I said. “Shankman used it to phone your wife. Did Dassie bring those things home with her?”

  “No. I have no idea who took them.”

  “Your brother-in-law?”

  “I didn’t ask him.” The rabbi placed his palms on the desk and leaned toward me. “You tried to find Dassie, Molly. For that, I’ll always be grateful. But I don’t owe you any more answers. I have to protect myself and my family.”

  “If you didn’t do anything wrong—”

  He snorted. “You think it’s so simple? Don’t be naïve.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “I’m finished talking about this. If you have more questions, go to your good friend Detective Connors.”

  Heat rushed to my face. “Are you saying it’s my fault the police know Dassie was with Shankman?”

  “You told Connors the father of the girl you were looking for was a rabbi. You told him the man she was with was fired from the school where the rabbi was a principal.”

  “I was trying to find her. I didn’t know Shankman would be killed.”

  “You’re right.” The rabbi sighed. “It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. This was meant to be.”

  “Did you ever wonder why Greg Shankman chose Dassie, Rabbi Bailor?” I had his attention now. I should have stopped. “He was angry with you, because you let him down. He was angry, because you did nothing when Amy Brookman accused Greg of sexually harassing her, even though she was lying
to protect her pal Adam Prosser, who everybody in the school knows is a pathological cheater. He was angry because when he was about to lose his job, you said, ‘Sorry, Greg, you’re a nice guy, but gee, this is out of my hands.’ Why does that sound so familiar?”

  Rabbi Bailor’s face was mottled with color.

  I picked up my purse and stood. My legs were shaking, and I felt physically ill.

  “You know what, Rabbi Bailor? I tried to help. I put my heart into finding your daughter. I may have said more than I should have, but I did it because I was anxious to find her. And at least I tried. When have you tried?”

  Chapter 39

  I don’t remember what Nechama said when I saw her. She was standing outside the study when I opened the door. I mumbled good-bye and managed to wait until I was in my car before bursting into tears. Ten minutes later I was still sitting. The key was in the ignition. My hands were on the wheel. I was too distraught to drive.

  My head was pounding. I swallowed two Advil tablets and downed them with a long swig from a water bottle I always take with me. But analgesics wouldn’t erase the memory of my spiteful, childish outburst.

  “You hurt me, I’ll hurt you back, harder.”

  And nothing I could say would erase the pain I’d seen in Rabbi Bailor’s eyes. I hoped Nechama hadn’t overheard. It was one thing to wound the rabbi, another to wound their marriage, which, from what I had seen, was already strained by their daughter’s disappearance.

  The truth about an awful truth is that it isn’t always necessary to share it. And as Bubbie G says, a word is like an arrow—both are in a hurry to strike. Though fourteen years had passed, that day, I realized, I had been in a hurry to strike.

  The West L.A. detectives’ room was almost empty when I arrived, close to four-thirty. Jessie was at her table. She looked up when I approached.

  “I’m about to head home,” she said. “If you’re here for information, Molly, I don’t have any.”

  “Do you have a few minutes?”

  “That’s about all I do have. How can I help you?”

  I pulled up a chair and sat. “I had an interesting conversation with Melissa Frank today. She told me Greg was planning to go public with proof about the cheating that was taking place at Torat Tzion.”

  “Adam Prosser.” Jessie nodded. “Ms. Frank phoned this afternoon and gave me his name.”

  “Prosser is the reason Greg was fired,” I said.

  Jessie raised a brow. “Ms. Frank didn’t tell me that.”

  “Melissa didn’t know.” I summarized what I’d learned from Justin. “Melissa told me the secular studies principal, Dr. Mendes, was talking to Shankman about his returning to Torat Tzion. Prosser’s father is on the school board. Suppose the father goes to Shankman’s apartment to cut a deal. Prosser says he’ll agree to let Dr. Mendes reinstate Shankman if Shankman drops the cheating charge. Shankman refuses. Things take a violent turn. Shankman is killed.”

  Jessie had been listening with interest. She tapped her fingers together. “And where is Hadassah Bailor during all this, Molly?”

  “Not in the apartment. Shankman either frightened her or assaulted her. She escaped before Prosser arrived.”

  “We have the clothes Hadassah was wearing when she came home Friday night, Molly. A white skirt and sweater. Mrs. Bailor laundered the clothes, but the lab found bloodstains in the seams.”

  I swallowed hard. “How do they know it’s blood?”

  “They used antihuman hemoglobin. It’s an antiserum that reacts specifically and only with primate blood. So unless Hadassah came in contact with a bleeding monkey, the blood is human.” Jessie wasn’t smiling. “My guess is the lab tests will show it’s Shankman’s blood. So while your theory is interesting, it doesn’t account for the blood on Hadassah’s clothes.”

  “But you won’t know for sure that it’s Shankman’s blood until you have the lab results, right? When will that be?”

  “Ordinarily, the lab would spray Luminol on the suspect area and examine it in a dark room, or in a container. Any blood would show up with a bluish color. But Mrs. Bailor used bleach. On silk and satin—interesting, don’t you think?” Jessie paused. “Anyway, some bleaches react with Luminol and give a false positive. So the lab is doing DNA analysis. That takes at least two days, probably longer.”

  “It might not be Shankman’s blood,” I said. “I talked to someone today who suspects that Hadassah was cutting herself. Self-mutilation?”

