Run You Down (Rebekah Roberts #2)(64)

“I think so. But I’ve never met him.”

Van raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t believe me.

“She is telling the truth,” says Saul.

“I’m sorry,” says Van, “who are you?”

“Saul Katz,” he says. “Retired NYPD. Rebekah and I have worked together in the city. I do private investigations now.” Van looks mildly suspicious.

“Have you interviewed the man who was in the house yet?” Saul asks.

“No,” says Van. “This isn’t my investigation.”

“The man’s name is Isaac. He and Aviva—Rebekah’s mother—have been roommates for more than a decade. Apparently, Sam was living with them, on and off.”

“Sam Kagan was living in this house?”

Saul nods. “I spoke with Isaac last night. He was very concerned. He said he hadn’t heard from Aviva or Sam in a week. We are going to the hospital to see Isaac now.”

Van brings Saul over to his friends in the State Police cars while I take a photo of the burned house with my phone and e-mail it to the city desk. Minutes later, my phone rings.

“It’s Rebekah.”

“Rebekah, hold for Mike.”

I hold.

“Rebekah! Great shot. Give Cathy what you have from the scene. State Police radio said something about a possible domestic terror connection. Did you hear anything about that?”

“Not exactly,” I say.

“Well, give her what you’ve got. Can you stay up there tonight? Dig around tomorrow?”

“Sure,” I say.

“You can expense a hotel room.”

Mike transfers me to Cathy and I give her the quotes I have from Bree and Liza and Matty, and tell her that one person was taken away in an ambulance.

“I’m headed to the hospital now,” I say. “I’ll call the night desk if I get anything.”

Saul and I arrive at the hospital a little before 7:00 P.M., with Van just behind us. The guard at the information booth directs us to the third floor, and as we get off the elevator, two state policemen in plain clothes, badges at their waists, step on.

“How is he?” asks Van.

“He’ll make it,” says the taller Statie.

Keller’s badge gets us past the nurse and we find Isaac in the bed by the window. He is attached to several machines, tubes going into his nose, his arm, beneath his gown. His entire left arm and part of his chest are wrapped in white gauze, blooming with the red and yellow seeping from the wounds beneath. His eyes are closed when we walk in.

“Isaac,” says Saul.

Isaac opens his eyes, and sees me first.

“Aviva,” he says, groggy. “What happened to your hair?”

Saul looks at me.

“I’m Rebekah,” I say.

Isaac closes his eyes again and, perhaps I am imagining it, smiles slightly. He lifts his good arm. He wants me to take his hand. I do.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispers, eyes open now. “You look just like your mother.”

“You know about me,” I say. A mix of pride and relief catch in my throat. Yes, I am that girl. Yes, I have made my way to you. To her.

“I found your articles in the newspaper,” says Isaac. He winces, and presses a button that I imagine delivers pain medication.

“She wanted to tell you about Sammy. I told her it wasn’t the right time to call, but she wasn’t going to change her mind.” He pauses, licks his cracked lips. There is a plastic cup of water with a straw in it beside the bed. I pick it up and he nods and opens his mouth slightly, drinks as I hold the cup for him. When he is done, he nods.

“Your mother … sometimes she gets hold of things in her mind and she can’t let go.”

Sounds familiar. “She called and then she disappeared,” I say.

“She turned her phone off. Sammy knows about technology and he had her worried they were tracking her.”

“They?”

“The Halls,” he says, slowly, now looking at Van.

“This is Officer Van Keller from the Roseville Police,” I say. “He’s trying to find out what happened to Pessie.”

Isaac looks skeptical. Saul says something to him in Yiddish. Isaac says something back.

“We trust him,” I say, chiming in.

Isaac nods, and continues. “They seem to be … working up to something. Last time it was a swastika on the door.”

“Are you sure that was the Halls?” I ask.

“I did not see them, if that is what you mean. Just before the New Year, someone vandalized a yeshiva in Roseville. Same thing. Broken windows, swastikas. Everyone was talking about it on Facebook and the blogs. I heard that the caretaker got the license plate number of a pickup truck, but that the police said there was no such number.”

“No such number?” asks Van.

“The caretaker had written it down wrong, I guess,” says Isaac.

Van shakes his head and takes out his notebook. “I never heard that anyone got a license plate number connected to that.”

Isaac continues. “Everyone was talking about how the fact that there was no arrest meant that the community was right to be annexing more land and taking a greater role in the city government and on the school board. That this was just more proof the goyim could not be trusted.”