Invisible City (Rebekah Roberts #1)(18)

“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 f*ck 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.”