Invisible City

by Julia Dahl

  “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 fuck?

  “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.”

  “I know,” says Cathy. She’s typing. “Go on, I’m listening.”

  “And I have a source, in the NYPD, at the funeral home, that says that what was done to her was pretty brutal, and it would have taken a lot of organization and access to a car and access to the yard, which is private property….”

  “Which is it, NYPD or the funeral home?”

  “Um …” Shit. “Well, both. The cop has a source in the funeral home.”

  “So, your source says the killer was organized and had a car. Is he on the record with that?”

  “Yes, but he wants to stay anonymous.”

  “Who’s this source?”

  I’m not technically supposed to have to tell her this. “He’d rather me not say. For now. He’s a detective, though.”

  “Have you talked to Larry about this?”

  “No,” I say. I’ve never met the Trib’s longtime police bureau chief. I’m actually not sure I’ve even spoken to him. “I wanted to see what you thought first. If there might be a story there.”

  “If you’ve got a source, work it. But talk to Larry first. I’m here all day, so call me. Wait, are you on today?”

  “Yeah, but I haven’t heard from Mike.”

  “They may want you on porn dad. Apparently he’s getting out of Rikers.”

  Shit. “Well, I could follow up on the Mendelssohn story if nobody else is on it. Make a few calls. See if it leads anywhere.”

  “Talk to Larry.”

  I hang up and call the desk again for Larry’s number.

  He picks up after the first ring.

  “Larry,” I say. “It’s Rebekah from the Trib. I was going to make some calls on the Rivka Mendelsson murder….

  “I’ve been meaning to call you,” says Larry. “Did you get that info on her being pregnant and the head trauma?”

  “Yeah …”

  “Who’d that come from? They’re freaking out about it down here.”

  “Really?” My heart rate speeds up. Already: consequences. “Um, a detective, but he needed to remain anonymous.”

  “Well, you pissed some people off with that, and I’m the one they’re squawking at. Next time you use an anonymous police source, run it by me. Lars should know that, but he’s an asshole.”

  “Sorry, I just called in what I …”

  “I know. It just makes me look bad.”

  “Got it.”

  “If you hear anything else from your detective, let me know. I’ll be working porn dad all day.”

  We hang up. I’m sitting on the edge of my bed and I can hear Iris in the bathroom.

  The phone rings again.

  “Hold for Mike.”

  I hold.

  After about a minute, Mike gets on the line. “Rebekah, hang tight. I’ll call you back after the meeting.”

  He hangs up. “The meeting” is when the editors in the office decide what stories to cover for tomorrow’s paper. There are typically half a dozen or so stringers per shift, and at this meeting editors decide which event needs a live body to get information and which can be written with a couple phone calls. There are several more meetings as the day goes on, to adjust as necessary. When the plane landed in the Hudson, I heard every single stringer was pulled to go to the West Side. And of course, 9/11. There hasn’t been a story like that since I got here.

  Ten minutes later, Mike calls back.

  “Okay,” says Mike, “I need you in Park Slope to relieve Ericka. She’s been staking out porn mom’s apartment. They released porn dad last night. She visited him at Rikers yesterday. We wanna know if she’s gonna take him back.”

  “Why’d they let him out?”

  “Some sort of evidence fuckup. Larry is on that angle. I just need you to sit on the building and make sure you don’t miss her coming or going. Ericka’s been there since midnight. Lisa was there yesterday and saw her go in, without the kids. She
has to come out sometime.”

  “Hey, so, I actually have some new information about crane lady. I just told Cathy …”

  “Is it about the gardener?”

  “No …”

  “I need you on porn mom. We’re getting national interest on this.”

  He gives me the address, then clicks off.

  Iris is brushing her teeth, and I shoo her out so I can pee.

  “So,” she says from behind the door, “where are you going today?”

  “I’m supposed to go to porn mom.”

  “Supposed to?”

  “Well, I’ve got leads on Rivka Mendelssohn.”

  “Can you do both?”

  I flush; Iris comes back to spit.

