Invisible City

by Julia Dahl

  “So she fainted?” asks Suri. “That’s weird. You’re sure that’s why?”

  “Who fucking knows? The whole thing was weird.”

  “Do you remember the woman’s name?” I ask. “Was it Miriam?”

  “Maybe,” says Dev. “You can ask Heshy.”

  My phone rings. It’s Tony again. I decline the call just as we all hear the front door slam and someone come in.

  “Suri, before I forget, can I get your last name? And your age?”

  “Goldblatt,” she says. “I’m seventeen.”

  “You can use mine, too, if you want,” says Dev. “Devorah Kletzky. I’m twenty-two.”

  Whoever is coming up the stairs shakes the house. A man appears at the bedroom door. He is breathing heavily, and he is drunk. Pickled. The alcohol has a sweet-and-sour smell as it seeps as sweat out of his pores. He looks at Dev and Suri and then he looks at me. I’ve got my notebook out but he doesn’t seem to notice. Just another Jew girl in the house at Coney Island.

  “I need to take a nap,” he says.

  “You stink, Baruch,” says Dev.

  Baruch does stink, but he is nonetheless incredibly attractive. He has olive skin and dark wavy hair. He’s months past a haircut and thick curls fall in front of his eyes. He is lean, but seems powerful. The veins in his hands are thick with blood. I don’t really know anything about how Rivka Mendelssohn felt about her husband, but looking at the man she was considering leaving him for, I can’t help but wonder if sheer chemistry wasn’t part of it. Baruch is fucking hot.

  “Moses wants to talk to you,” he says. I’m not sure which of them he’s talking to.

  “Tell Moses he can come get me if he wants to talk to me,” says Dev.

  “He wants to talk to you, too,” says Baruch, looking at Suri. “He doesn’t think we’re taking it well.”

  “What?” says Suri.

  “He doesn’t think we’re taking it well,” he says, louder.

  “Clearly you’re not taking it well,” says Dev.

  “How could I take it well!”

  “He seriously wants to talk to us?” asks Suri. Her eyes are darting between Dev and Baruch.

  “Fine,” says Dev. “We want to talk to him, too. We’ve got something to show him.”

  “Dev …,” says Suri.

  “Look!” Dev says, grabbing the photographs from me and shoving them at Baruch. He doesn’t catch them all and several fall to the floor. He fumbles for a moment with the photographs, then, recognizing their subject, straightens up. His breathing slows.

  “This is Baruch,” says Dev, introducing him to me.

  “Where did you get these?” asks Baruch, his voice quiet now.

  “Heshy’s drawer,” says Dev.

  Baruch looks at Dev. His eyes are liquid with drink. Bloodshot and cloudy.

  “Yank material starring your girlfriend,” she says, enjoying her crude explanation.

  Baruch frowns. He’s trying to put the pieces together with a spinning mind.

  “I think Moses should know about these,” says Dev. “I mean, if he’s going to make us talk about our feelings …”

  “Moses knows about this?” says Baruch.

  “No,” says Suri, standing up. She’s a smart girl. This conversation is about to get ugly. “Moses doesn’t….”

  “Why don’t you just ask Heshy? He’s right downstairs,” says Dev.

  This gets Baruch’s attention. “He’s here?”

  Dev shrugs. “You didn’t see him? He’s been here all day.”

  Baruch turns and runs down the hall. Suri and Dev follow. I bend down and grab one of the photos he dropped, sliding it under my coat as I go after them.

  Downstairs, Baruch is shouting in Yiddish, and Dev and Suri are standing in the doorway between the hallway and the kitchen. A tall man whom I take to be Moses is standing inches from Baruch, trying to keep him away from Heshy, who is cowering on the sofa. Next to him sits Saul.

  He doesn’t see me at first; like everyone else in the room, he is focused on Baruch. But I see him, in a moment unguarded, and something seems wrong. Why didn’t he tell me he was coming here?

  “Who’s that?” says Dev, pointing at Saul.

  Saul looks at Dev and sees me standing behind her. He stands up, leaving Heshy to sink farther into the sofa.

