Invisible City (18 page)

Ericka is leaning back in the front seat of her Honda Civic, reading today’s paper. I knock on the window and she motions for me to come around and sit inside. She’s got a police scanner on the dashboard and a pile of McDonald’s bags behind the passenger seat.

“What’s the scoop?” I ask.

“Same shit. She’s up there. Lisa saw her go in. I did a door-knock around ten last night but she didn’t answer. Nothing since. There’s no doorman, but there’s a biddy on the first floor who keeps screaming she’s gonna call the cops if we try to come in again. Of course, they’ll still make you go.”

“Of course,” I say.

“You don’t have a car?”

I shake my head.

“It’s fucking brutal out there. I burned a tank of gas not freezing last night.”

“Is photo here?”

“The German guy with the point-and-shoot.”

I sigh. I’ve been on several assignments with Henrik, who is Austrian, and he always manages to get in the way. In December, we were at a press junket in Midtown for a treadmill-workstation that was supposed to revolutionize the cubicle, and he wouldn’t get off the thing. There were four PR chicks in black all standing around giving him the evil eye as he trotted in place asking questions about balance and liability and calories. I tried to pretend he wasn’t with me by gorging on the free sushi and crudités until I could pull a black dress aside and ask her some questions, the answers to which, I knew, would never make the paper. Half the “stories” I get sent on don’t make the paper. Stringers are cheap and the editors are frightened they’ll miss something. It was cold that day, too, I remember, and Henrik was in shorts—with socks held up by tiny garters. And instead of a proper SLR like every other professional photographer I’ve ever seen, Henrik carries a Canon point-and-shoot on a string around his wrist.

“How long’s he been here?”

“Since about eight. He’s in the red Mazda.” She points up the block to Henrik’s car. He has a bumper sticker that says S
AVE THE
H
UMANS.

“Okay,” I say, readying myself to return to the cold. “Anything else? What did porn mom say when she went in?”

“Nothing. Lisa said she just kept her head down.”

“Have you seen the kids?”

“Nope. Probably with Grandma or something.”

“What apartment is it?”

“3E. There’s a window—two, actually—one’s frosted, like it’s a bathroom. But she’s got the curtains closed.”

“Did you talk to any neighbors?”

“I got one coming in last night with his dog. He said the usual, she seemed nice, kids are nice. Blah blah. He gave me a good quote about the guy, though. Something about how porn dad was always in the lobby without a shirt on.”

“Nice.”

“Did you ever see that show she was on?”

“I think it was before my time.”

“Me, too—but I watched one of the
Melrose
episodes on YouTube. She played a hostess at a club. Maybe they’ll replay the porn on Cinemax now that she’s famous again.”

“So she’s blond?” I need to make sure I recognize her if she leaves.

“Tom got a picture of her yesterday. Have photo e-mail it to you. She was all bundled up, but she looks blond. She’s still thin, too. She was wearing a red coat.”

“If she’s smart, she’ll change it to black.”

“She can’t be that smart if she’s living with porn dad.”

“True.”

“TMZ’s here somewhere. And
The Insider.
”

“Fantastic.” I know most of the other reporters at the
Ledger,
and a couple from the
Times.
We’re used to competing for quotes on stories. But the celebrity press frightens me. At the
Trib
we’re still rewarded for good leads and the occasional social service story (often involving how the MTA is scheming to fuck riders, or how the teachers unions are scheming to fuck students); all the celebrity press does is stalk. And they’re good at it.

I get out of Ericka’s car and watch her pull away. I knock on Henrik’s window and he leans over to unlock the door. 1010 WINS is playing two notches louder than my ears are prepared for.

“Good morning!” he says.

“Seen anything yet?”

He shakes his head. “No, no. She’s not coming out.”

“I wouldn’t if I were her.” My phone rings. It’s the desk.

“Hold for Mike,” says the receptionist.

I hold. Mike picks up. “What’s going on out there?”

“Nothing. She hasn’t been outside since Lisa saw her last night.”

“What about neighbors?”

“Ericka said she got one. I just got here. I’ll look for some more.”

“Talk to merchants. Deli, nail salon, whatever. See if you can get someone who saw him with the kids. Or her with him. She’s been at that address six years, so people know her. Maybe somebody’s got her headshot on the wall, like at the cleaners.” Right. Jerry Seinfeld, Bernadette Peters, Sarah Jessica Parker—these people get asked for personalized photos, not the forty-something former soft-porn sitcom sweetheart. “This is tomorrow’s wood, so get as much as you can.”

