Invisible City (Rebekah Roberts #1)(49)

“Have you talked to anybody, like, in the neighborhood?”

“I stopped a couple people leaving for work, but everybody’s just pissed that we’re here. One lady actually pushed the TMZ kid. He loved it.”

“I’m gonna go get some tea. I’ll find you before I go in. Do you want anything?”

“I’m good. Thanks.” She pulls two tiny beanbag-sized handwarmers from her coat pockets. “Got these.” Smart girl.

I head up Eighth Avenue into the wind. I get tea at a bodega and look through the Ledger. Porn mom and dad are on the front page. The Ledger ran with a courtroom sketch of dad at his arraignment and a twenty-year-old glamour shot of mom, plus a fuzzy still from her Melrose appearance. I scoot into the corner by the beer and dial Sara Wyman.

“This is Sara,” she answers.

“Sara, hi, my name is Rebekah Roberts. I’m a reporter for the Tribune.”

“Hello, Rebekah,” she says. “I’m pleased to hear from you.”

I’m not used to hearing that.

“Oh? Great. Well, like I said, I’m interested in learning a little about Rivka Mendelssohn. We’d like…”

“Are you in Brooklyn?” she asks, interupting me.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m in Park Slope right now.”

“Wonderful. I’m downtown. Are you free?”

“I’m actually on another story assignment,” I say, hoping she’s flexible. “How about twelve thirty?”

She tells me to meet her at a Starbucks on Atlantic near the R train stop. I put my phone in my pocket and almost smile.

I linger by the door of the bodega, scrolling through news on my phone. I should be interviewing the guy behind the counter. I should at least ask if he recognizes either porn mom or dad. But I just don’t care. Instead I think about Sara Wyman, and what I should ask her. The information I gave Lars yesterday, that Sara had said Rivka Mendessohn was considering a divorce, didn’t make the gardener story, but if I can get more details, it might be enough for a short feature, especially if Larry can add confirmation that the police haven’t yet questioned her husband. I need to ask how many people knew she was unhappy in her marriage, and if Sara thinks that could have had something to do with her death.

Eventually, Bill calls.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“I’m a couple blocks up.”

“The Ledger’s going to do a door-knock,” he says. “We can’t miss it.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Back at the building, the Ledger chick is standing with Bill and the seated photogs. Bill is a douche. She wouldn’t have done the door-knock without me.

“Mara said there’s a biddy downstairs…” says Bill.

“Maya,” says the Ledger reporter. Right, Maya.

“Okay,” says Bill, not looking at her. “The desk wants a studio of the big happy family.” A studio is where we take a picture of a picture. We use studios a lot for dead people—school portraits, church bulletin, weddings. “And nobody has her full-face yet, right?” The Ledger photographer shakes his head. He’s short and wide. I think his name is Mac, or Bo. Something with one syllable.

“If she opens the door, we might not have much time,” I say, turning to Maya. “I’m thinking the first question is whether she’s gonna take him back.”

“Definitely. Then ask if she’s seen the photos.”

I nod. “Does anybody know where the kids are? I haven’t heard anything about Child Protective Services being involved, but it seems like that’s a possibility.”

“Our overnight said they heard there’s a grandparent.”

“Okay,” I say. “So if she’s taking him back, if she’s seen the photos, where the kids are.”

Maya nods and jumps up the front step to peek into the lobby. “No sign of biddy. Let’s do this.”

The four of us enter through the heavy metal and glass front doors into the white-painted lobby. The floor is a mosaic of little octagonal black and white tiles. A giant nonworking fireplace and mantel stands stark and empty, a reminder of a time when some sort of butler stood stoking the flames, ready to greet residents with warmth and cheer and a whole bunch of pampering shit that doesn’t exist anymore, at least in Brooklyn. We won’t all fit in the elevator, so we start to climb the stairs, and as we do, the front door opens and TMZ, The Insider, and Fox come shuffling in, video cameras perched on their shoulders, microphones in their fists.

“Fabulous,” I say to Maya.

She rolls her eyes. “Let’s just get up there first.”

We pick up the pace and make it to the landing with Mac huffing behind us. It’s a narrow hallway, maybe four feet wide and long, six apartments per floor. Maya and I stand in front of the door. 3E. Bill is practically on top of me, the long lens of his Canon scratching my neck. I knock. Nothing. The TV people have piled into the elevator and I can hear them laughing as they rise slowly toward us. I knock again. Nothing. “Ms. Dryden? Ms. Dryden my name is Rebekah and I’m from the New York Tribune. I know you don’t want us here and I don’t blame you, but if you could just give us a minute of your time, a couple of questions, we’ll leave you alone.”

“Look,” Maya says quietly, pointing to the glass peephole. “I think I just saw her move.”