Invisible City (Rebekah Roberts #1)(45)

“Don’t,” says Darin. He’s a good-looking guy, sort of. Broad shoulders, trim. Too trim, maybe. He’s got ginger-colored hair, cut short and thinning.

Tony looks at me. He’s embarrassed.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I think the question is, are you okay.”

“I’m fine,” I say.

Darin sighs. “You got any beer, man? I could use a beer.”

*

Two hours later, Tony and Darin and I are half-drunk on cans of light beer. My stomach is so bloated, I can barely bring myself to rise and pee. Tony lives in the basement of his mom’s house. It’s nice, actually. There’s no mildew smell or draft like you usually get in a basement. It’s warm and wood-paneled, with a flat-screen TV and carpet. There’s even a fireplace. Tony didn’t have any cut wood, but there was a peat log upstairs. He lights both sides and after a while the two flames meet in the middle. It burns silently, odorlessly. The bathroom is tiny; not more than a closet, really. When I sit on the toilet, my knees are inches from the shower door. It is remarkably clean for a bachelor pad.

“So,” says Darin when I sit back down next to Tony on the sofa, “you’ve got a source in the department who’s taking you to see dead bodies?”

I look at Tony—like, what the f*ck?

“I told him about Saul,” he says.

“What precinct is he in?” asks Darin.

“I’m not going to tell you that,” I say. The pleasant light-headedness I’d had just before going to the bathroom is gone. How could Tony have thought it was okay to talk to his friend—a cop—about what I’d told him?

“I didn’t know there were Orthodox cops,” says Tony. He can tell I’m pissed, and now he’s trying to be casual.

“Sure,” says Darin. “There are a few. How do you know him?”

“He knew my mom,” I say. My tongue is heavy in my mouth.

“I know some cops work with reporters,” says Darin, “but sneaking you into a funeral home to look at a homicide victim is…” He’s looking for a word.

“Unorthodox,” offers Tony.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

I’m about to say that he didn’t sneak me in, although, I suppose, he did. I can’t believe Tony has put me in this position.

Darin shrugs. “Why would he trust you, though? I mean, no offense. I’m sure you’re a very nice person. But you’re a reporter. Not trusting reporters is part of the job.”

“The question is,” says Tony, “is she safe?”

“That’s not the question,” I say. I love it. He betrayed my trust because he’s worried about my well-being.

“It is, kind of, right?” He looks to Darin to back him up.

“I dunno, yeah. I mean, he’s not gonna hurt her,” says Darin. “But I’d guess you’re getting used. He needs you for some reason.”

I roll my eyes. He’s right, which infuriates me further.

Darin leans forward. “I don’t know this case well, but I know a little. The lady’s Jewish. Hasidic. They got weight. Could they discourage a full autopsy? Yes. Absolutely. Especially if one of their guys has a medical examiner’s license. But that doesn’t mean the department isn’t working the case.”

“They haven’t brought the husband in,” I blurt out.

“You sure about that?”

I’m not sure; it’s just what Saul told me. And I believe him. Still, I should ask the desk about that. I bet Larry Dunn at the Shack could confirm. I stand up and start putting on my coat.

“I’ll call you a car,” says Tony. I barely look at him.

“I didn’t mean to piss you off,” says Darin, finishing his beer. “I’m just saying it’s possible you’re not seeing everything he’s seeing. Maybe he’s got an ax to grind. Maybe he’s hoping a story about a bungled investigation or whatever stirs up some shit. It will.”

“Why would he want to stir up shit?” I say, sounding more antagonistic than I meant to—probably because I know, even as I’m asking it, that it’s a stupid question. There are a million possible reasons. “Nevermind.”

Tony follows me to the door and has the good sense not to try to kiss or hug me good-bye.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I was thinking maybe he could help you out. But I knew as soon as I said it that I should have kept my mouth shut.”

I’m not super-interested in his apology, but I don’t want to get into it. I just want to go home.





MONDAY





CHAPTER NINE


My alarm rings at eight. I roll over and call the city desk. The woman on the phone tells me Mike isn’t ready for me yet. I ask for Cathy.

“Hold.”

“Rebekah!” says Cathy when she gets on the line. “I never called you back. Sorry. The desk was short so I had to chase down porn dad’s ex-wife in New Jersey. What was it you said on your message? You had some new info on crane lady? Was it about the gardener?”

“No, I talked to a woman who knew her who said she had talked to a rabbi about getting a divorce. And another friend said Rivka Mendelssohn was, like, questioning? You know, sort of rebelling against the rules.” I’ve been rehearsing. “Which is sort of a big deal.”