Run You Down (13 page)

“You don’t pay taxes?”

“Of course we pay taxes!” he says, a little too loudly. “Everyone pays taxes. But people are ignorant and it is easy to believe stories about us. We look different. Our children do not attend their schools. We do not mix with them so they assume we are bad.”

“You said on the phone that you thought Pessie’s death might be part of some kind of plot. What makes you think that?”

“There have been several instances of vandalism, and two of our young men were attacked along the road.”

“Attacked?”

“Bottles were thrown at them by a passing car as they walked. Again, we reported the incident and nothing was done.”

“When was this?”

“January. The boys did not get a good look at the vehicle, or the occupants, so the chief said there was nothing he could do. The vandalism was at one of our yeshivas. Someone spraypainted a swastika and the words ‘go home.’ In Catskill, a woman attacked two Chassidish men at a grocery store. She spat on them and yelled slurs.”

“And you think this might be related to Pessie’s death?”

“How can we know if there is no investigation!” The woman sipping a Frappuccino next to us looks over. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head at me as if we share some similar understanding about how ridiculous people dressed like Nechemaya are. How unlike her and me. How downright
weird
. They cast themselves as “other” so it’s easy to see them as such. But easy is lazy. I meet the woman’s eyes with an expression like,
what?
You got a problem?

“I’m going to give this license plate number to my editor,” I say. “But I’d also like to go to the Roseville police with it. Is that okay?”

“Of course,” he says. “Perhaps they will take action now that the newspaper is involved.”

“We’ll see.”

After Nechemaya leaves, I call Larry and fill him in on what I’ve learned.

“It’s interesting, I’ll give you that, but what’s the story?”

“What do you mean?”

“What can you write for tomorrow? Your guy isn’t on the record, and we can’t print a license plate number.”

“Right.”

“I’ll see if I can get somebody at the Shack to run the plate, but so far you don’t have anything new on the record. Weren’t you going to try to run down the ex-fianc
é
?”

“I’m on it,” I say. “I’ve got a couple possible addresses and that’s where I’m headed.”

“Good. Go at the cops with the plate. If you’re up there, maybe stop in instead of calling. Makes it harder for them to blow you off.”

The Roseville police headquarters is inside a single-story brick building with one American flag and one black-and-white POW flag waving out front. The town clerk, the courthouse, the post office, and the cops all appear to share space. I park across the street in a low-rent strip mall whose anchor is a stationery and medical supply store displaying sun-bleached Hallmark cards, a portable toilet, and a FedEx sign in the window. A sticker on the door says W
E
A
CCEPT
M
EDICAID
. The smaller storefronts on either side are vacant. Leaning against the window in one is a F
OR
R
ENT
sign with Hebrew lettering and a phone number. The other’s window is soaped over. Three doors down is a wig shop, and next to that a store that sells Judaica and has a “
sofer
” present, whatever that means. The restaurant at the end of the strip is called The Grille. A neon sign indicates that they serve Heineken. There are very few cars in the lot and none of the stores look like they’re thriving.

The door marked R
OSEVILLE
P
OLICE
is on the far side of the long municipal building. A bell announces my entry into the waiting area. Above a bench of metal chairs is a bulletin board with a faded “This Is Your Brain on Drugs” poster, and a AAA warning against texting and driving tacked to it. On the opposite wall are six framed photographs of Roseville police chiefs from 1930 to the present. Chief Gregory, unsmiling and thick-necked, has been in his position since 2000.

In the bullpen behind the reception desk are two women. Both are overweight, but the younger one is certifiably obese. She wears an enormous wool poncho over her jeans, and waddles around on sneakers worn down sideways by her weight. I’d guess she’s twenty-five. The other woman is probably twice that. Both are bottle-blond. The younger one is on the phone and on the move, squeezing around the desks and office equipment like she’s looking for something.

“I told you we don’t have it,” she says, clearly exasperated. “It’s civil. We don’t keep the civil files. You have to call the town clerk.”

“Is that Friedman again?” asks the older woman, who is eating a pastry while standing in front of a printer spitting white paper.

