Invisible City (Rebekah Roberts #1)(64)

“Will do,” I say.

The captain leaves, and for a moment, Darin and I sit in silence.

“Don’t blame Tony,” he says finally. “I didn’t really give him a choice.”

“You’re worried about your friend,” I say. “That’s a nice quality.”

“Are you being sarcastic?” he asks, sounding exhausted. “I can’t tell. I thought you’d take it better from him than me.”

“Take it?”

Darin exhales and shakes his head. “Look, I don’t feel bad about this. What Tony told me about a detective taking you to the funeral home was a red f*cking flag. No two ways about it. And it took one phone call to confirm he was who he was.”

A phone call I never made.

“Can I ask you a question, off the record?” I say.

“You can ask,” he says.

“Do you really think Saul Katz murdered Rivka Mendelssohn?”

“I’m not going to answer that,” he says, standing up.

“I don’t remember reading anything in the newspaper about an NYPD detective who nearly killed a man,” I say. “I’m guessing that somebody convinced that man’s family not to press charges. Most people don’t just get suspended from their jobs when they commit what looks to me like aggravated assault.” I’m out on a limb here, but if I’m not in legal trouble—which I can see now that I am not—then I have a real story. About a police cover-up and a compromised murder investigation. And maybe another story about Shomrim’s relationship with the NYPD. And maybe another about witness intimidation in the community.

But Darin doesn’t bite.

“Here’s my card,” he says instead. “We are investigating this murder now, Rebekah. That I can assure you.”

“Now?” I say. “So you weren’t before.”

Darin doesn’t respond. He holds open the swinging door for me to leave, then follows me to the exit and opens the door to the cold.

I’m not outside a minute when my phone rings. It is UNKNOWN

“It’s Rebekah,” I say.

“Rebekah! What the f*ck is going on?”

It’s Larry.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“I’m in Brooklyn.”

“You need to get to Midtown. They want us both in the office.”

“Why?”

“Because somebody high up in the department told Albert Morgan that he had a reporter trying to pass off the ramblings of a suspended cop as inside information. You can think of how to explain it on the subway.”





CHAPTER THIRTEEN


The newsroom is quieter now at nearly eight thirty at night than it is in the middle of the day. The desks in the gossip and Sunday sections are empty. All but one of the five TVs above the spiral of cubicles that makes up the “city desk” are tuned to sports. Mike sees me as soon as I walk through the heavy glass doors from the elevator bay. He is very unhappy.

“We need to talk,” he says quite a bit louder than he needs to. He is red-faced and his breathing is shallow. “Albert Morgan has a reservation at Eleven Madison Park with his family tonight, but he is coming here before to personally ask you what the f*ck.”

Mike always struck me as the gentle giant type. Big and soft and harmless. He’s never even raised his voice at me, unlike Lars, who barks and insults with glee. But clearly, he is shaken by Morgan’s summons. He hired me and he runs the day shift stringers, so he’s probably concerned Morgan will blame him for not supervising me properly.

“Sorry,” I say, just as Larry Dunn walks in.

Larry is in his fifties and his thin blond hair is turning white. He is wearing black orthopedic shoes and a yellow Livestrong bracelet around one wrist. Marisa told me a couple months ago that one of the editors had cancer. Maybe it’s Larry.

“We’re supposed to wait in his office,” says Mike.

“You first, boss,” says Larry.

Mike ushers us past sports and art to a part of the twelfth floor where I’ve never been. Albert Morgan’s office is smaller than I’d imagined the managing editor would get. There are two windows that face the building next door, but the rest is unremarkable. Standard, sturdy dark wood executive desk; leather wingback with all the ergonomic details you pay an extra grand for. Albert Morgan is the first black managing editor of the New York Tribune. He won a Pulitzer in the early 1990s—the Trib’s first and only—for a series of reports and columns about race relations and the Clarence Thomas nomination hearings. There is a plaque on the wall commemorating the award, next to a photograph of him holding a giant fish beneath a banner reading, MARTHA’S VINEYARD STRIPED BASS AND BLUE FISH DERBY, 2001. On the wall behind his desk is an antique map of China.

There are only two chairs in the room, other than Morgan’s behind the desk. Mike and Larry and I all stand, waiting.

Albert Morgan enters the room and immediately orders that we “sit down.”

Mike sits. Larry hesitates, gesturing to me. I appreciate the courtesy but nod for him to sit. I need to stay standing; I think it will make me seem more in control.

“Sir,” I say, before he’s even got his coat off, “let me tell you what happened.”

“Wonderful! Someone who gets to the point. Go.”