Invisible City (17 page)

“Drop the hammer, ma’am,” says the one of the uniformed cops, shifting his balance, his gun still trained on her. “Nobody has to get hurt here.”

“Drop it, Mom!” screams Tony, his voice cracking.

She drops it.

The two uniforms rush to her and place her in handcuffs. She sits on the sofa.

“Was anybody here?” Tony asks the cop in plainclothes, who seems to be the ranking officer. “Who called?”

The cop jerks his head toward the street. “Neighbors. She was banging and they came over. She went at them.”

“Are they pressing charges?”

“I don’t think so.” The cop looks exhausted. He is wearing a blazer and pants that don’t match. His tie is brown; he probably keeps it in his car. “But they could. She’s gonna need stitches.”

“I don’t even know what to say, man,” says Tony. “I’m sorry.”

Tony’s mom, who fifteen seconds ago resembled a character in a horror movie, is now sitting on the couch, looking totally bored. She sees me; I am a stranger in her home, but she does not ask me a question. She does not even really acknowledge me. I decide to step outside. Neighbors, some at their windows, some in coats on the sidewalk, are all gawking. I know that if the same thing were happening on my block, I’d be the first one at the window with my binoculars, disdaining and enjoying the dysfunction simultaneously. I catch the eye of one of a trio of women two doors down. One is on her phone, probably narrating the scene for some relative. She sees me and I make an aggressive face, like, mind your business, bitch. She reacts only slightly, then turns and faces the other way. Nothing like straddling the moral fence, Rebekah, I think.

The uniformed officers come outside first. One talks into the radio on his shoulder; the other unlocks the cruiser and gets in the driver’s seat. They start up the car after a minute and drive off. The medics shut the ambulance doors and idle in their cab. I go back to the front door and see that Tony and his mom have both disappeared from the living room. Brown tie is sitting on the sofa, while his partner talks on the phone.

“Come on in,” says brown tie. “Tony’ll be out in a minute.”

“I’m Rebekah,” I say, extending my hand.

“Darin,” he says. “All your dates end like this?”

“You’d be surprised,” I say, referring to nothing, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Me and Tony went to school together. Mrs. Caputo wasn’t always like this. Tony’s great with her, but eventually something’s gonna happen we can’t fudge on the write-up.”

“You’re a detective?”

“Just since Halloween,” he says. “Third grade.”

“Do you like it?”

He shrugs. Perhaps “like” was the wrong word. His partner snaps closed his phone with finality.

“We’re gonna write it up as an EDP,” the man says. He’s older than Darin, could be forty. Could be fifty. “I’ll double-check with the neighbors that they aren’t pressing charges again. But next time, she’s gonna have to go in. He’s on top of the meds?”

Darin nods. “I’ll make sure.”

The partner leaves, and Tony reappears, looking exhausted. There are sweat stains on his crisp white oxford. Darin gets up and Tony shakes his hand. “Thanks, man,” he says.

“Don’t,” says Darin. He’s a good-looking guy, sort of. Broad shoulders, trim. Too trim, maybe. He’s got ginger-colored hair, cut short and thinning.

Tony looks at me. He’s embarrassed.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I think the question is, are
you
okay.”

“I’m fine,” I say.

Darin sighs. “You got any beer, man? I could use a beer.”

*   *   *

Two hours later, Tony and Darin and I are half-drunk on cans of light beer. My stomach is so bloated, I can barely bring myself to rise and pee. Tony lives in the basement of his mom’s house. It’s nice, actually. There’s no mildew smell or draft like you usually get in a basement. It’s warm and wood-paneled, with a flat-screen TV and carpet. There’s even a fireplace. Tony didn’t have any cut wood, but there was a peat log upstairs. He lights both sides and after a while the two flames meet in the middle. It burns silently, odorlessly. The bathroom is tiny; not more than a closet, really. When I sit on the toilet, my knees are inches from the shower door. It is remarkably clean for a bachelor pad.

“So,” says Darin when I sit back down next to Tony on the sofa, “you’ve got a source in the department who’s taking you to see dead bodies?”

I look at Tony—like,
what the fuck
?

“I told him about Saul,” he says.

“What precinct is he in?” asks Darin.

