Invisible City (Rebekah Roberts #1)(15)

“What do you want?” asks a voice, muted behind the heavy wooden door.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I say, “I’m looking for Rivka Mendelssohn.”

Another pause, and then someone turns the bolt and cracks open the door.

“Hi,” I say, thinking, friendly, friendly, nonthreatening. “Is this the Mendelssohns?”

“You know Rivka?” I can barely see the woman’s face. She’s wearing a brimless velour hat pulled down over her eyebrows.

“I’m a reporter, for the Tribune. I actually talked to her husband, I think, just a few minutes ago.…”

“You spoke with Aron?” She opens the door a little wider at this. Her face is wide and unattractive: eyes too close together, nose too long, a sloping, shallow chin. She looks about thirty, give or take five years.

“I think so. He owns a scrap yard? In Gowanus?”

The woman does not confirm or deny. She looks past me, squinting into the street, looking for someone looking at her.

“Do you live here?” I ask.

She nods almost imperceptibly.

“May I ask your name?”

“My name is Miriam,” she whispers, looking up at me briefly.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Miriam. I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but there was a woman’s body discovered at the Smith Street Scrap Yard this morning, and we’re trying to get some information about who she was, but the police haven’t released her name yet. I was hoping Mr. Mendelssohn might be able to help.”

“Did he?”

“Not really. He seemed … busy. Are you related to the Mendelssohns?” No response. “What about his wife, Rivka. Is she home?”

Miriam shakes her head and begins to close the door.

“Wait,” I say, but I’m not sure what to say to stop her. “Um, will you be home tomorrow? I’d love to…”

“I’m sorry,” she says. Click, bolt, and she is gone.

I wait a moment and lean in. I think she’s still there; I don’t hear any footsteps. I knock quietly. “Miriam?” Nothing.

My phone rings. It’s Cathy.

“Where are you?” she asks.

“I’m at the Mendelssohns.”

“Get out of there.”

“Why?”

“Because you were right,” she says. “The dead lady is Rivka Mendelssohn.”





CHAPTER FOUR


When Cathy says get out of there, she doesn’t mean I should flee the scene. What she means is that I should hang back. The Trib doesn’t have much in the way of a code of conduct, but one thing we are very definitely not supposed to do is inform family members of a death. That’s the police’s job. Our job is to swoop in immediately post-inform and gather as much detail as the shocked family will give. It’s an ugly job. I’ve asked mothers about their dead daughters and husbands about their dead wives, but I’ve never done it less than a few hours after they actually learned of the death. Of course, Aron Mendelssohn was at the yard earlier, so he is probably aware that it was his wife’s body in the scrap pile—but Miriam, and anyone else at home, may not know yet.

“Stick around the block,” says Cathy. “The police should be there soon. We’re past deadline, but get everything. We’ll go with the name and any information you can get. Find out if she’s actually married to the yard’s owner, how old she is, if she has kids, whatever you can. A quote would be great.”

I’m standing across the street when I see three Jewish men in black hats and vests similar to those worn by the men who took Rivka’s body away come up the block toward the house. They stand together at the street corner, waiting. I decide to approach.

“Hi,” I say. “My name is Rebekah, I’m with the Tribune.” The men barely look at me. “Are you here because of the woman in the scrap yard? I was out there earlier and I saw some…” Jews? No, can’t say that. “I saw that the body was taken away by…” You guys? Can’t say that either. I stop talking, hoping one of them will help me out. No such luck. They all look elsewhere—the sky, the ground, each other, their hands. For several seconds, I stand there like an idiot, trying to catch someone’s eye. All three men are bearded and wear long tightly coiled sidecurls, which remind me of Shirley Temple ringlets. One is a redhead, like me. The other two have dark hair.

“We have no information,” says the man with the red beard. They are all wearing long coats, but not gloves or scarves. Instead of boots, they all wear black shoes that are like a cross between sneakers and wingtips. And like DCPI, they display no signs of being affected at all by the icy weather.

“Is this where Rivka Mendelssohn lives?” I ask.

The redhead shakes his head. I don’t think he’s saying no, just that he’s not going to tell me anything. I step away, feeling like an *, and a moment later, an NYPD squad car pulls up. The officers stay inside. The wind is picking up and I look around for a doorway or vestibule to hide in, but the streets are hopelessly residential. The cops look warm in their car. I wonder if, in the spirit of camaraderie, they’d let me sit in the back, but I’d probably have better luck asking Miriam to let me in and pour me a beer. I start pacing, halfway down the block and back again. The Mendelssohn home is the largest in sight, but many others are impressive. There are two-car garages and brass driveway gates and wrought-iron fences and glassed-in porches and patios. No children throw snowballs in the street; no cars blast music. It is just past dinnertime, but the streetlamps are the only lights on the block. Everyone is inside, living in the dark.