  Jessie nodded. “Who told you that?”

  “Cheryl Wexner. She worked with Hadassah on her college applications. They became close.”

  I told Jessie what Cheryl had noticed. I also told her about the marks I had seen on Hadassah’s arm, about the stained tissues. About her father’s comment, that she always wore long sleeves.

  “Suppose you’re right,” Jessie said. “Hadassah leaves before Prosser arrives, and the blood on her clothes is hers. Who cleaned up Shankman’s blood? Prosser?”

  “Yes. And he moved Shankman to the car and staged the crash to cover up the murder.”

  “But what about Hadassah’s belongings? She was in that apartment from Monday through Friday, Molly. We found hair fiber and other trace evidence on the bed and on the sofa. We matched it to fibers on clothes we found in her closet. Why would Prosser remove Hadassah Bailor’s things? Leaving them for us to find would be smarter. It would point us in her direction.”

  Jessie was right. I considered, then said, “Maybe Rabbi Bailor removed them Saturday night.”

  “We searched his home and his office, and Hadassah’s locker at school. We didn’t find anything. Not her cell phone, or the purse the friend said Hadassah was using, or her house keys.”

  I wondered if Rabbi Bailor had stashed Hadassah’s belongings at his brother-in-law’s house. “Speaking of phones, can you find out if Hadassah called anyone Friday night?”

  “We subpoenaed her cell phone company’s records. We should have that information tomorrow.”

  “What about Shankman’s land line?”

  “His phone has an LCD display and a record of the most recent outgoing and incoming calls. No calls Friday. In fact, no calls since the previous Saturday. A lot of people use their cell phones as their main phone.”

  “And Shankman’s cell phone?”

  “He made several calls to Ms. Frank and to his home number. He also phoned Torat Tzion, the L.A. Times, and the Bureau of Jewish Education.” Jessie hesitated. “And the law offices of Mulligan, Raslin, and Prosser.”

  “Interesting.”

  “That doesn’t mean Prosser went to Shankman’s apartment, Molly.”

  “I know. Did you find any fingerprints, aside from Shankman’s?”

  “Hadassah’s. We lifted her prints from items in her house and matched them to prints we found in the apartment. We found Ms. Frank’s prints, and her daughter’s. Ms. Frank told us she visited Shankman several times.”

  I pictured Kaitlin on the swing, saw her curls flying. “That’s it?”

  “We have unidentified prints that match prints we found on the Altima. Shankman’s prints, by the way, were on the steering wheel, but not on the handle or driver’s door.”

  “Maybe the prints belong to one of the Prossers.”

  “Or to Rabbi Bailor, or his son. I know you’re trying to help prove that the Bailors aren’t involved with Shankman’s death, Molly. Unfortunately, Hadassah is involved. Her father may be, too. Or her brother.”

  “Did Rabbi Bailor tell you where he was Friday night?”

  “He said he was at a party for a newborn boy, and then he responded to an emergency call.”

  So the rabbi was being consistent either in his lie, or in his truth. “Detective Drake, we know Shankman was killed Friday night. Rabbi Bailor wouldn’t have driven Shankman’s car on the Sabbath, even to protect his daughter. The brother wouldn’t have done it, either.”

  Jessie shrugged.

  “Can you tell me what killed Shankman?” />
  She swiveled in her chair.

  “Detective Connors believes I betrayed his confidence,” I said. “I didn’t identify Shankman to Rabbi Bailor or anyone in his family.”

  She studied me a moment before answering. “I can’t give you all the details, Molly. I can tell you the victim’s shirt was soaked with blood, and there was some blood on both front headrests in the vehicle, but comparatively little blood on the seat or seat backs, or in the back of the vehicle. If he was alive when he sustained the injuries from the crash, and those injuries caused massive bleeding, there would have been blood spatters all around him. The fact that we found so little blood suggests he was dead when he was placed in the car. People don’t bleed postmortem.”

  I nodded. “What about the murder weapon? You asked me if I had touched any of the knives.”

  “The medical examiner hasn’t done the autopsy yet. Until he does he can’t determine the cause of death. But from his preliminary findings, which he based on the size and nature of the wounds, Shankman sustained several types of injuries.” Jessie neatened a stack of papers. “I really have to go. I have a date, and I don’t want to be late. You may know him. Ezra Nathanson? He teaches at Ohr Torah. Your husband subbed for him a few times.” She cocked her head. “Did I say something funny?”

  “On Sunday, when you said Zack was a rabbi, I thought you’d checked us out. You made me nervous.”

  “I intended to,” she said, seriously.

  “I do know Ezra. I didn’t know he was seeing anyone.”

  “We’re taking it slow. As I mentioned, I’m studying Judaism, but I’m not ready to commit to Orthodoxy.”

  “You said you found out recently that you’re Jewish?”

  Jessie nodded. “My mother was a hidden child during the Holocaust. She was the only one of her family who survived. She married my dad—he’s Episcopalian—and never told him or anyone else that she was Jewish. I found out by accident when I came across some photos of her family.”

  I tried to imagine what Jessie must have felt. Shock? Confusion? Hurt? “What about your mother? Has she found her way back to Judaism?”

  “Hardly.” Jessie smiled wryly. “And she’s not thrilled that I have. It’s a challenge. But life is definitely not boring.”