“He’ll never walk again,” says the captain. “Severe brain damage. Saul beat him into unconsciousness. With his bare hands.”
I’m not sure what to say. Protesting that the man in the pictures may have intimidated witnesses in a felony case seems imprudent.
“Tell me the truth about your relationship with Saul Katz,” says the captain.
“My relationship?” And then I realize: he’s talking about my mother.
“Saul Katz knew my mother before I was born,” I say. “She grew up in Borough Park. Her family was-is-Hasidic. I’m not sure how they knew each other, but they did. But then my mother met my father, and they moved to Florida, where I was born. So I never met him.”
“I’ll check all this out,” says the captain. “I’d like to talk to your mother.”
“Can’t help you with that.”
“You’re not in touch?”
“We are not in touch.”
“Is she deceased?”
“Could be. I have no idea. She left us when I was six months old. I haven’t heard from her since.”
The captain pauses a moment. “I see,” he says. “I assume Saul Katz will tell me the same story.”
“It’s the truth,” I say.
“Something Katz seems to have trouble with,” says Darin.
The captain gets up.
“Before you go,” I say, “could you tell me where you are in the investigation into the Mendelssohn murder?”
The captain raises a bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrow.
“Have you interviewed her husband? Or her boyfriend?”
“Her…?” The captain catches himself before finishing his sentence and positively revealing that he had no idea the woman whose death he is supposedly investigating had been having an affair. I don’t even try to hide my smile.
“Maybe you should ask Saul Katz,” I say.
I peek at Darin, who is looking down, shaking his head.
“No comment, then?” I say, leaning down to my bag and taking out my notebook and pen.
The captain opens his mouth then closes it. Then opens it again. “You know I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”
I scribble no comment-ongoing invest into my notebook.
“And just so I’m clear, you haven’t interviewed the victim’s lover or husband?”
The captain is losing patience. “Like I said, I cannot comment on an ongoing investigation.” He gathers the photographs of the man Saul assaulted and tucks them under his arm. “You are free to go for now. But we may have questions for you later.”
“I can’t wait,” I say, feeling mildly triumphant.
“Your friend Saul Katz is in a lot of trouble, miss.” This guy really loves his diminutives. “From where I’m sitting, he has at the very least interfered with a police investigation. And if I discover you and he so much as stood in line for coffee together before last Friday, you may have, too. We take obstruction seriously, and I have no problem indicting a reporter. Your paper doesn’t hold nearly the weight it thinks it does. And you can feel free to tell your bosses I said so.”
“Will do,” I say.
The captain leaves, and for a moment, Darin and I sit in silence.
“Don’t blame Tony,” he says finally. “I didn’t really give him a choice.”
“You’re worried about your friend,” I say. “That’s a nice quality.”
“Are you being sarcastic?” he asks, sounding exhausted. “I can’t tell. I thought you’d take it better from him than me.”
“Take it?”
Darin exhales and shakes his head. “Look, I don’t feel bad about this. What Tony told me about a detective taking you to the funeral home was a red fucking flag. No two ways about it. And it took one phone call to confirm he was who he was.”
A phone call I never made.
“Can I ask you a question, off the record?” I say.
“You can ask,” he says.
“Do you really think Saul Katz murdered Rivka Mendelssohn?”
“I’m not going to answer that,” he says, standing up.
“I don’t remember reading anything in the newspaper about an NYPD detective who nearly killed a man,” I say. “I’m guessing that somebody convinced that man’s family not to press charges. Most people don’t just get suspended from their jobs when they commit what looks to me like aggravated assault.” I’m out on a limb here, but if I’m not in legal trouble-which I can see now that I am not-then I have a real story. About a police cover-up and a compromised murder investigation. And maybe another story about Shomrim’s relationship with the NYPD. And maybe another about witness intimidation in the community.
But Darin doesn’t bite.
“Here’s my card,” he says instead. “We are investigating this murder now, Rebekah. That I can assure you.”
“Now?” I say. “So you weren’t before.”
Darin doesn’t respond. He holds open the swinging door for me to leave, then follows me to the exit and opens the door to the cold.
I’m not outside a minute when my phone rings. It is UNKNOWN
“It’s Rebekah,” I say.
“Rebekah! What the fuck is going on?”
It’s Larry.
“Where are you?” he asks.
“I’m in Brooklyn.”
“You need to get to Midtown. They want us both in the office.”
“Why?”
“Because somebody high up in the department told Albert Morgan that he had a reporter trying to pass off the ramblings of a suspended cop as inside information. You can think of how to explain it on the subway.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The newsroom is quieter now at nearly eight thirty at night than it is in the middle of the day. The desks in the gossip and Sunday sections are empty. All but one of the five TVs above the spiral of cubicles that makes up the “city desk” are tuned to sports. Mike sees me as soon as I walk through the heavy glass doors from the elevator bay. He is very unhappy.
“We need to talk,” he says quite a bit louder than he needs to. He is red-faced and his breathing is shallow. “Albert Morgan has a reservation at Eleven Madison Park with his family tonight, but he is coming here before to personally ask you what the fuck.”
Mike always struck me as the gentle giant type. Big and soft and harmless. He’s never even raised his voice at me, unlike Lars, who barks and insults with glee. But clearly, he is shaken by Morgan’s summons. He hired me and he runs the day shift stringers, so he’s probably concerned Morgan will blame him for not supervising me properly.
“Sorry,” I say, just as Larry Dunn walks in.
Larry is in his fifties and his thin blond hair is turning white. He is wearing black orthopedic shoes and a yellow Livestrong bracelet around one wrist. Marisa told me a couple months ago that one of the editors had cancer. Maybe it’s Larry.
“We’re supposed to wait in his office,” says Mike.
“You first, boss,” says Larry.
Mike ushers us past sports and art to a part of the twelfth floor where I’ve never been. Albert Morgan’s office is smaller than I’d imagined the managing editor would get. There are two windows that face the building next door, but the rest is unremarkable. Standard, sturdy dark wood executive desk; leather wingback with all the ergonomic details you pay an extra grand for. Albert Morgan is the first black managing editor of the New York Tribune. He won a Pulitzer in the early 1990s-the Trib’s first and only-for a series of reports and columns about race relations and the Clarence Thomas nomination hearings. There is a plaque on the wall commemorating the award, next to a photograph of him holding a giant fish beneath a banner reading, MARTHA’S VINEYARD STRIPED BASS AND BLUE FISH DERBY, 2001. On the wall behind his desk is an antique map of China.
There are only two chairs in the room, other than Morgan’s behind the desk. Mike and Larry and I all stand, waiting.
Albert Morgan enters the room and immediately orders that we “sit down.”