Invisible City (7 page)

After about twenty minutes, the detectives come outside. George reaches into the backseat for his camera. “I’ll follow your lead,” he says.

We hurry over, with Fred trailing us. I call out a question: “Can we get an age, Detectives?”

The men keep walking.

Fred asks, “Is this about the woman in the scrap pile?”

“You have to get that from DCPI,” says the one I’d talked to before, barely breaking stride. “We have no information for you.”

“Assholes,” says Fred, after they’ve gotten into their car.

“The uniforms are still in there,” I say. “And the Jewish cops.”

“They’re called
Shomrim,
” says Fred, loving my ignorance. “They’re a neighborhood watch. And we won’t get anything from them. I’m gonna get some coffee and come back later.” He crosses the street to his Ford Taurus in a huff.

“What’s the plan?” asks George, once we’re back in his car.

“I’m not sure,” I say. George has been on the job probably fifteen years, but it’s usually up to the reporter to make decisions about who goes where on a stakeout. Even when the reporter is just twenty-two years old. “I should probably call in.”

Just then the front door opens and the uniformed officers and the Jewish watchmen exit the house. The Jews walk together down the street and out of view. The officers linger on the sidewalk. One lights a cigarette. In the side-view mirror I see the man on the bicycle walk toward the officers. The officers nod in acknowledgment and they begin to discuss something. One gestures toward the house. Bicycle jots whatever information they’re giving him down on a notepad. When the smoking cop finishes his cigarette, the two uniformed officers nod good-bye, get in their cruiser, and drive away.

Bicycle watches after them, then closes his notepad and starts walking around toward the back of the house.

“I’m gonna see if this one will talk to me,” I say to George, who obligingly reaches back for his camera.

“Let’s do it,” he says.

We get out of the car and I walk quickly toward the man in the black hat.

“Excuse me,” I say. “Sir?”

He turns around.

“Hi,” I say, “I’m from the
Trib;
I’m wondering if you can give us any information about Rivka Mendelssohn. Even just an age? Was she married? Did she have children?”

I speak quickly, including multiple questions because I assume, based on the behavior of the rest of the cops, that he’ll barely stop walking. I am wrong. This cop stops.

I extend my hand. “My name is Rebekah. I was at the scrap yard earlier today. This is George. I wonder if you could give us any information about the victim.” The cop doesn’t answer. He looks flustered, like I’ve caught him picking his nose or something. I continue. “We know her name is Rivka Mendelssohn, but we’re hoping to get a little more information for the story. This is where she lived, right?”

As I am talking, his face changes. He begins to smile.

“Rebekah?” he says.

“Yes.” My hand is still extended, but he hasn’t taken it. He is just staring at me. I look at George, who raises his eyebrows.

“Sir?” he says, but the man doesn’t seem to hear.

“Are you working on this case?” I ask, letting my hand fall, embarrassed. “We’re just wondering if we can get a little information about Mrs. Mendelssohn. Is it correct that she was married to the Smith Street Scrap Yard’s owner, Aron Mendelssohn?”

“I am Saul,” he says. “Saul Katz.”

“Okay,” I say, writing down his name.

“I knew your mother.”

I look up from my notebook. “Excuse me?”

He steps forward, reaching out to touch my arm. I flinch. Who is this man?

“You look just like her.”

I drop my pen but can’t bend over to pick it up. I feel like I’ve been turned to stone. I know I look like my mother. I’ve seen pictures. We have the same wavy copper hair, the same heart-shaped face, the same long nose, the same hazel eyes. There is also, I’ve come to realize, a sexiness about us both that, at least as adolescents, made us seem older than we were. Part of it is easy to point at: we’re both stacked. I wore a C-cup before I got to high school. I’ll never forget the way the junior high boys gawked and stumbled when I came to the end-of-eighth-grade party in a bikini. I’d had to buy the two-piece because my top and bottom were totally different sizes. When he is reminiscing, my father refers to my mother, on that first day in the Strand, as a “bombshell.”

Saul steps back. “I’m sorry,” he says, but he’s still staring.

“Could you just tell us…” I’m too flustered to form a clear question and my stomach feels like it’s on fire. Is my mother about to jump out of the bushes? Have I become a participant in some kind of reality TV show? Is this like,
Intervention
for abandoned children?

