I’m standing across the street when I see three Jewish men in black hats and vests similar to those worn by the men who took Rivka’s body away come up the block toward the house. They stand together at the street corner, waiting. I decide to approach.
“Hi,” I say. “My name is Rebekah, I’m with the Tribune.” The men barely look at me. “Are you here because of the woman in the scrap yard? I was out there earlier and I saw some…” Jews? No, can’t say that. “I saw that the body was taken away by…” You guys? Can’t say that either. I stop talking, hoping one of them will help me out. No such luck. They all look elsewhere-the sky, the ground, each other, their hands. For several seconds, I stand there like an idiot, trying to catch someone’s eye. All three men are bearded and wear long tightly coiled sidecurls, which remind me of Shirley Temple ringlets. One is a redhead, like me. The other two have dark hair.
“We have no information,” says the man with the red beard. They are all wearing long coats, but not gloves or scarves. Instead of boots, they all wear black shoes that are like a cross between sneakers and wingtips. And like DCPI, they display no signs of being affected at all by the icy weather.
“Is this where Rivka Mendelssohn lives?” I ask.
The redhead shakes his head. I don’t think he’s saying no, just that he’s not going to tell me anything. I step away, feeling like an asshole, and a moment later, an NYPD squad car pulls up. The officers stay inside. The wind is picking up and I look around for a doorway or vestibule to hide in, but the streets are hopelessly residential. The cops look warm in their car. I wonder if, in the spirit of camaraderie, they’d let me sit in the back, but I’d probably have better luck asking Miriam to let me in and pour me a beer. I start pacing, halfway down the block and back again. The Mendelssohn home is the largest in sight, but many others are impressive. There are two-car garages and brass driveway gates and wrought-iron fences and glassed-in porches and patios. No children throw snowballs in the street; no cars blast music. It is just past dinnertime, but the streetlamps are the only lights on the block. Everyone is inside, living in the dark.
I swing my arms and jog in place. My scarf is wrapped around my mouth and nose, turning damp as I breathe. I wonder if Aviva grew up on this block. Did they live in a house or an apartment? Which synagogue did they pray at? If I had asked Miriam, Do you know Aviva Kagan? would she have said yes? I wish I could talk to someone about all this. Iris is likely to spend the night with Brice. I pull out my phone and text Tony.
how late do u work?
Tony texts back: off at 10
wanna grab a drink?
sure – bell house?
The Bell House is a bar three blocks from my apartment.
great. i’ll text you when I get off – 11ish?
cool
The cops are still in their cars. I call Cathy.
“How long do you think I should stay?” I ask.
“If the cops haven’t given us more info by ten, they won’t until morning. Hang on till then. Photo’s on the way. Is any other press there?”
I look around to be sure. “No,” I say. “I haven’t seen anybody.”
“Good,” says Cathy.
As soon as I hang up, another set of cops arrive. This time, it’s plainclothes detectives in a black Lincoln Town Car. Just like DCPI and the Jewish cops, they are dressed for October, not deep January. As soon as they get out, so do the uniformed officers. All three groups congregate on the sidewalk for about thirty seconds, and then the cops get back in their cars, tailpipes pumping exhaust into the cold. I decide to make contact with the plainclothes officers. I cross the street and knock on the passenger-side front window. The man inside looks at me and raises his eyebrows without rolling down the window. I wait, then speak through the glass.
“Hi. I’m from the Trib.”
He squints like he can’t hear.
“Is this Rivka Mendelssohn’s house? Her family owns the scrap yard, right?”
Finally, he rolls down the window about four inches.
“I don’t have anything for you,” he says, looking in the sideview mirror. He’s probably fortyish, overweight like just about every cop out of uniform I’ve ever met, with a severe gray buzz cut. His partner doesn’t even turn to look at me. He just stares down at his BlackBerry, rolling the cursor ball. “Call DCPI.”
I cross the street and watch. After about ten minutes, the plainclothes cops get out of their car, which triggers the uniforms to do the same. The Jewish men join them, and the whole group climbs the front stairs. A moment later, they disappear inside.
After a few minutes, another Jewish man appears, this time on a bicycle. This man is clean-shaven but wearing a black hat like the others. Around his waist is a belt with a badge and a cell phone clipped to it. Huh, I think, an Orthodox member of the NYPD? The man leans his bicycle against the back fence of the Mendelssohn house, and waits.
Five minutes later, my phone rings. It’s George, the photog. He’s on his way. I’m surprised Pete Calloway hasn’t gotten here yet. Ten more minutes and two more cars pull up. One is George; one is Fred Moskowitz, editor, publisher, reporter, and ad sales rep for The Brooklyn Beacon, a tiny free weekly. I practically run to George’s Volvo and jump in.
“Cold?” he asks.
I put my hands up to the heating vents and grunt a noise somewhere between brrrr and yeah.
“They want a photo,” says George. “But these are Hasids, right? We’re not gonna get anything.” George is probably in his fifties. He wears a bomber jacket with Army patches on the chest and back. We sit together, listening to 1010 WINS, the local news station, which gives us hockey scores and traffic and weather between loud ads for skin doctors and car buy-back programs. Forecast: cold. Windy and cold. It’s going to be fifteen overnight.
After about twenty minutes, the detectives come outside. George reaches into the backseat for his camera. “I’ll follow your lead,” he says.
We hurry over, with Fred trailing us. I call out a question: “Can we get an age, Detectives?”
The men keep walking.
Fred asks, “Is this about the woman in the scrap pile?”
“You have to get that from DCPI,” says the one I’d talked to before, barely breaking stride. “We have no information for you.”
“Assholes,” says Fred, after they’ve gotten into their car.
“The uniforms are still in there,” I say. “And the Jewish cops.”
“They’re called Shomrim,” says Fred, loving my ignorance. “They’re a neighborhood watch. And we won’t get anything from them. I’m gonna get some coffee and come back later.” He crosses the street to his Ford Taurus in a huff.
“What’s the plan?” asks George, once we’re back in his car.
“I’m not sure,” I say. George has been on the job probably fifteen years, but it’s usually up to the reporter to make decisions about who goes where on a stakeout. Even when the reporter is just twenty-two years old. “I should probably call in.”
Just then the front door opens and the uniformed officers and the Jewish watchmen exit the house. The Jews walk together down the street and out of view. The officers linger on the sidewalk. One lights a cigarette. In the side-view mirror I see the man on the bicycle walk toward the officers. The officers nod in acknowledgment and they begin to discuss something. One gestures toward the house. Bicycle jots whatever information they’re giving him down on a notepad. When the smoking cop finishes his cigarette, the two uniformed officers nod good-bye, get in their cruiser, and drive away.