  Baruch shakes the pictures at Heshy. “What did you do to her!” he shouts.

  “Baruch,” says Saul, stepping toward him. “Heshy is …”

  Baruch runs at Saul, his hands up like he wants to fight. But Saul, twice his age and several inches shorter, is ready. In a swift, easy motion he grabs Baruch’s left wrist and twists his arm down and back, hard. Baruch screams in pain, falling to his knees.

  “You’re hurting him!” shouts Dev. “Let go!”

  Saul does not let go. Dev runs at Saul, and he pushes her aside. She stumbles back, then falls on her ass with a thud.

  “Saul …” I say, stepping forward.

  “Rebekah, I have this under control,” he says.

  “I’m calling the cops,” says Suri.

  “I am the cops,” says Saul, glaring at her.

  Suri looks at me. I don’t know what to say. Saul looks like a different person. The dumpy, tired cop I met on Friday is gone. In his place is a man confident with his physical strength. Baruch is no longer fighting and Saul lets him go, but Baruch stays on the floor, slumping to the side. He brings his hands to his face and begins to weep.

  “Everybody needs to calm down,” Saul says. He looks down at Baruch. “Do you understand?”

  Baruch grunts an affirmative. Dev crawls to sit beside him. Heshy is still half-sitting half-lying down on the sofa, and Suri and Moses are standing, looking at Saul.

  “I know you’re all very upset about Rivka,” says Saul. “I’m here to ask some questions. That’s all.”

  My phone rings again. It’s Tony again. I silence it and see I’ve missed a text from him:

  saul katz is not a cop

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “He’s on indefinite suspension from the NYPD,” says Tony. I’m halfway to the F train station with the phone to my ear.

  “Oh,” I say, stopping to catch my breath beneath some scaffolding across the street from a housing project. “So he is a cop.”

  “No! Rebekah. If he’s pretending to be on the job when he isn’t, you need to stay away from him. He’s off the rails.”

  I bolted from the house the moment I got Tony’s text, hoping, as I ran down the steps and around the corner that maybe everyone in that living room would just forget I’d ever been there. I’ve got three people on the record now. I’ve got a photograph of Rivka Mendelssohn. I have a story even without Saul. What I don’t have is any fucking answers.

  “I assume Darin told you this,” I say. Obviously, the information that Saul—whom I’ve been quoting as a source inside the NYPD—has been suspended from the force is important, but I’m still unhappy with Tony for getting Darin involved in my life. I feel like a child and I’m going to kick. “I’m glad he’s so concerned with my welfare.”

  “I’m the one that’s concerned for your welfare, okay?” says Tony. “This guy’s been lying to you, Rebekah. He might be a bad guy.”

  “What do you mean, a bad guy?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “But Darin says they want you to come in.”

  “Come in?”

  “To the station,” says Tony. “They want to ask you some questions.”

  “Questions about what?”

  “About Saul. I think they think he might have been involved in the murder. Apparently, he has a history of violence.”

  I need to sit down somewhere and think. Other than lying about his employment status, everything Saul has told me so far has been true. No one from the police department has been to the Coney Island house to ask Rivka’s friends—or lover—any questions. No one has talked to her sister-in-law or her brother-in-law or her husband or her son. No one but Malka and Saul and m
e and, presumably, her killer, has seen her injuries up close. I’d like to hear Darin explain how all that adds up to a proper homicide investigation.

  “Where’s Darin’s precinct?” I say. “I’ll take the train.”

  “I can pick you up,” he says. I almost feel sorry for him.

  “I’ll call you after,” I say, and hang up. I know I’m being a bitch, but I don’t want his worry and guilt clouding my judgment any more than the situation with Saul and my now possibly in-jeopardy job already are.

  I turn around and start walking back toward the house. At the end of the block, I see Saul.

  “Rebekah,” he says, jogging toward me. “Are you all right?”

  I step back. “Why have you been lying to me, Saul?”

  “Lying?” His yarmulke is askew, his coat unbuttoned.

  “You’re not a cop anymore.”

