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
“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
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