“I will.” The wood, in tabloid newspaper language, means the lead story, the story that’s going to get everybody excited. That’s going to, presumably, give them wood. When one of the editors first said it to me, I thought, he can’t mean what I think he means. But I’ve never had the balls to ask. “You know TMZ’s here, right?”

“Yeah. They’ve got an old shot of mom and dad at the beach. He’s in Speedos. Photo’s having a shit-fit. Jaime wants a family portrait. Is photo with you?”

“Yeah.”

“Who is it?”

“Henrik.”

“Fuck. Hold on. Jaime!” I can picture Mike, standing up, shouting over his cubicle to the photo desk. I hope Henrik can’t hear. “You’ve got Henrik on porn mom? Yes!… Rebekah, they’re gonna pull him. Photo will call you.”

“Okay.”

“Quotes,” he says. “Have you done a door-knock?”

“No, I just got here. Ericka says there’s a lady downstairs who…”

Mike cuts me off. “Is there a doorman?”

“No.”

“Good. Do another door-knock. Ask her if she suspected. Ask her if she’s seen the pictures. See if we can hang out until he gets home. Get the reunion.”

“Okay.”

Mike hangs up. Henrik’s phone rings. He listens, nods, hangs up.

“They are taking me off.”

“Oh yeah?”

“To Queens. To courthouse.”

“Okay, well, drive safe.”

“Say hi to porn mom,” he says, snickering.

I climb back out into the cold. My phone rings again. It’s a 917 number I don’t recognize. Probably the photographer. When you’re a stringer, strangers are always calling and you have to pick up.

“Hi, it’s Rebekah,” I say.

“It’s Bill from the
Trib.
” I know Bill. He’s thirtyish and claims to have been a war photographer. Apparently he shot “conflicts” in Africa. He’s got long wavy black hair that he usually wears in a ponytail. Once, while we were on a story, he said he knew a cute café for lunch nearby. But when we got to the restaurant, one of those tiny French bistros with thin iron chairs and the menu written in gold cursive on a mirror, a tall woman with short hair and chandelier earrings was waiting for him. We ate at separate tables.

“Hi, Bill.”

If he remembers me, he doesn’t say so. “I’m in Manhattan. I’ll be there in about an hour. Don’t do anything without me. Is the
Ledger
there?”

“Yup. And TMZ.”

“Fuck. I’m on my way.”

I stick my phone in my pocket and walk across the street, into the group of reporters in front of the building. I recognize the
Ledger
reporter, a girl about my age whose name I always forget. We smile and walk toward each other.

“Did you just get here?” she asks. Like me, she’s so bundled, she has to move her entire upper body if she wants to turn her head. Half her face is covered with a scarf, so I can’t see her lips move.

I nod.

“I was on this yesterday, too. It’s fucking horrible out here. I think I’m getting a cold.”

“I was in Chinatown Friday. Then Gowanus, by the canal.”

She shivers. “There was a body, right?”

“Yeah, a woman. You guys had Pete Calloway on it.”

“Figures. He probably ferreted it out before the desk even.”

“Did you run anything?”

“I think it went in the blotter. You guys got the gardener angle before us.”

“Ah.”

“Well, porn mom’s a fucking hoot. Everybody got a shot of her going in yesterday, but nobody’s seen her since.”

“Did you do a door-knock?”

“No, but if you do, I’ll come with.”

“I have to wait for photo,” I say.

“Mine’s here,” she says, motioning toward one of the two men on fold-out camping chairs.

“Have you talked to anybody, like, in the neighborhood?”

“I stopped a couple people leaving for work, but everybody’s just pissed that we’re here. One lady actually pushed the TMZ kid. He loved it.”

“I’m gonna go get some tea. I’ll find you before I go in. Do you want anything?”

“I’m good. Thanks.” She pulls two tiny beanbag-sized handwarmers from her coat pockets. “Got these.” Smart girl.

I head up Eighth Avenue into the wind. I get tea at a bodega and look through the
Ledger.
Porn mom and dad are on the front page. The
Ledger
ran with a courtroom sketch of dad at his arraignment and a twenty-year-old glamour shot of mom, plus a fuzzy still from her
Melrose
appearance. I scoot into the corner by the beer and dial Sara Wyman.

