Invisible City (Rebekah Roberts #1)(39)

“I don’t think you do, Saul,” I say. “You’re asking me to start lying.”

“I am not.”

“You are. I can’t tell my editors I spent the afternoon posing as a college student to view a murder victim’s body in the basement of a funeral home with a detective from the f*cking robbery squad.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t!” But the moment I say it, I know I can. I can, but it didn’t occur to me, because, up until now, I’ve never taken any real initiative on any story at the Trib. I’ve done what they’ve told me—nothing less, and nothing more. I’ve snuck past doormen to get quotes from tenants in fancy buildings and posed as a customer while stalking some celebrity in a grocery store. I’ve pretended I was considering enrolling in a city college so I could get a look inside the admissions office a whistleblower claimed was rife with sexual harassment. I’ve taken chances and pushed limits, but never of my own volition. I can blame it on the fact that the system of the paper is set up to keep me moving, keep my attention focused on something different every day, but that’s bullshit. They haven’t tried to control my curiosity; they just haven’t punished me for not engaging it.

“I would think your editors might be rather impressed by what you accomplished today. You found a source inside the investigation who gave you exclusive information about the case.”

“Except you’re not exactly inside the investigation, Saul,” I say.

“You let me worry about that.”

“Okay,” I say, “but if you knew Rivka Mendelssohn, I need to know that.”

“I did not know her well. I knew she was questioning because I knew she had been to the Coney Island house. I am not involved in the group that runs the house anymore, but I am in contact with those who are. I also know Aron Mendelssohn. Or rather, I know the reach of his influence.”

“His influence?”

“He is perhaps the single largest donor to Shomrim, the neighborhood watch group that functions as a kind of quasi-police force. You saw them at the Mendelssohn house. Five years ago, the group was a handful of middle-aged men with cell phones. Now, they have a command center, half a dozen fully equipped former police vehicles, and probably a hundred volunteers.”

“What do they do, exactly?”

“They call themselves the eyes and ears of the community. They search for lost seniors and children. You might have seen them driving around. Their cars have an official-looking insignia painted on them. It’s designed to look very much like the NYPD’s.”

“So they’re, like, security guards. Pretend police.”

This amuses Saul. “Pretend police. Well, some families teach their children to call the Shomrim 800-number before calling 911, if they suspect a break-in. The group encourages that.”

“Are they armed?”

“No.”

“Are they trained?”

Saul shrugs. “By each other. When there is a problem, something stolen, violence, the community would rather talk to another Jew about it.”

“But isn’t that what you’re for?”

“Yes,” he says. “But they have to trust the police enough to call first.”

“And they don’t trust the police?”

“It’s not that, exactly,” he says.

“It’s mesirah.” It’s the first time I’ve ever used a Yiddish word in a sentence. It comes out easily.

“Exactly. If they have something bad to say about a Jew, they’d rather say it to another Jew.”

“And Aron Mendelssohn is a benefactor to them?”

“Yes. The benefactor. For the Borough Park group.”

“And you think he could make a murder go away?”

“Well, he already has.”

“Has he?”

“Did you see any NYPD at the funeral today? Or at the house?” Saul’s voice is getting hoarse. He’s got an extra layer pulling at his face and his middle, but in his youth, I’d guess Saul was definitely attractive. He has a strong brow and hazel eyes, and he carries himself with a kind of jittery but confidence-inducing pride. I wonder what my mother thought of him. I wonder what he really thought—thinks—of her.

“You’ve talked to three people who knew her. None of them have been questioned by police and all of them suggested that Rivka and her husband were having problems. But Aron Mendelssohn has not been brought in.”

The employees at the Starbucks are mopping the floor. They’ve set chairs on tables and turned up the music. It is time to go.

“Would you like a ride somewhere?” he asks.

“Home,” I say. “I’d like a ride home.”

We cross the street and get into his car in silence. Fifteen minutes later, when Saul pulls up to my building, I take off my seat belt and turn to face him. His yarmulke is made of a thick material that looks more expensive than the sateen loaners they gave men in temple in Orlando. Dad came with me and Anya’s family once to Rosh Hashanah services. I snickered at him when he unfolded the “beanie” and placed it so reverently on his head. You know you don’t have to wear one if you’re not Jewish, I said, like he didn’t know. Saul’s is black, and he has it secured to what’s left of his hair with two bobby pins.