Run You Down (Rebekah Roberts #2)(33)

“That’s exactly what I told you last time, Mr. Friedman,” says the girl, walking through a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

“Tell him to f*ck off,” mutters the older woman She looks at me and smiles. “Sorry for the language.”

“No worries,” I say.

“What can I do for you?” she asks, setting her pastry aside and brushing her hands on her stretchy black pants.

“I’m actually wondering if Chief Gregory is here.”

The woman shakes her head. “He’s not in today. Is there something I can help you with?” The girl comes back into the bullpen.

“I was hoping to see the chief,” I say. “I’m a reporter for the New York Tribune and…”

“Oh!” says the girl. “Did you write the story about Pessie?”

“Yeah. I did.”

“It’s so sad,” she says. “You know, I knew her a little bit…”

“You didn’t even know her last name until you saw it in the paper,” says the woman.

“So? I knew her. I mean, not well. But she was so nice. And her little baby.”

“Chaim,” I say.

“Yes!” The girl is very excited. “I saw her at the Stop & Shop every week. A lot of the Jews around here don’t talk to us, but she complimented my nail polish one time in checkout and after that we’d say hi and chat and stuff. Poor thing! Do they really think she was murdered?”

“Dawn, sit down you’re making me nervous,” says the woman. Dawn sits. “This is Dawn. I’m Christine.”

“I’m Rebekah,” I say. “I spoke to the chief over the phone yesterday but I wanted to follow up…”

“You should talk to Van!” Dawn jumps up. “He was the one who found her.”

“He didn’t find her, Dawn,” says Christine.

“Well, he was there. I mean, he worked the scene. He told me all about it. I’ll go get him.”

Dawn rushes back through the AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL door.

Christine sighs. “You drive up from the city then?”

I nod. “I was meeting someone from Pessie’s community earlier. I figured I’d stop by while I was in the area.”

“It’s been a challenge, all the Jews moving in,” says Christine. “They’re just so different, you know? And they don’t seem to want to interact with us. I mean, Dawn says she talked to that poor girl in the grocery store, but Dawn talks to everybody. Talks at, more like. I guess they come up here to get away from the city and do their own thing, but there’s not much respect for our community. I was born in the city, too. We came up here when I was a kid in the seventies. It’s a nice place to live. People are friendly. But … it hasn’t been easy. More and more are coming, and they have so many kids. It’s a strain. It really is. And a lot of people are just sick of it. I think that’s how Chief feels. You know, if they want to be left alone, fine, leave ’em alone. But then they come asking for our help…”

Dawn returns to the bullpen.

“He’s on his way!” she practically sings. “Can I get you some coffee? I forgot to ask.”

“I’m good,” I say.

“Are you sure? I’m getting some for Van.”

“Officer Keller,” says Christine.

“He always says I should call him Van,” says Dawn.

Christine shakes her head and picks up her pastry. A moment later, Officer Van Keller walks through a door on my side of the reception desk. It is immediately clear why Dawn was so enthusiastic about summoning him: he is hot. Like, homecoming king hot. Blue eyes and curly, tar-black hair, a thin nose, and laugh lines like parentheses beside his mouth. The muscles in his chest and arms press slightly against the inside of his blue short-sleeve uniform shirt. Immediately—unconsciously—my hand goes to my head. If I had my long hair, I’d run my fingers through it, but I end up just scratching the side of my neck.

“’Morning,” he says.

“Hi. Thanks for coming out. My name is Rebekah Roberts. I’m a reporter for the New York Tribune.” I have to concentrate to keep myself smiling. He is astonishingly attractive.

“When she asked about Pessie, I said she should talk to you,” says Dawn. “Are you sure I can’t get you some coffee?”

Officer Keller looks at me.

“Okay,” I say. “Thanks”

“I’ll put on a fresh pot.” She bounces out of the reception area, humming.

“Why don’t we head back into the offices,” he says.

I follow Officer Keller through the door, down a narrow hall, and into a small room with a desk and three mismatched chairs. There are no photos or plaques or posters on the walls; no bookshelf, no personal touches at all. Just a desktop computer and some notepads and files.

“Dawn showed me your article,” he says. “It’s a little frustrating, actually. I mean, we’re not the ones who insisted on burying her without an autopsy. I don’t know why he called the newspaper instead of us if he had a problem.”

“He said he called, but didn’t hear back.”

“Do you know who he talked to?”

“I don’t,” I say.