I look at George, who, mercifully, takes over.

“We’ve been told the woman who lives here was found dead this morning. We’re looking for some information about her—age, marital status, that sort of thing.”

Saul slowly pulls his eyes off me and addresses George.

“She was married,” says Saul. “I’m not sure of her exact age.”

“Do you know the family?” I manage to ask. My voice is tight, like something has its hands around my throat.

“I do,” says Saul. “Though not well.” He is older than my dad, maybe fifty-five. He is not wearing a wedding ring.

I can’t think of the next question.

“Are you enjoying New York?” Saul asks.

I nod. I can’t bring myself to look at him.

“Your father said you were a reporter.”

“My father? You talked to my father?”

“We’ve kept in touch a little. He sent me an e-mail when you moved here.” He’s still staring at me, and his face has this almost-laughing look. The beer in my stomach is threatening to shoot up my esophagus. I am not prepared in the slightest for this situation. I wonder what George thinks. The last thing I need is him reporting my meltdown to the desk. I raise my eyes and stare Saul down.

“Is there anything you can tell me about Rivka Mendelssohn?” If he’s going to make me feel like a frightened child, I am going to pump him for every ounce of information I can. Fuck you. I am not my mother.

“I’m sorry,” he says, wiping a hand across his face. “It’s just … I’m sorry.”

“Age? Kids? I spoke with Aron Mendelssohn. Were they married?” Each word is difficult to say, but I am not going to let this man—or my mother—turn me into a mute idiot who can’t do her job.

“Yes,” says Saul. “Rivka Mendelssohn was Aron Mendelssohn’s wife. He owns the scrap yard. This is their home. I don’t know her exact age.”

“I knocked on the door and met a woman,” I say. “Miriam?”

“You spoke with Miriam?” Saul seems surprised, which pleases me. See? I’m not just an orphan girl. I’m a big-city reporter, bitch.

“Just for a minute, but that was before we were sure the dead woman was Rivka Mendelssohn. I’d like to see if I can get a quote from her now.”

Saul is silent.

“Are you working on this case?” I ask.

“I work in property crime, not homicide. I was called in to assist with translation. Most Hasidim speak Yiddish at home. I help the department liaise with the community, when needed.” He pauses. “Would you like to speak with Miriam again?”

No cop has ever offered to facilitate an interview for me. Usually, they either scoff, like the detectives in the car outside, or shame me, shaking their head that I would have the gall to prey on these devastated people at this delicate time. Perhaps, I think, I have stumbled upon a source. Courtesy of my deadbeat mother.

“Yes,” I say.

“I will take you around the back.”

“Can George come, too?”

“No.”

I look at George. He doesn’t seem bothered. Saul walks toward the back gate and George bends down to pick up my pen.

“I’ll be right here,” he says. “Holler if you need anything.”

Saul lifts the latch on the gate and holds it open for me. The backyard is a narrow strip of snow-covered grass. A rusty metal swing set stands crooked in one corner; a row of garbage cans are lined up along a two-car garage. All the window shades are drawn. Saul knocks softly at the back door, which looks a lot like the front door; it has its own doorbell and small portico. Miriam appears at the door and Saul motions for me to go inside.

The three of us stand together in a small entryway. Miriam looks very nervous. She says something to Saul in Yiddish and he says something back; then he turns to me.

“It is
Shabbos,
she is worried what the neighbors will say about all the activity. I’ve told her you are Jewish. She says she can answer a few questions if it helps.”

I look at Miriam and try to catch her eye, but she keeps her head down.

“Thank you for taking the time,” I say. “I can’t imagine how hard this is. I just want to get a little information so that we can…” I want to say “humanize,” but somehow it seems inappropriate. “So we can just let our readers know a little about her life.” I pause for a cue to continue. Nothing. I continue. “Rivka lived here?”

Miriam nods.

“And, may I ask, how you are related?”

“Rivka is my brother’s wife. We are like sisters.”

I scribble
sister-in-law
in my notebook.

“How old was she?”

“Thirty.”

“Did she have children?”

Miriam nods.

“Sorry, can I ask how many?”

“Three girls and one boy.”

