Run You Down

by Julia Dahl

  Eli drove me to the airport. I dressed tznius. I brought very little from Florida, so it was easy to pull on Penina’s cast-off stockings and a shapeless sweater and long skirt and pretend that it was simply practical. Half a day later I was at Ben Gurion, carrying a suitcase toward a taxi stand.

  One year later, I agreed to marry a man named Etan Shiloh. He was twenty-nine years old and his family lived in the Old City. The wedding was small. Etan was a good husband to me. I tolerated his humorlessness and he learned to manage my moods. We were married for nearly ten years before he found my birth control pills. And then, just like that, it was over. I was sent back to Brooklyn.

  PART 2

  CHAPTER TEN

  REBEKAH

  Iris and Brice don’t wait up for me. And if I want to get to Roseville by eight thirty—right in the middle of rush hour—I figure I have to leave at six thirty, before they’re likely to wake up. I leave a note:

  Hey lovebirds Got a meeting with a Jew upstate this morning. Then headed to try to find my uncle (??) Might stay over … will call. Drinks soon?? xoxo

  It’s been months since I’ve driven a car—my old Honda died before the New Year—and driving in New York City is more than a little hairy. It takes almost an hour to get through the Battery Tunnel, up the West Side and over the George Washington Bridge, during which time I am nearly sideswiped by a livery driver and a delivery truck, and end up the product of some serious taxi-driver rage when I accidentally “block the box” near Chelsea Piers. I follow the directions on my Google Maps up the Palisades and then north on the Thruway. The sky is white and the trees lining the road are still winter bare. On WNYC, Brian Lehrer is interviewing the parks commissioner about post-Sandy progress at city beaches. Iris and I didn’t make it to the beach last summer; we were still getting acclimated, I guess, and there is something almost unbelievable to begin with about the idea that the original concrete jungle even has beaches. But listening to this man talk enthusiastically about the Rockaway Beach Boardwalk, and the new Brooklyn waterfront’s pop-up pool makes the prospect of spring—and even better, summer—seem almost real. I wonder if the sadness I’ve been stuck in has something to do with the weather. Does Seasonal Affective Disorder even exist in Florida?

  After about twenty minutes on the Thruway, I see signs for Roseville. It occurs to me, as I pull into the vast lot outside of the Target-anchored shopping center, that escaping strip malls like this has been an unexpected perk of leaving Florida. I guess when they first got built somebody imagined that because all the stores are connected by a walkway, the Panera Bread and the Rite Aid and the Foot Locker and the Pier 1 might simulate a kind of neighborhood. But now that I’ve moved to New York City, I understand that a real neighborhood is one that can’t be planned, but that grows like a field of wildflowers from whatever blows in and has the fortitude to survive.

  The Starbucks is just inside the automatic glass doors of the Target, across from rows of red shopping carts. Nechemaya, or a man I assume to be Nechemaya because he is the only person I see wearing the ultra-Orthodox uniform, is sitting alone at a two-top with a venti-sized paper cup in front of him, typing intently on his smartphone.

  “Mr. Burstein?” I say

  He looks up. “Rebekah? Hello, yes. Thank you for coming.” He pushes back his chair and stands up.

  I hate not shaking hands with people I meet; it feels like our interaction is incomplete, somehow. But I guess if I’m going to report in the Haredi world I better get used to it. “I’m gonna grab some coffee real quick,” I say. “You good?”

  He nods. I wait in line behind a woman in a pink tracksuit talking on the phone to someone with whom she disagrees, and in front of a man with a gray ponytail and John Lennon–style eyeglasses carrying a shopping basket full of recycled toilet paper. At the counter, as I mix in milk, I watch Nechemaya. He takes a manila folder out of the black bag at his feet and places it in front of him on the table. With his left hand, he cups the lower half of his face and smooths his beard.

  I sit down and he puts his hands over the folder. I take out my notebook.

  “I do not wish to have my name in the newspaper,” he says. “I am not coming to you because I wish to bring attention to myself.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I won’t publish anything you tell me now. But can we discuss the possibility again in the future?”

  Nechemaya nods. His face is very round, and his beard, though several inches in length, is thin enough that the pale skin beneath it shows through. The beard is not an attractive addition to his face, but I suppose its aesthetic qualities don’t enter into his decision to wear it.

  “I have some information I hope you will follow up on. After Pessie Goldin was buried, the man and woman who live in the apartment above hers contacted me. They told me that the day Pessie died the wife saw a strange vehicle—a pickup truck—parked across the street from their building.”

  “What do you mean by ‘strange’?”

  “I mean unfamiliar,” he says. “It was not a vehicle they had seen before. She said several neighbors saw the truck, too, but she was the only one who thought to write down the license plate number. She gave it to me and I gave it to the police, as well as contact information for the woman who saw the vehicle. About two weeks later, I learned the police had not contacted the woman or, as far as she knew, any neighbors, for an interview. I called and I was told that they could not discuss the case.”

  “You talked to Chief Gregory?”

  “Yes. I consulted with the other members of chevra kadisha, and the Roseville shomrim, and we decided to take the information to Pessie’s family. Myself and another member sat down with her father and mother last week, but they did not wish to pursue it further. They did not want more scrutiny on the family. They have four children younger than Pessie who still need to make shidduch. There are rumors that Pessie was taking drugs.”

  “Drugs? You mean medication?”

  “Medication?”

  “Levi told me Pessie had been taking antidepressants.”

  “That may have been what they were referring to. Truthfully, I do not know if they actually believe she had been involved in drugs or if they are just afraid of the rumors. They said Pessie was gone and there was nothing that would bring her back. But when I saw that Levi had spoken out about his suspicions, I contacted him and he gave me your phone number.” He pushes the folder toward me. “I gave this information to the Roseville police chief. Now I am giving it to you.”

  I open the folder and inside find a single piece of lined yellow legal paper, torn in half. On it is written, in what I assume is Nechemaya’s hand, New York LCG6732.

  “The neighbors said the truck was blue and white. They could not provide a make or model.”

  “Did they see anyone get in or out?”

  “No. She said she had been in the back of the apartment and only happened to walk by the front window as the truck was leaving.”

  “Would she be willing to talk to me? I don’t necessarily have to use her name. I could just refer to her as a neighbor.”

  “Possibly,” says Nechemaya.

  “I’d also like to talk to some people who knew Pessie. I know it sounds a little crass, but the more the readers know about her the more they will care, and the more they care, the more likely it is that the newspaper will let me keep covering the story. I tried calling her parents, but the woman who answered the phone hung up on me. Do you know any of her friends?”

  “I don’t, but I will make some phone calls. And I believe the neighbors knew her fairly well. I will ask if they are available for an interview.”

  “Great,” I say. “I can even do it over the phone if that’s better for them.”

  Nechemaya nods. I fold the piece of paper and put it into my notebook.

  “Why do you think the police chief never followed up on this?”

  Nechemaya draws a shallow breath and flares his nostrils. “It is not like Brooklyn here in Rockland County. These pe
ople still think they can make us leave.” He shifts in his chair, agitated. “This chief … I have heard him say in council meetings that he does not work for us because we do not pay taxes.”

  “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-fiancé?”

  “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 WE ACCEPT MEDICAID. The smaller storefronts on either side are vacant. Leaning against the window in one is a FOR RENT 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 ROSEVILLE POLICE 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 AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

  “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 AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL 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.