“I’m not going to tell you that,” I say. The pleasant light-headedness I’d had just before going to the bathroom is gone. How could Tony have thought it was okay to talk to his friend—a
cop
—about what I’d told him?

“I didn’t know there were Orthodox cops,” says Tony. He can tell I’m pissed, and now he’s trying to be casual.

“Sure,” says Darin. “There are a few. How do you know him?”

“He knew my mom,” I say. My tongue is heavy in my mouth.

“I know some cops work with reporters,” says Darin, “but sneaking you into a funeral home to look at a homicide victim is…” He’s looking for a word.

“Unorthodox,” offers Tony.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

I’m about to say that he didn’t
sneak
me in, although, I suppose, he did. I can’t believe Tony has put me in this position.

Darin shrugs. “Why would he trust you, though? I mean, no offense. I’m sure you’re a very nice person. But you’re a reporter. Not trusting reporters is part of the job.”

“The question is,” says Tony, “is she safe?”

“That’s not the question,” I say. I love it. He betrayed my trust because he’s worried about my well-being.

“It is, kind of, right?” He looks to Darin to back him up.

“I dunno, yeah. I mean, he’s not gonna
hurt
her,” says Darin. “But I’d guess you’re getting used. He needs you for some reason.”

I roll my eyes. He’s right, which infuriates me further.

Darin leans forward. “I don’t know this case well, but I know a little. The lady’s Jewish. Hasidic. They got weight. Could they discourage a full autopsy? Yes. Absolutely. Especially if one of their guys has a medical examiner’s license. But that doesn’t mean the department isn’t working the case.”

“They haven’t brought the husband in,” I blurt out.

“You sure about that?”

I’m not sure; it’s just what Saul told me. And I believe him. Still, I should ask the desk about that. I bet Larry Dunn at the Shack could confirm. I stand up and start putting on my coat.

“I’ll call you a car,” says Tony. I barely look at him.

“I didn’t mean to piss you off,” says Darin, finishing his beer. “I’m just saying it’s possible you’re not seeing everything he’s seeing. Maybe he’s got an ax to grind. Maybe he’s hoping a story about a bungled investigation or whatever stirs up some shit. It will.”

“Why would he want to stir up shit?” I say, sounding more antagonistic than I meant to—probably because I know, even as I’m asking it, that it’s a stupid question. There are a million possible reasons. “Nevermind.”

Tony follows me to the door and has the good sense not to try to kiss or hug me good-bye.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I was thinking maybe he could help you out. But I knew as soon as I said it that I should have kept my mouth shut.”

I’m not super-interested in his apology, but I don’t want to get into it. I just want to go home.

MONDAY

CHAPTER NINE

My alarm rings at eight. I roll over and call the city desk. The woman on the phone tells me Mike isn’t ready for me yet. I ask for Cathy.

“Hold.”

“Rebekah!” says Cathy when she gets on the line. “I never called you back. Sorry. The desk was short so I had to chase down porn dad’s ex-wife in New Jersey. What was it you said on your message? You had some new info on crane lady? Was it about the gardener?”

“No, I talked to a woman who knew her who said she had talked to a rabbi about getting a divorce. And another friend said Rivka Mendelssohn was, like, questioning? You know, sort of rebelling against the rules.” I’ve been rehearsing. “Which is sort of a big deal.”

“I know,” says Cathy. She’s typing. “Go on, I’m listening.”

“And I have a source, in the NYPD, at the funeral home, that says that what was done to her was pretty brutal, and it would have taken a lot of organization and access to a car
and
access to the yard, which is private property.…”

“Which is it, NYPD or the funeral home?”

“Um…” Shit. “Well, both. The cop has a source in the funeral home.”

“So, your source says the killer was organized and had a car. Is he on the record with that?”

“Yes, but he wants to stay anonymous.”

“Who’s this source?”

I’m not technically supposed to have to tell her this. “He’d rather me not say. For now. He’s a detective, though.”

“Have you talked to Larry about this?”

“No,” I say. I’ve never met the
Trib
’s longtime police bureau chief. I’m actually not sure I’ve even spoken to him. “I wanted to see what you thought first. If there might be a story there.”

“If you’ve got a source, work it. But talk to Larry first. I’m here all day, so call me. Wait, are you on today?”

“Yeah, but I haven’t heard from Mike.”

“They may want you on porn dad. Apparently he’s getting out of Rikers.”

