Run You Down (23 page)

At 7:30
A.M.
, Larry calls.

“Connie Hall has a gay son?” he says. “Unbelievable!”

“You know him?”

“Sure,” he says. “I was the Albany stringer back in the eighties. I covered his manslaughter trial. He ran a guy down with his truck. They couldn’t prove intent so he only got, like, eight years. He pops up every now and then, waving his Nazi flag on Hitler’s birthday, shit like that. People always said he ran drugs and guns for the Aryans but nobody could ever make anything stick.”

“I actually went out to where he lived yesterday and talked to his son’s girlfriend. She said they’re stockpiling weapons for a race war.”

“She said
what
?! Is this on the record?”

“No,” I say, throwing off the hotel covers and sitting up, trying to fling out the fear left in my stomach by the dream. I’m going to have to use the bathroom soon. Fucking anxiety. I always laugh when movies and TV shows portray mental illness as, like, glamorous.
Oh, that poor, sensitive girl
. I’ll tell you what’s not glamorous: diarrhea. “I was … I wasn’t sure it was, like, safe to say I was a reporter. I kind of just went poking around, trying to find the son or his boyfriend, Pessie’s ex.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“The son?”

“Or the ex.”

“Not yet. I’ve left messages but I haven’t heard back.”

“So, what do you have on the record?”

“I have that Pessie was still hanging out with her ex and that he spent time in prison. I guess I need to confirm that with the DOC. The girl I talked to used to live with the gay son and the ex and told me they used to deliver drugs for Connie. She said they all got arrested about four years ago. Plus, we have the license plate number of the truck a neighbor saw at Pessie’s. The cop told me it’s registered to Connie Hall, but that’s off the record. But if we could confirm on our end…” I trail off, hoping he’ll interrupt with an idea.

“His truck being seen at the apartment doesn’t mean he killed her, but clearly it means they have to talk to him—it’s not exactly his neighborhood.”

“Not at all. And if the Roseville chief is related to him, that’s a pretty major conflict of interest.”

“I can get the library working on confirming a family relation between a possible murder suspect and the chief supposed to be investigating the case. I think that’s the best lead. The whole gay son, ex-fianc
é
thing feels iffy. I don’t want to write about a relationship if we haven’t talked to either of the people supposedly in it. You make sure the State Police never got a call from the Roseville chief. You also want to get them to say that, yes, murders in towns with small forces are typically kicked up to them. Your first story already made the point that police didn’t seem interested. We need to advance that with specifics. Can you get the neighbors on the record saying they gave the plate number to the cops?”

“They didn’t actually give it to them—they gave it to my burial society guy and he gave it to the cops.”

“Is he on the record with that?”

“No.”

“You need to get this stuff on the record. I’ll try to confirm that the plate is Hall’s. Meantime, get the chief’s response as if we know for sure. Does he deny getting the plate? What’s his comment on it being Hall? Does he think he’s got a conflict of interest? And ask about Hall’s son. Does the chief know about this relationship with Pessie’s ex? I’ll loop in the city desk.”

“Tell them I have a photo of Pessie’s apartment.”

“Great. That’ll help. E-mail it to me.”

“What about the guns at the Halls?”

“Pessie wasn’t shot, was she?”

“No,” I say. “Well, I don’t think so.”

“No autopsy, right?”

“Right. But my cop and the husband both saw her and neither mentioned a gunshot wound or anything like that.”

“Okay, let’s keep the stockpiling in our back pocket. One thing at a time. Actually, now that we have all this new information, why don’t you go back at the husband. Get his reaction to her hanging out with these people.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Let’s regroup around noon.”

I head to the toilet and then turn on the shower. I breathe in the steam and close my eyes beneath the water, but the sharp fright of being shot at in my dream won’t dull. I’ve made myself a target again. I’ve pushed into another ugly little world that doesn’t want me.

When I get out of the shower, I take a pill to try to ease the terror that the water didn’t wash away. On my phone is a text message from Iris.

I love you, too. everything ok up there
??
Call me

I call immediately. I hadn’t been letting myself think too much about what it might mean if Iris really closed herself off from me, let alone if she moved to Asia. She is all I have in New York. Iris and the
Trib
. And only one of them gives a shit about me.