  Saul closes his eyes for a moment. “Rebekah …”

  “What are you doing here that you don’t want me to know about?”

  “Rebekah, I understand you’re upset,” he says. “I hope you know I’m only trying to work …”

  “What were you talking to Heshy about?”

  Saul takes a breath. “Heshy is a troubled man.”

  For some reason this makes me laugh. My teeth are chattering but I’m not cold anymore. I feel like I’m on speed. “Every single person in there is troubled, Saul. That doesn’t mean shit. What did he say? Did he tell you Aron and Miriam were here? Did he tell you Aron threatened Rivka?”

  “Moses asked me to come to the house to speak with Heshy,” says Saul slowly. “He felt perhaps Heshy knew something about what had happened to Rivka. I didn’t call you, because I knew he wouldn’t talk to a woman.”

  “Do you have any idea what kind of situation you’ve put me in? I’m going to lose my job when they find out my source is a fucking suspended …”

  “Rebekah …”

  “And I assume the NYPD has no idea you’re currently acting as a homicide detective?”

  “I don’t think so,” says Saul. There is no apology in his voice. He doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong.

  “What did you do to get suspended?” I ask.

  Saul hesitates.

  “Tell me or I’m going to go back in there and tell them all you’re a fucking fraud and that they should report you to the police.”

  Saul lowers his voice. “I was suspended because I assaulted a man.” He pauses, then continues. “I told you that Rivka Mendelssohn stood up for my son when he was fired from his teaching position? He was fired, in part, because of what this man had done.”

  “In part?”

  “Can we please go back inside?” asks Saul. “I can explain.”

  “I’m supposed to go to talk to the cops,” I say. “They think you’re … involved.”

  Saul nods sadly. “Do you think I’m involved?”

  “No,” I say, and it’s the truth. I’ve been thinking about it since getting Tony’s text. If Saul had been involved in killing Rivka Mendelssohn, there is no way he would have taken me to see her body. It was a desperate, dangerous move on his part, the only way he could think of to force me to care enough to keep her death in the paper. It hadn’t been difficult to reel me in: You look just like your mother, he had said. That was all it took. I’ve spent twenty years battling the ghost of Aviva Kagan. Fighting to extinguish any emotion involving her. Tamping down anger and longing. Talking myself out of curiosity. My brain and stomach and heart engaged in a fucking war of attrition against any trace of her. And it hasn’t worked at all. I’ve never been without her for a moment—and I’ve never really wanted to be. The moment Saul said her name, I knew there was nothing on earth I wanted more than to see her; for her to see me. That he lied about his position and that I didn’t think to question it infuriates me. But that shit is about me, not Saul. Saul is not the bad guy here.

  “Good,” he says. “Then let me tell you what happened before they do. At least then you’ll have both sides.”

  I follow Saul back down the block and into the house. Saul opens a door just off the tiny foyer and we enter a den slash storage closet. Navy blue sheets function as curtains, and two futons are the only furniture. There are boxes and bicycles. An old acoustic guitar leans against one wall, a folded-up crib leans against another.

  “Would you like to sit?” asks Saul.

  “I think I’ll stand.”

  Saul takes a deep breath. “My son, Binyamin, was abused as a child. Sexually.” He looks me in the eyes as he speaks. “Do you understand?” I nod. “After his mother and I separated, she and Binyamin moved back in with her mother and father in Crown Heights. The abuse took place at his yeshiva. I knew something was wrong with him. He was angry and defiant and unhappy, but I blamed the divorce. He did not have a father.”

  “My dad said you weren’t allowed to see him,” I say.

  “I could have handled the situation better,” he says. “The man who abused my son, and many other boys, was a rebbe. It went on for years—decades—until someone finally spoke to law enforcement. The man was indicted, eventually, but the case fell apart last year. The DA was unable to secure enough witnesses.” Saul pauses. “I argued with one of the men who was involved in silencing the victims, and it got physical.”

  “When was this?”

  “December. It was a mistake. I allowed myself to be provoked.”

  “Who was this man?”

  “His name is Leiby Bronner. He was the director of Crown Heights Shomrim.”