Shit. “Well, I could follow up on the Mendelssohn story if nobody else is on it. Make a few calls. See if it leads anywhere.”

“Talk to Larry.”

I hang up and call the desk again for Larry’s number.

He picks up after the first ring.

“Larry,” I say. “It’s Rebekah from the
Trib
. I was going to make some calls on the Rivka Mendelsson murder.…

“I’ve been meaning to call you,” says Larry. “Did you get that info on her being pregnant and the head trauma?”

“Yeah…”

“Who’d that come from? They’re freaking out about it down here.”

“Really?” My heart rate speeds up. Already: consequences. “Um, a detective, but he needed to remain anonymous.”

“Well, you pissed some people off with that, and I’m the one they’re squawking at. Next time you use an anonymous police source, run it by me. Lars should know that, but he’s an asshole.”

“Sorry, I just called in what I…”

“I know. It just makes me look bad.”

“Got it.”

“If you hear anything else from your detective, let me know. I’ll be working porn dad all day.”

We hang up. I’m sitting on the edge of my bed and I can hear Iris in the bathroom.

The phone rings again.

“Hold for Mike.”

I hold.

After about a minute, Mike gets on the line. “Rebekah, hang tight. I’ll call you back after the meeting.”

He hangs up. “The meeting” is when the editors in the office decide what stories to cover for tomorrow’s paper. There are typically half a dozen or so stringers per shift, and at this meeting editors decide which event needs a live body to get information and which can be written with a couple phone calls. There are several more meetings as the day goes on, to adjust as necessary. When the plane landed in the Hudson, I heard every single stringer was pulled to go to the West Side. And of course, 9/11. There hasn’t been a story like that since I got here.

Ten minutes later, Mike calls back.

“Okay,” says Mike, “I need you in Park Slope to relieve Ericka. She’s been staking out porn mom’s apartment. They released porn dad last night. She visited him at Rikers yesterday. We wanna know if she’s gonna take him back.”

“Why’d they let him out?”

“Some sort of evidence fuckup. Larry is on that angle. I just need you to sit on the building and make sure you don’t miss her coming or going. Ericka’s been there since midnight. Lisa was there yesterday and saw her go in, without the kids. She has to come out sometime.”

“Hey, so, I actually have some new information about crane lady. I just told Cathy…”

“Is it about the gardener?”

“No…”

“I need you on porn mom. We’re getting national interest on this.”

He gives me the address, then clicks off.

Iris is brushing her teeth, and I shoo her out so I can pee.

“So,” she says from behind the door, “where are you going today?”

“I’m supposed to go to porn mom.”

“Supposed to?”

“Well, I’ve got leads on Rivka Mendelssohn.”

“Can you do both?”

I flush; Iris comes back to spit.

“I can call the social worker I met at the funeral while I’m standing outside porn mom’s,” I say. “But I really want to go try to talk to Miriam again in Borough Park. And I should talk to Saul again. See what he’s got.”

Iris is silent, but I can tell she has something else to say. I look at her in the dirty medicine cabinet mirror and her eyebrows are pressed together.

“What?” I ask.

“You have to be honest with yourself about why you’re doing this. Don’t follow this story because you think it’ll lead to your mom somehow. Saul will probably tell you about her either way.”

I look down. She’s right; I’ve conflated the two.

“I know,” I say.

“Do you?”

I nod, but I can’t bring my eyes back up to hers.

“Hey,” says Iris, putting her arm around me. “I love you. This is it. This is
your
story. It’s about your people. It’s about what you care about. No one else is going to keep this woman’s death alive but you, right? That means something.”

I look at the two of us in the mirror. Her with dark eyes and sleek new bangs and a faded chicken pox mark on her nose not yet hidden with foundation. Me with my wild red hair and too pink cheeks. Iris is the closest thing I’ll ever have to a sister and she looks nothing like me.

“You can do this,” she says. “Just be careful. Be smart.”

*   *   *

Porn mom lives in a pretty prewar apartment building on the corner of Third Street and Eighth Avenue. From a block away I can see the scene has turned into a celebrity-style clusterfuck. Two photogs are camped out in folding chairs at the corner. A van from the local Fox station idles in front of the fire hydrant, and a half dozen other reporters, bundled like Arctic explorers, linger near the building’s front door.