  “I can call the social worker I met at the funeral while I’m standing outside porn mom’s,” I say. “But I really want to go try to talk to Miriam again in Borough Park. And I should talk to Saul again. See what he’s got.”

  Iris is silent, but I can tell she has something else to say. I look at her in the dirty medicine cabinet mirror and her eyebrows are pressed together.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You have to be honest with yourself about why you’re doing this. Don’t follow this story because you think it’ll lead to your mom somehow. Saul will probably tell you about her either way.”

  I look down. She’s right; I’ve conflated the two.

  “I know,” I say.

  “Do you?”

  I nod, but I can’t bring my eyes back up to hers.

  “Hey,” says Iris, putting her arm around me. “I love you. This is it. This is your story. It’s about your people. It’s about what you care about. No one else is going to keep this woman’s death alive but you, right? That means something.”

  I look at the two of us in the mirror. Her with dark eyes and sleek new bangs and a faded chicken pox mark on her nose not yet hidden with foundation. Me with my wild red hair and too pink cheeks. Iris is the closest thing I’ll ever have to a sister and she looks nothing like me.

  “You can do this,” she says. “Just be careful. Be smart.”

  *

  Porn mom lives in a pretty prewar apartment building on the corner of Third Street and Eighth Avenue. From a block away I can see the scene has turned into a celebrity-style clusterfuck. Two photogs are camped out in folding chairs at the corner. A van from the local Fox station idles in front of the fire hydrant, and a half dozen other reporters, bundled like Arctic explorers, linger near the building’s front door.

  Ericka is leaning back in the front seat of her Honda Civic, reading today’s paper. I knock on the window and she motions for me to come around and sit inside. She’s got a police scanner on the dashboard and a pile of McDonald’s bags behind the passenger seat.

  “What’s the scoop?” I ask.

  “Same shit. She’s up there. Lisa saw her go in. I did a door-knock around ten last night but she didn’t answer. Nothing since. There’s no doorman, but there’s a biddy on the first floor who keeps screaming she’s gonna call the cops if we try to come in again. Of course, they’ll still make you go.”

  “Of course,” I say.

  “You don’t have a car?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s fucking brutal out there. I burned a tank of gas not freezing last night.”

  “Is photo here?”

  “The German guy with the point-and-shoot.”

  I sigh. I’ve been on several assignments with Henrik, who is Austrian, and he always manages to get in the way. In December, we were at a press junket in Midtown for a treadmill-workstation that was supposed to revolutionize the cubicle, and he wouldn’t get off the thing. There were four PR chicks in black all standing around giving him the evil eye as he trotted in place asking questions about balance and liability and calories. I tried to pretend he wasn’t with me by gorging on the free sushi and crudités until I could pull a black dress aside and ask her some questions, the answers to which, I knew, would never make the paper. Half the “stories” I get sent on don’t make the paper. Stringers are cheap and the editors are frightened they’ll miss something. It was cold that day, too, I remember, and Henrik was in shorts—with socks held up by tiny garters. And instead of a proper SLR like every other professional photographer I’ve ever seen, Henrik carries a Canon point-and-shoot on a string around his wrist.

  “How long’s he been here?”

  “Since about eight. He’s in the red Mazda.” She points up the block to Henrik’s car. He has a bumper sticker that says SAVE THE HUMANS.

  “Okay,” I say, readying myself to return to the cold. “Anything else? What did porn mom say when she went in?”

  “Nothing. Lisa said she just kept her head down.”

  “Have you seen the kids?”

  “Nope. Probably with Grandma or something.”

  “What apartment is it?”

  “3E. There’s a window—two, actually—one’s frosted, like it’s a bathroom. But she’s got the curtains closed.”

  “Did you talk to any neighbors?”

  “I got one coming in last night with his dog. He said the usual, she seemed nice, kids are nice. Blah blah. He gave me a good quote about the guy, though. Something about how porn dad was always in the lobby without a shirt on.”

  “Nice.”

  “Did you ever see that show she was on?”

  “I think it was before my time.”