“Hi,” she says. “Where are you?”

“I’m at dumpy motel near Poughkeepsie.”

“Awesome. The
Trib
really lays out the red carpet for you guys, huh?” I hear a bus backfire. Iris is probably walking toward the subway from our apartment. She’s kind of living the dream. A working girl in New York City. A good-looking, gainfully employed boyfriend. She wouldn’t have dared dream it a year ago. Or maybe she did dream it. I look in the mirror beside the TV. I’m sitting on a motel bed wearing a towel. The motel room is being paid for by a newspaper. I am here reporting a story about the overlooked death of a young mother. I have a source in the police department. On paper, this is my dream. Maybe someday living my dream won’t make me feel sick.

“I’m lucky I got them to agree to cover an overnight at all,” I say.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call yesterday. I just needed to, like, feel bad for a minute.”

“I’m really sorry I ditched you guys. I’m…”

“It’s okay,” she says. “I’m glad you’re working. What did Saul say?”

My conversation with Saul in front of The Doom Room feels far away. “Aviva’s mom died when she was in Florida with us,” I say.

“Wow. She’s motherless, too.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“And her phone is still off?”

“Yeah. I think I found her house, though. I went by last night but it was all dark.”

“Holy shit. Are you sure it’s hers?”

“Not a hundred percent,” I say. “But I talked to a girl who said Sam sometimes lived with his sister in New Paltz, and this was the New Paltz address the library found when they ran his name.”

“Have you found Sam?”

“No,” I say. “The girl I talked to used to be his roommate but she said she hasn’t heard from him in a while.”

“Do you think they’re together?”

“Him and Aviva?” That hadn’t occurred to me. “Maybe.”

“Will you be home tonight?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Larry said I had a hundred and fifty for a hotel, but I only spent half that so I’m hoping maybe I can squeeze another day out of him.”

“I’m about to go underground,” she says. “Keep me updated, okay?”

“I will,” I say. “I’m really glad you still love me.”

She laughs. “You should be.”

We hang up and I feel marginally calmer. Calm enough, I decide, to try Aviva again. I go
RECENT CALLS
on my phone and press “Mom.” The call goes straight to a voice mail message saying this mailbox is full. So much for the calm. Something feels wrong. What if this Sam guy is dangerous? What if he’s done something to her?

I pull on new socks and underwear and then the same bra and jeans and purple sweater I was wearing yesterday. My hair is already dry—a perk, I suppose, of having almost none of it. At just after nine, Nechemaya calls. I tell him who the plate belongs to.

“You need to be careful,” I say. “It sounds like Sam was dating this man’s son. Secretly. Conrad Hall is…”

“I know who Conrad Hall is,” he says.

“You do?”

“We are not na
ï
ve, Rebekah. We know our enemies.”

“I’m going to call the chief now and confront him about getting the plate and doing nothing. Can I use your name?”

“Yes,” he says. “He knows my name. I made no secret when I called.”

“What about for the newspaper?”

He is silent a moment. “All right.”

“Thank you,” I say. “And listen, I don’t want to tell you what to do, but there’s a cop in Roseville I think you should call. He’s a good guy…”

“I am through with the Roseville police. We have a connection with the district attorney. We will be meeting him tomorrow.”

I scribble “call DA” in my notebook and then dial Van Keller’s cell.

“Officer Keller? It’s Rebekah. Can you talk?”

“I just left the station,” he says, breathing hard.

“Did you talk to your chief?”

“Hold on.” I hear a car door slam. “He denied getting the plate from your man. I told him I’d run it to Connie Hall and he ripped me a new one. Bunch of shit about chain of command.”

“Does he know we’ve been talking?”

“No. I didn’t tell him, anyway. And I swore Dawn and Christine to secrecy.”

“I tried to get my guy from the community—the one that gave him the plate—to call you but he says he’s going to the district attorney.”

“I don’t blame him.”

We agree to stay in touch and before I have time to think too hard about the conversation I’m about to have, I dial Roseville PD. Dawn answers and I ask for the chief.

