Invisible City (Rebekah Roberts #1)(38)

I go back into Starbucks and sit down across from him.

“The paper is running a story about the gardener tomorrow,” I say. “Apparently, he has a record.”

Saul does not respond.

“When Yakov told me his father had said Rivka was sick before she died, he got really upset. Oh, and he said they had a big fight about Coney Island.…”

“Coney Island?”

“Yakov said his mother had taken him to Coney Island to ride the roller coaster. She told him to keep it a secret. And there was a big fight about it at home. I didn’t tell the desk, because…” I’m not sure why I didn’t, actually. Somehow, it seemed like that might be, I don’t know, evidence? I feel like I’m serving two masters here. What goes to Saul and what goes to the Trib?

“They had a fight about the roller coaster? Or Coney Island?”

“I don’t know. He said…” And then it hits me: Coney Island is where the safe house my mom and Saul used to go to was. Could it still be there? “Saul,” I say slowly. “How did you know Rivka Mendelssohn?”

Saul looks at his hands.

“Saul,” I ask again, my voice louder this time. “How did you know her?”

“Calm down,” whispers Saul. “Rivka Mendelssohn knew my son.”

“Your son?” What had my dad said about Saul’s son? That they were estranged after his divorce.

Saul nods. “He was an instructor at Yakov’s yeshiva.”

“Oh,” I say. “What does he teach?”

“He taught math,” says Saul. “But he was let go. Rivka Mendelssohn was one of the only parents who took his side.”

“His side?”

“She asked the rebbe to let him stay.”

“Did he?”

Saul shakes his head.

“What happened?”

Saul draws and exhales a sharp breath. He seems impatient. I don’t think he’s going to tell me any more. “That is not really important. What is important is that she helped someone I love at a time he needed help. And I want to help her.”

“Did you ever actually meet her?”

“Yes. We met at the house in Coney Island, the same one your mother used to go to. I wanted to thank her and she suggested that would be a good place to talk.”

“Did you know she had been going there?”

“No,” says Saul. I’m expecting him to explain further, but he does not.

“What about Miriam?” I ask.

“What about her?”

“How do you know her?”

Saul shifts in his seat. Why is this making him so uncomfortable?

“Before Rivka and I met, I made the mistake of going to the Mendelssohn home, uninvited, to express my gratitude. Rivka was not home, but Miriam was. She said Aron did not agree with Rivka’s position regarding my son, and that I was not welcome inside.”

“Really?”

“She told me she didn’t believe it was appropriate for Rivka to speak publicly about my son, either.”

“But she let you in last night.”

Saul nods. “Last night, well, things had changed.” He pauses. “When I saw you at the Mendelssohn house yesterday, Rebekah, I saw an opportunity.”

“An opportunity for what?”

“An opportunity to keep this case alive.”

“How is it not alive? It’s barely been twenty-four hours.”

“Yes,” says Saul. “And the victim’s body is gone.”

Right.

“Do you know how many of the murders in this city get solved, Rebekah?”

“No.”

“A little more than half.”

“Half?”

“Sixty-one percent last year. But it’s lower in Brooklyn. Nationally, about four out of every ten murder victims never get justice. Every day, I go to people’s homes and businesses who have been robbed. I will work ten hours a day, six days a week, and I will make an arrest for only four of every ten cases. Car theft is worse.” He pauses. “I am surprised you don’t know this. Your newspaper made a big splash of it last year. I believe the headline was ‘New Yorkers Get Away with Murder.’”

“I guess I just don’t know what you want,” I say quietly.

“I want you to write articles about Rivka Mendelssohn’s murder. I want you to keep the pressure on the police and the community.”

“And you can’t do that? Why aren’t you like, bringing a colleague to see her body?”

Saul shakes his head. “You talked to Miriam. You talked to Chaya. I guarantee you that Chaya would not have let me—or any other police officer—into her house, or given us that letter.”

“But you’re the police.”

“And?”

“This is what you do.”

“I’m telling you that you can do it better than I can.”

“So you want to use me.”

“Yes,” he says slowly. “That is one way to put it. I want you to stay on this story. I want you to do your job as a journalist and try to find out the truth. Do we not, in some respects, have the same goals here? We both seek the truth.” Before I can say anything, he says, “I know it’s not that simple. I know what I am asking.”