“This is Sara,” she answers.

“Sara, hi, my name is Rebekah Roberts. I’m a reporter for the
Tribune.
”

“Hello, Rebekah,” she says. “I’m pleased to hear from you.”

I’m not used to hearing that.

“Oh? Great. Well, like I said, I’m interested in learning a little about Rivka Mendelssohn. We’d like…”

“Are you in Brooklyn?” she asks, interupting me.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m in Park Slope right now.”

“Wonderful. I’m downtown. Are you free?”

“I’m actually on another story assignment,” I say, hoping she’s flexible. “How about twelve thirty?”

She tells me to meet her at a Starbucks on Atlantic near the R train stop. I put my phone in my pocket and almost smile.

I linger by the door of the bodega, scrolling through news on my phone. I should be interviewing the guy behind the counter. I should at least ask if he recognizes either porn mom or dad. But I just don’t care. Instead I think about Sara Wyman, and what I should ask her. The information I gave Lars yesterday, that Sara had said Rivka Mendessohn was considering a divorce, didn’t make the gardener story, but if I can get more details, it might be enough for a short feature, especially if Larry can add confirmation that the police haven’t yet questioned her husband. I need to ask how many people knew she was unhappy in her marriage, and if Sara thinks that could have had something to do with her death.

Eventually, Bill calls.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“I’m a couple blocks up.”

“The
Ledger
’s going to do a door-knock,” he says. “We can’t miss it.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Back at the building, the
Ledger
chick is standing with Bill and the seated photogs. Bill is a douche. She wouldn’t have done the door-knock without me.

“Mara said there’s a biddy downstairs…” says Bill.

“Maya,” says the
Ledger
reporter. Right, Maya.

“Okay,” says Bill, not looking at her. “The desk wants a studio of the big happy family.” A studio is where we take a picture of a picture. We use studios a lot for dead people—school portraits, church bulletin, weddings. “And nobody has her full-face yet, right?” The
Ledger
photographer shakes his head. He’s short and wide. I think his name is Mac, or Bo. Something with one syllable.

“If she opens the door, we might not have much time,” I say, turning to Maya. “I’m thinking the first question is whether she’s gonna take him back.”

“Definitely. Then ask if she’s seen the photos.”

I nod. “Does anybody know where the kids are? I haven’t heard anything about Child Protective Services being involved, but it seems like that’s a possibility.”

“Our overnight said they heard there’s a grandparent.”

“Okay,” I say. “So if she’s taking him back, if she’s seen the photos, where the kids are.”

Maya nods and jumps up the front step to peek into the lobby. “No sign of biddy. Let’s do this.”

The four of us enter through the heavy metal and glass front doors into the white-painted lobby. The floor is a mosaic of little octagonal black and white tiles. A giant nonworking fireplace and mantel stands stark and empty, a reminder of a time when some sort of butler stood stoking the flames, ready to greet residents with warmth and cheer and a whole bunch of pampering shit that doesn’t exist anymore, at least in Brooklyn. We won’t all fit in the elevator, so we start to climb the stairs, and as we do, the front door opens and TMZ,
The Insider,
and Fox come shuffling in, video cameras perched on their shoulders, microphones in their fists.

“Fabulous,” I say to Maya.

She rolls her eyes. “Let’s just get up there first.”

We pick up the pace and make it to the landing with Mac huffing behind us. It’s a narrow hallway, maybe four feet wide and long, six apartments per floor. Maya and I stand in front of the door. 3E. Bill is practically on top of me, the long lens of his Canon scratching my neck. I knock. Nothing. The TV people have piled into the elevator and I can hear them laughing as they rise slowly toward us. I knock again. Nothing. “Ms. Dryden? Ms. Dryden my name is Rebekah and I’m from the
New York Tribune.
I know you don’t want us here and I don’t blame you, but if you could just give us a minute of your time, a couple of questions, we’ll leave you alone.”

“Look,” Maya says quietly, pointing to the glass peephole. “I think I just saw her move.”

“Ms. Dryden,” I say, my voice a little louder. “We’d really like to hear your side of the story. People are saying some pretty awful things and we’d really like to give you a chance to…” TMZ and the rest come galloping out of the elevator, pushing up behind us.