“Him and Van just got in a big fight,” she says, her voice low. “I swear I didn’t tell him you were here though. Cross my heart.”

“I believe you,” I say.

Dawn puts me on hold and about twenty seconds later Chief Gregory picks up.

“Chief.”

“Hi, Chief Gregory, this is Rebekah Roberts from the
New York Tribune
. We spoke the other day…”

“I know who you are.”

“Oh. Great. Okay, well, I’ve been told by a member of Pessie Goldin’s community that one of her neighbors saw an unfamiliar pickup truck at her home the day she was found dead. He said he passed the license plate to you but never heard back.”

Nothing.

“Can you confirm you received a license plate number?”

“No.”

“Are you saying you didn’t receive it?”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“Well,” I say, “I’ve been given the plate number and my desk tells me it belongs to a man named Conrad Hall. Can you confirm that?”

“Nope.”

“Is it true that Conrad Hall is your stepbrother?”

There is a pause, and then the call ends. Chief Gregory has hung up on me.

I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth and as I am spitting into the sink I feel a kind of whoosh and suck in my ear. The ringing is gone. “Huh,” I say out loud, looking at myself in the mirror. The water sounds loud, like it’s pouring into my brain instead of the sink. For a moment I am dizzy. I close my eyes and shake my head, knocking my jaw around, opening my mouth extra wide, and hearing the pop of cartilage in my ear. The relief is powerful. Two months of tinnitus, gone, just like that.

I take out my notebook and dial Levi, who picks up after several rings.

“Yes?”

“Levi,” I say, “hi. This is Rebekah. From the
Tribune
.”

“Hello.”

“How are you?”

“Things have been difficult with Pessie’s family since your article came out. They are very angry.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“It is not your fault. I am the one that came to you.”

“Right,” I say. “Do you have a minute to talk? I’ve learned a few things that I thought you might want to know, especially before I put them in the newspaper.”

“Go ahead.”

“Okay, well, first of all it seems like Pessie was still pretty close with her ex, Sam Kagan.” I wait for a response, but Levi is silent. “I don’t know how often they saw each other, but I talked to a girl who used to live with Sam up in Greene County and she said she’d seen Pessie several times, including right after Sam came home from prison.”

“He was in prison?”

“Yes,” I say. “For drugs, I think. It sounds like he was pretty troubled. I spoke with a man who grew up in Roseville, and he told me that Sam had been a victim of … abuse.”

“Abuse?”

“Sexual abuse.”

“I see.”

“Did Pessie ever mention anything about that?”

“No,” he says. “But several months ago there was a story in the news about a Chassidish man in Brooklyn who was sentenced to life in prison for sexual abuse. Pessie followed the case very closely. Most of the people in the community thought the sentence was too harsh. Some people said the boy who testified was lying. We had some of her family over for Shabbos dinner just after the trial ended and there was a big argument. Pessie’s mother said that the boy was a drug addict and mentally ill and that she was donating money to the fund to defend the man in an appeal. Pessie screamed at her. I had never seen her so upset. She threw her parents out of the apartment and said that if they gave the man their money she never wanted to see them again. She said she would keep Chaim from them. I told her she was overreacting. I told her she should apologize to her mother.” He exhales. “No one mentioned a word about this Sam. Nothing!”

“I’m sorry,” I say again, because nothing else seems appropriate.

“Was she having an affair with him?”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “Apparently he’s gay.”

A pause. Levi lowers his voice. “Pessie once asked me if I knew anyone who was gay. I told her yes. My oldest brother. She asked if I ever saw him, and I said no, although that wasn’t because I didn’t want to—he joined the IDF when he was eighteen and after his service he moved to Indonesia. But we wrote letters, and I still get an e-mail from him now and then. She asked if I thought it was his fault that he was gay. I said I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure how she felt about it and I didn’t want her to think I was too … tolerant. Pessie’s family is more conservative than mine and you have to be careful. I thought maybe she was testing me. I don’t know why I did not just ask her.”

“Did she ever mention anything about work? I spoke with one of the women at the clothing store who said a man came in and they had a big argument. I think it’s possible it was Sam.”