  “Me, too—but I watched one of the Melrose episodes on YouTube. She played a hostess at a club. Maybe they’ll replay the porn on Cinemax now that she’s famous again.”

  “So she’s blond?” I need to make sure I recognize her if she leaves.

  “Tom got a picture of her yesterday. Have photo e-mail it to you. She was all bundled up, but she looks blond. She’s still thin, too. She was wearing a red coat.”

  “If she’s smart, she’ll change it to black.”

  “She can’t be that smart if she’s living with porn dad.”

  “True.”

  “TMZ’s here somewhere. And The Insider.”

  “Fantastic.” I know most of the other reporters at the Ledger, and a couple from the Times. We’re used to competing for quotes on stories. But the celebrity press frightens me. At the Trib we’re still rewarded for good leads and the occasional social service story (often involving how the MTA is scheming to fuck riders, or how the teachers unions are scheming to fuck students); all the celebrity press does is stalk. And they’re good at it.

  I get out of Ericka’s car and watch her pull away. I knock on Henrik’s window and he leans over to unlock the door. 1010 WINS is playing two notches louder than my ears are prepared for.

  “Good morning!” he says.

  “Seen anything yet?”

  He shakes his head. “No, no. She’s not coming out.”

  “I wouldn’t if I were her.” My phone rings. It’s the desk.

  “Hold for Mike,” says the receptionist.

  I hold. Mike picks up. “What’s going on out there?”

  “Nothing. She hasn’t been outside since Lisa saw her last night.”

  “What about neighbors?”

  “Ericka said she got one. I just got here. I’ll look for some more.”

  “Talk to merchants. Deli, nail salon, whatever. See if you can get someone who saw him with the kids. Or her with him. She’s been at that address six years, so people know her. Maybe somebody’s got her headshot on the wall, like at the cleaners.” Right. Jerry Seinfeld, Bernadette Peters, Sarah Jessica Parker—these people get asked for personalized photos, not the forty-something former soft-porn sitcom sweetheart. “This is tomorrow’s wood, so get as much as you can.”

  “I will.” The wood, in tabloid newspaper language, means the lead story, the story that’s going to get everybody excited. That’s going to, presumably, give them wood. When one of the editors first said it to me, I thought, he can’t mean what I think he means. But I’ve never had the balls to ask. “You know TMZ’s here, r
ight?”

  “Yeah. They’ve got an old shot of mom and dad at the beach. He’s in Speedos. Photo’s having a shit-fit. Jaime wants a family portrait. Is photo with you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Henrik.”

  “Fuck. Hold on. Jaime!” I can picture Mike, standing up, shouting over his cubicle to the photo desk. I hope Henrik can’t hear. “You’ve got Henrik on porn mom? Yes! … Rebekah, they’re gonna pull him. Photo will call you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Quotes,” he says. “Have you done a door-knock?”

  “No, I just got here. Ericka says there’s a lady downstairs who …”

  Mike cuts me off. “Is there a doorman?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Do another door-knock. Ask her if she suspected. Ask her if she’s seen the pictures. See if we can hang out until he gets home. Get the reunion.”

  “Okay.”

  Mike hangs up. Henrik’s phone rings. He listens, nods, hangs up.

  “They are taking me off.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “To Queens. To courthouse.”

  “Okay, well, drive safe.”

  “Say hi to porn mom,” he says, snickering.

  I climb back out into the cold. My phone rings again. It’s a 917 number I don’t recognize. Probably the photographer. When you’re a stringer, strangers are always calling and you have to pick up.

  “Hi, it’s Rebekah,” I say.

  “It’s Bill from the Trib.” I know Bill. He’s thirtyish and claims to have been a war photographer. Apparently he shot “conflicts” in Africa. He’s got long wavy black hair that he usually wears in a ponytail. Once, while we were on a story, he said he knew a cute café for lunch nearby. But when we got to the restaurant, one of those tiny French bistros with thin iron chairs and the menu written in gold cursive on a mirror, a tall woman with short hair and chandelier earrings was waiting for him. We ate at separate tables.