Invisible City (Rebekah Roberts #1)(11)

“They wear wigs,” says Cathy. “Who knows what the f*ck they’ve got underneath. But if a special van came to pick up her body, she’s probably Hasidic.”

“Do they have their own coroner or something?”

“I don’t know,” says Cathy.

“This is all stuff we should find out,” says Vic.

“Exactly,” says Cathy. “Which is why I’m interested in who owns that yard. Rebekah, we’ll call you back when we get an address.”

She hangs up. I stand staring at my phone. I’ve just given away my night. I angle back to the bar, and Tony, who presents me with a fresh, frothy pint.

“Guess what?” I say, taking a sip.

“What?”

“I’m back on the clock.”

“Back to work?”

I nod, and then my phone rings. I set down my pint.

“I’ll be right back,” I say. I push through people to the door and answer.

“Hold for Cathy.”

I hold.

“Smith Street Scrap Yard is owned by an LLC registered at 5510 New Utrecht Avenue. That’s Borough Park. The library has a number, but I called and it’s just a generic machine message. I’m thinking maybe you go down there. Door-knock at 5510 and see if you can talk to somebody. Ask if they own the yard and if they have any info. See if you can get a name.”

“Okay.”

“You’re Jewish, right?”

I hate answering this question. In junior high I changed the spelling of my name to Rebecca because I thought it looked less Jewish. I decided that the way it was spelled “marked” me as Jewish, which I hated because the only Jewish part of me was long gone. My dad wasn’t supportive of my choice, but didn’t put up much of a fight. It was a tough time for us. My questions about my mother had become more insistent and angry by the time I turned twelve, and I think my father was exhausted from the constant struggle to balance respect for the woman who had borne his child and trying to be understanding about the identity crisis of a preteen girl. A few years later, when it was time to start applying to college, I switched it back to Rebekah. Every time I wrote it the new way it felt like a lie, and I decided it was time to learn to live with who I really was.

“Um … my mom was,” I say.

“Okay, well, that means you’re Jewish. As you know. Good. They can usually tell.”

She hangs up. They can tell?

I find Iris and tell her I’m taking another shift.

“On a Friday?”

“I’m going to Borough Park.”

“Really?” Iris knows that my mom grew up in Borough Park. She’s offered to go there with me and walk around, just to see. But that always felt too much like a search. I am not searching for my mother. Not actively, anyway.

“You want company?” she asks.

“I’m good,” I say.

Iris, who is loose and Friday-drunk, laughs. “I love you, Rebekah Roberts.” She turns to Brice, who is standing at attention behind her stool. “Rebekah Roberts is my f*cking hero.” She hugs me.

“I’ll text you,” I say.

“Be safe,” she says. “And don’t forget poor Tony.”

Tony is at the other end of the bar, kneeling with a clipboard in front of a mini fridge. I wave and he smiles. He finishes whatever he’s doing, then comes over.

“Scoop’s got a scoop?” he says.

The night we met I told him I worked for the Trib and he teased me, named me Scoop. I rolled my eyes, enjoying the attention, but cringing at the truth: I’ve never gotten a scoop. Not at the Trib, at least. There are reasons for this. Scoops, for the most part, come from sources, and sources come from being in the same place for more than a couple hours. As a stringer, my job is to go where I’m told, get some information, repeat. I’m in a different borough every day—one day a murder on Staten Island, one day a press conference in Midtown, one day an old woman dead in a broken elevator in Brownsville—and nobody knows my name or face until I show up. Every day I have to ingratiate myself to a whole new group of people. Different ages, different languages, different values and occupations and prejudices and levels of intoxication or hostility or shame.

“I’m going to Borough Park,” I say.

“Yeah? What’s the scoop?”

“Dead lady in a crane.” I feel strong when I shock people—ooh, look how hard she is—but Tony’s face tells me what I already know, which is that my characterization was crass. “Sorry,” I say. “I was at this scene today. They found a woman, a naked woman, in a scrap pile. They had to lift her out with a crane.”

“And you watched that?”

I nod. “She looked cold.”

Tony shakes his head. I take a gulp from the pint, thinking, I could use a little buzz as I head into the neighborhood where my mother was born. The neighborhood that has haunted my imagination for my entire life.

“They don’t know who she is yet,” I say. “Well, we don’t, the paper. But there’s an address for the company that owns the yard. I’m going there, to see if they have any information.”

“By yourself?”

I nod and finish the beer. Tony seems about to say something, but stops himself. I appreciate his concern almost as much as his self-control. I don’t want to stiffen up with him again, but I can’t seem to help it—sometimes it just takes one wrong word.