“That’s exactly what I told you last time, Mr. Friedman,” says the girl, walking through a door marked A
UTHORIZED
P
ERSONNEL
O
NLY
.

“Tell him to fuck 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 A
UTHORIZED
P
ERSONNEL
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.

Dawn comes in and sets two mugs of coffee on the desk.

“I’ll be right back with milk and sugar,” she says, and seconds later she is back with milk and sugar.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asks.

“We’re great, Dawn, thank you,” says Officer Keller. I imagine he spends quite a lot of time being polite to Dawn.

“Holler if you need me,” she says, beaming.

We each reach for our coffee and take a sip. I look up and he’s looking at me.

“Didn’t Chief tell you to call the State Police?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “Should I?”

“We haven’t had a homicide in Roseville in years, so Chief thought it was best if we hand the case over to the State Police. They have a lot more resources. That’s where the crime lab is. Mostly we do drug arrests, assaults, robbery, DUIs. Water deaths are particularly tricky. Even with an autopsy it can be difficult to determine a cause—or a time—of death.”

“That’s what I’ve heard,” I say. “So, I guess I should reach out to the State Police?”

Officer Keller nods. “I’m not sure who’s assigned. I’ve actually been meaning to follow up, though. We didn’t have much, unfortunately. The family was real adamant about getting her body to the funeral home. But I did get some photos.” He pauses. “Chief’s off today and he hates it when we call him for anything that isn’t an emergency. How about I call the State Police and see what’s going on?”

“Great,” I say.

Van Keller picks up his phone and presses a single button.

“Hey Dawn, could you get me Kevin Durant at the State Police? Thanks.” He looks at me and smiles. “She’s a nice girl, Dawn.”

“She definitely likes you,” I say, although I know I shouldn’t. I haven’t felt even remotely attractive in months. Some of it is about my hair—or lack thereof. But the real truth is that it takes confidence to flirt. And when I received the news that Aviva was alive, the knowledge of her sudden proximity, her now-definite realness, sucked away almost all the confidence I’d built up about who I am and how I interact with the world. I couldn’t find a way to imagine a future with her in it, and the notion of the emotional obstacle course I was going to have to conquer when she walked into my life seemed utterly exhausting, if not impossible. No matter who she is, I will have to find a way to live with her. Alone in my apartment, or bent over a computer at the city desk the past couple months, I did not feel up to the task. But now, sitting across from a stranger in whose eyes I am not an abandoned child but rather a professional woman from New York City, I feel stronger. When Van Keller looks at me he sees a reporter with the freedom and the curiosity to drive up to his little town and walk into his little police station and ask to see the chief. He sees a reporter with a source inside a notoriously tight-lipped community. Wouldn’t it be nice if I could look at myself and see those things, too?

“Sergeant,” says Officer Keller when Dawn connects him. “Thanks for taking the call. I wanted to follow up about the Pessie Goldin case.” A pause. “Pessie Goldin. Mother from here in Roseville. Found in her bathtub.” Another pause. Officer Keller squints like he’s hearing something that confuses him. “Well, do you think you could double-check?” A pause. “Okay, thanks.” He hangs up the phone. His smile is gone. “They’re gonna get back to me.”

“Cool,” I say, trying to keep the vibe light.

Officer Keller pushes his coffee away. He seems flustered. “So, you said your source hadn’t heard back from the chief?”

“Right,” I say. “He said a neighbor had seen a truck they didn’t recognize outside Pessie’s apartment the day she was found. He said he gave the license plate to the chief.”

“Really? When was this?”

“I’m not sure exactly. At least a couple weeks, I think. I’ve got the license plate number.” I take my notebook out of my purse and flip it open. “Do you want it?”

“Yeah,” he says, taking a pen from the drawer beside him. I read the number off and he writes it down. “New York plate?” I nod. He swivels his desk chair toward the computer and powers up the machine. “I think these things are older than you are.”

“You should see the ones we have at the
Trib
.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah. It’s bad. Honestly, it’s kind of a miracle we get a paper out every day.”

He laughs. “We didn’t have the Internet on these until a couple years ago. Just this weird e-mail program and the state databases.” Click click click. “Chief probably wasn’t real friendly on the phone.”