“Great…,” I say, scribbling. “And her husband, your brother, is Aron Mendelssohn? He owns the Smith Street Scrap Yard?”

Miriam nods again.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

Miriam looks at me for the first time during the interview. Her features seem even more pinched than they did an hour ago. I catch a faint whiff of cigarette smoke on her breath. “Tuesday.”

“Tuesday?” That’s odd, I think. It’s Friday now. “Had she gone somewhere?”

Miriam looks at Saul, as if for help. Saul doesn’t say a word. I’m surprised he’s let me go on so long.

“Were you concerned? Had anyone in the family heard from her?”

Miriam shakes her head.

“So you hadn’t heard from her? What did you think happened? Had she ever been gone like that before?” I have a bad habit of throwing all my questions out at once when I’m nervous.

Miriam bites down. I see her jaw flex. “She was a good mother.”

I write that down. “I’m sure,” I say, nodding. “Did you report her missing?”

Miriam does not respond, so I keep talking.

“How did she seem when you saw her last? Can you think of any reason this might have happened?”

Again, nothing from Miriam. I wonder if maybe her English is poor and I’m speaking too quickly. I try another subject.

“How are the children?”

“The children are fine.”

“Fine?”

Miriam nods. “They are very sad.”

I look at Miriam. She’s looking at my notebook. I write down
kids v sad.
“Can you tell me a little about Rivka? Was she born here? What did she like to do?”

“We were both born in Borough Park.”

“And you both live here, together?”

“My husband and I live on the third floor. It is a separate apartment.”

A door slams. We all turn and see that Aron Mendelssohn has come in through the front. As soon as he sees me, he stops. He looks truly shocked that I’m there, as if I’m some sort of winged beast that just dropped through the ceiling. Like, how the fuck did this creature get in my hallway and how can I kill it before it kills me?

“Miriam!” he roars. Miriam jumps toward me. She actually grabs my arm, as if I might protect her.

Saul moves quickly past us, and the two men begin shouting in Yiddish.

“Go!” hisses Miriam, pushing me toward the door. “Write something nice. She was beautiful. Say she was beautiful.”

I run out the back door, turning once to make sure Aron Mendelssohn hasn’t followed me outside. I can hear him yelling. I lift the latch on the back gate and jog past George to his car. I have no idea if Saul is behind me. Fred Moskowitz has returned from his coffee run and sees me coming out.

“We’re not getting a photo,” I say when George gets inside.

“Oh yeah?” says George. “Figures.”

“I’m gonna call in what I’ve got.” I pull out my notebook and my hands are shaking. I can barely read my writing, but I remember exactly what Miriam said. I call Cathy’s number directly. She picks up on the first ring. I tell her I talked to the sister-in-law.

“Perfect. Give me what you got.”

“Her name is Rivka. She’s thirty, married, has four children. Lives in a big house in Borough Park. Her husband is scary.”

“Her husband is scary? Is that a quote?”

“No. Sorry. That’s me. The rest is from the sister-in-law. I got in the house after the cops and talked to her, but when the husband came home he started screaming and I left.”

“What’s the sister-in-law’s name?”

“Miriam.”

“Last name?”

“Fuck.” I forgot to ask. “I forgot to ask. It’s probably not Mendelssohn. That would be her maiden name and she said she was married.”

“And she lives there?”

“Yes. There are two entrances. It’s a really big house. It’s split into two residences.”

“Okay, we can just say the sister-in-law. Anything else?”

“The last time she saw her was Tuesday.”

“Tuesday?”

“Yeah.”

Moskowitz is coming toward me and George. His coat is buttoned improperly, so the collar pokes up at his chin on one side. I can’t talk to him while I’m talking to my editor. I point to the phone and make a sign to wait. He nods. I think Moskowitz might have worked for the
Trib
before striking out on his own. Or maybe it was the
Ledger.

“That’s three days before she was found.”

“Right.”

“But they didn’t report her missing?”

“She didn’t say.”

“Okay. Any quotes?”

“Not much. She said, ‘She was a good mother.’ And, ‘She was beautiful.’”

“Really?”

“Really.” When she said it, it seemed somehow adequate as a description. Not so much now. “She was pretty shook up. She said the kids were very sad.”