Invisible City (Rebekah Roberts #1)(43)

“Not really. Everybody that I talked to who admitted to knowing him—which was only, like, three—said he was a great guy unless he was drinking. But even when he was drinking, they said he’d just get sloppy and, like, take a swing. I asked about the prostitution thing, and nobody wanted to touch that. I don’t think it’s that uncommon, though. A lot of the guys down there are single, they live in these cramped apartments and work and send money home. It’s biology.”

“But people weren’t saying, like, he’s creepy or angry…”

“No. Everybody was shocked when I told them what they brought him in for. You were on the body, right?”

“Right. They had me in Borough Park today, at the funeral.”

“Did you get that she was pregnant?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Great shit.”

“I don’t think they were happy about the anonymous source.”

“Oh, please, like their standards are so high.”

“So are you gonna say anything about the quote?”

“Probably not,” she says. “What’s the point? I’ll just remember I have to be extra f*cking clear the next time Lars is on rewrite.”

I thank her and hang up, which is when I see that I’ve missed a couple texts from Tony. Last night he sent: how’d it go?

And just a few minutes ago he sent a photo. It’s a little grainy, but the image seems to be of a harbor, looking toward the Statue of Liberty.

I text back: where r u? sry I missed ur txt last night; fell dead asleep early red hook; everything go ok with saul?

ish …

dinner plans?

not yet:

Tony picks me up at eight. He’s wearing cologne, but not too much. I didn’t even think of perfume. We drive to Bay Ridge, where his friend Marie, a chef, and her partner are doing a tasting menu to test out some new dishes. The restaurant is a small, glass-front place off the main drag. It’s almost absurdly cozy inside, the lights low, candles everywhere. Tony takes my coat and hangs it inside his on a hook at the entrance.

“It’s really nice in here,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says. “They did a great job. Six months ago this was a Chinese takeout.”

A woman wearing a tie comes to hug him.

“You forgot parsnips!” she says, like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

“Parsnips!” says Tony, slapping his forehead with his hand. “Rebekah, this is Marie. She owns the place.”

“It’s beautiful,” I say.

“Thanks,” she says. “We try! This guy spent all afternoon shopping with my sous chef and forgot parsnips.”

“I hear,” I say, trying to seem as cheerful as she is.

“We actually called a car,” she says. “Sent a busboy out for them at five.” She shakes her head, amused. “We’ve got you two by the window,” she says, gesturing to a table in the corner. Cops and soldiers, I’ve been told, like sitting in the back corner of restaurants so they can survey the room and no one can sneak up on them. For a journalist, though, the window is what you always want. Especially in New York—a million stories a minute rush by, and no one faults you for staring out a window.

“I love sitting by the window,” I say.

“Good,” he says, and smiles.

The moment we sit down, a waitress appears with two flutes of champagne. I’m trying to stay in the moment, but something about drinking champagne seems wrong. Miriam isn’t celebrating. Neither is Chaya, or Yakov.

Tony tells me a little about Marie—they grew up on the same block and both their dads died when they were in high school. Marie’s dad in a construction accident, Tony’s dad of cancer. After a few minutes, the waitress reappears to explain tonight’s meal, which will be six courses, paired with wine. Some of the words she says are new to me: amuse, terrine, langoustine, and béchamel.

She sets down the “amuse,” which comes in the same kind of spoon they give you with hot-and-sour soup at a Chinese restaurant.

“This is a butternut squash soup with sage and toasted pumpkin seed. Enjoy.”

Tony and I slurp our spoonful of soup. It is very, very good.

I drink more champagne and look out the window. It’s a busy night in Bay Ridge. Bundled-up couples and groups are hurrying from one place to another, laughing and rowdy.

Tony’s phone rings. He looks at it, then silences the call.

“So,” I say, because I can’t get it out of my mind, “I saw a dead body again yesterday.”

“Another one?”

“The same one, actually, but close up. I saw her at the funeral home. There was no autopsy,” I say quietly, looking around me. No one is paying attention. “And now she’s in the ground.”

“No autopsy?”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “Saul says no. I saw her taken away by the Jewish van, then I saw her in the basement of the funeral home, like, twelve hours later.”

Tony considers. “Did Saul know the dead woman?”

“Not well. He said he’d only met her once.”

I finish my champagne, and the waitress brings a glass of red wine and the appetizer. It is beef carpaccio, which I know enough to know is raw beef. The wine is warm and bites my tongue like pepper.