Invisible City (Rebekah Roberts #1)(28)

I nod. “It’s work.”

“Better take it outside.”

The steel sky has turned into a low fog, and my anxiety is so high, I feel like I might float away. Inside my chest my heart is bloated. It is clattering like thunder and I realize I’m sweating and shivering. I look around for a bench or a rock or something to sit on. My stomach is making noises, and of course I’ve left my pills at home.

I dial the Trib.

“City desk.”

“It’s Rebekah,” I say.

“Rebekah,” says the receptionist. “Lars has been looking for you. Hold on.”

Lars has Mike’s job on Saturdays.

“Rebekah—you were on the scrap yard body, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have a car?”

“No.”

“Shit.”

“Lars,” I say, “you know I’m not on today, right?”

“I thought you had a car. The list says you have a car.”

“I did.…”

“Can you work today? We’re short and I need somebody to go to Sunset Park. Police are questioning the gardener in the crane lady murder. When he gets home, we want to talk to him.”

“The gardener?”

“Apparently he’s illegal. If you’ve already worked your thirty-eight, you can put in for time-and-a-half.”

“Okay…”

Lars gives me the address. “Miguel Arambula. Do you speak Spanish?”

“No.”

“Shit. Hold on.” Pause. “I’ll call you back.”

He hangs up and I wait. That would have to be one seriously f*cked-up gardener to do all that to a client. Maybe she was horrible to him. I haven’t thought much about who Rivka Mendelssohn actually was. Maybe she was a rich bitch. Maybe he kidnapped her and tortured her and tried to extort money from her family because he got tired of being called a wetback.

My phone rings.

“It’s Rebekah.”

“Hold for Lars.”

I hold.

“Rebekah. Can you go to Borough Park instead? They’re having crane lady’s funeral.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Get the scene. Find out whatever you can about her.”

“So is the gardener a suspect?”

“Don’t know. Her body is at the Adonai Funeral Home, so that’s where they’ll gather.” He gives me the address—but I’m already there.

Saul comes out of the funeral home.

“I’m supposed to cover the funeral,” I say, still holding the phone up to my ear. I feel like I can’t bring my arm down. “I guess they’re still interested in the story.”

“Good,” says Saul.

“Why did you bring me here?” I whisper. I can’t get ahold of what’s happening in my body. I feel like I’m going to explode into flames and melt into the cement at the same time.

“I brought you here because, in three hours, Rivka Mendelssohn will be in the ground and the only people who will have seen what happened to her body will be Malka and myself. And whoever did this. And now, a member of the press.”

My mind feels like it belongs to someone else. How did I get here? Who the f*ck am I to be entrusted with this? Fucking murder. And we’re the only ones who’ve seen what he did to her.

My stomach heaves and I cover my mouth, but it’s useless. I lean over and vomit up coffee and egg and bile onto the pavement of the funeral home parking lot. The yellow liquid splatters on my shoes. Saul jumps back. I kneel down and gag again, but nothing comes out. My face is wet and hard with tears and snot and I can feel the bits of whatever came out on my lips.

Saul puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says. “Come, let’s get in my car.”

We walk in silence and I let him open the passenger door for me. He comes around and digs through his center console for Kleenex, which he hands to me. I wipe my face and blow my nose. My mouth tastes like acid. I roll down the window to get some air.

“Did you hear about the gardener?” I say, finally.

“The gardener?”

“Apparently you guys have the Mendelssohns’ gardener in for questioning. He’s illegal.”

Saul is silent.

“Did you know about that?”

“I did not,” he says. “But it is not surprising.”

“Aron Mendelssohn probably gave them his name.”

Saul almost smiles.

“So … what can I use of that? What we just saw?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, the fact that she was pregnant is a big deal. My editor might care about that. And maybe that she was hit on the head. And that her head was shaved recently. And that she was tied up.” It is, I realize as I speak, a great story. A scoop.

“Use it all,” says Saul.

“But … can I use your name? And Malka’s?” Malka, who, I realize, doesn’t even know I’m a reporter.

“You can’t use my name,” says Saul. “Definitely not. But your paper allows anonymous sources. Call me an official in the police department with knowledge of the investigation. Don’t mention Malka. Just say everything came from me.”