  “Shomrim, really?”

  “If you have not physically witnessed the act of abuse, you are not permitted to go to secular authorities with your suspicions. Most families would go to their rebbe. But if the rebbe is the one you suspect …” Saul pauses. “Parents called Shomrim. But they were directed to keep their stories to themselves. And the man continued to abuse.”

  “Is this why your son was fired from his job?” I ask.

  “Not exactly,” says Saul, looking away.

  There is a soft knock at the door and then Suri peeks inside.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says.

  “Come in,” says Saul. I decide to let the last non-answer be; he’s explained enough for now.

  “Baruch went upstairs to lay down and Dev went with him,” says Suri. She has her backpack on her shoulder like she is getting ready to leave. “Moses took Heshy home.”

  “I’m sorry for the commotion,” says Saul.

  “Are you going to find out who killed Rivka?” she asks.

  I look at Saul. “That’s what we’re trying to do,” he says.

  “It’s hard to imagine anyone wanting to hurt her,” says Suri. “There’s always a lot of drama around here. Everybody is so unhappy and afraid all the time, you know? Rivka was unhappy, too, I guess, but she never seemed that way. She seemed like she’d found some kind of peace, somehow.”

  Suri takes off her backpack and opens it. I pull out my notebook; that was a great quote: She seemed like she’d found some kind of peace.

  “She was helping me study for my GED. She was really smart, you know. She read a lot. She would give me books she thought I’d like,” says Suri, showing us a paperback book called The God Delusion.

  “Baruch is big into atheism, so he read a lot about that. Rivka still believed in Hashem, but she gave me this one book because he talks about how people who grew up with religious parents and in a religious community like ours don’t even know they can think differently. And it’s totally true. I didn’t know I had a choice. Rivka was big on choice. She used to agonize over how her husband was raising their children. She wanted them to know that the world was bigger than Brooklyn. And that it wasn’t all scary.”

  “Do you know if there was anyone she was afraid of?” Saul asks.

  Suri shakes her head. “Rivka wasn’t afraid of much. Except losing her kids. She was really afraid of that. If it turned out she was pregnant with Baruch’s baby, that would have
been really bad. She would have lost custody for sure.”

  “Do you think Baruch could have killed her?” asks Saul.

  Suri looks at the ground. “I don’t think so. They were so in love. It was really cute. Rivka said being in love had changed her. She said she couldn’t help but think Hashem wanted her to be with Baruch.”

  “But Dev said he filed for divorce and she didn’t,” I say.

  Suri shrugs. “I guess. But honestly, Dev could be making that up. She lies a lot.”

  Saul takes a business card out of his pocket and gives it to Suri. “I appreciate your honesty,” he says. “Call me if you think of anything. Or if you have any more questions.”

  Suri says she will, and then leaves. I turn to Saul. “I assume that’s an NYPD card.”

  “Yes, but it has my cell phone number on it,” says Saul, almost smiling. “Now, do you mind my asking how you learned about my suspension?”

  “This guy I’ve been seeing, he’s friends with a detective. I told the guy about you because I thought I could trust him. He told his friend. And now they want to talk to me.”

  “They?”

  “The detective, I guess. His bosses? I don’t think his precinct is responsible for the case, but presumably he contacted whoever is.”

  “Well,” he says, “I’m sure they’ll be calling me, too. I have my car here. Why don’t we turn ourselves in together?”

  *

  We pull up in front of the precinct just before six. The station is inside a neat brick building, probably built in the 1960s. The area it serves encompasses several neighborhoods, including my own, where Rivka Mendelssohn was found—nearly carried away forever on the Gowanus canal. Also in this precinct are several upscale residential and commercial neighborhoods. Single-family brownstones with tasteful, low, wrought-iron fences around their yards. A movie-star couple lives two blocks away. I sat outside their house for two nights just before Christmas for a story about celebrities on Broadway, but I never saw either of them. There are several bakeries and Thai restaurants, an artisanal ice cream shop, that sort of thing. And the scrap yard at the very end. I wonder if they’ve ever found a body on the canal before this.