Run You Down (Rebekah Roberts #2)(10)

“What do you think happened?” I ask.

“I have no way of knowing that.”

“Right,” I say, “but you suspect … what?”

“I suspect someone killed her.”

“Have you been in touch with the Roseville police?”

“I gave a statement to the first officer. I told him that Pessie always folded her clothing and put on a robe before taking a shower. She did not drop her clothes in a pile on the floor. I told him nothing appeared to be stolen. I told him she would never have left Chaim in his car seat in the living room while she bathed. And I told him that the front door was unlocked when I came home.”

“What did the officer say?”

“He took notes.”

“Have you heard from him since?”

“No,” says Levi.

“Did you reach out again? Like, to follow up?”

“I called once but did not receive a call back. I assumed that if they had information, or needed information, they would contact me. It is their job, after all.” Levi sighs. “It has been a very difficult time. I did not wish to remain in the house where she died, and Chaim and I have had to move in with Pessie’s brother.”

“Have you shared your suspicions with anyone else?”

Levi shakes his head. “I do not wish to contribute to the rumors.”

“There are rumors?”

“Of course. Everyone is always talking. Pessie was engaged to another young man, a neighbor from Brooklyn, before she and I met. Her parents would not let her tell me. They were afraid I would not marry her if I knew.”

“Would you have?”

“I am not an unreasonable man,” he says. “But it was wrong to keep Samuel a secret from me.”

“Samuel?”

“That was his name. Pessie finally told me about him after she became pregnant. She said they were engaged very young, when she was just seventeen.”

“Did she say what happened?”

“She said that he was a nice boy, but that he wanted to live a more modern life. He left the community, and talking about it seemed to embarrass her, so I did not probe further. I felt happy she trusted me enough to tell me. I thought perhaps it meant our marriage was growing stronger.”

“Did you ever meet him?”

Levi shakes his head. “We did not speak of him often.”

“Do you know his last name?”

“No,” he says. “I know it probably seems strange to you, but I did not feel I needed to know so much about him. He was not a part of her life anymore. I do not believe it is healthy to dwell on the past. Which is why I am taking Chaim home to Israel. I do not want my son to grow up around people who believe his mother did something so sinful as take her own life.” I look at Saul. We’ve never talked about his son’s suicide—I learned from someone else—but I can’t imagine it feels good to have someone else proclaim your dead child a sinner. Saul doesn’t flinch, though, and Levi continues. “But before I leave I want to make an effort to clear my wife’s name. I do not know why the Roseville police are uninterested in Pessie’s death. And I do not know why her community seems to have already forgotten her.”

I nod and scribble I do not know why r police uninterested p’s death; her comm seems already forgot her into my notebook.

“Will you write about this?” he asks.

“I’d like to,” I say. “I have to talk to my editor.”

“I know a lot of people think that your stories about what happened to Rivka Mendelssohn were bad for the community, but I disagree. I believe in justice. If a Jew commits a crime he must pay for it, like anyone else.”

“Do you think a Jew did this?” I ask.

“I have no idea. I hope not. But that is not a concern for me. Pessie’s family and the rest of the community in Roseville are afraid of any negative publicity. They believe the goyim will use it to destroy us. I am more concerned with what causes this publicity. If we are the cause because our actions are unjust, we have brought that pain onto ourselves.”

I look at Saul and see that he is nodding. I know that he agrees; he’s said as much to me before. It’s why he joined the police department, and it’s part of why he had to leave. But Saul no longer wears the black hat. I wonder, looking at Levi’s thick beard, what else about the world he lives in does he disagree with? How much does he have to believe to remain in the fold? Is the costume just a habit? What will he teach his son?

“Thank you for reaching out,” I say. “I’m going to call the Roseville police as soon as I get to the office.”

“I will be interested to hear what they have to say.”

“One last thing,” I say. “Do you happen to have a photograph of Pessie?”

“A photograph?”

“Yes, just a snapshot. You could e-mail or text it to me.”

“Yes,” he says, to my enormous relief. I’ve been at the Trib long enough to know that they won’t even consider running a story about Pessie’s death unless we have a photo of her. But no one teaches you how to ask people for photographs of their dead loved ones. It’s so outrageously invasive, especially when you have to ask just days, or even hours, after a death. The only way to do it is to step out of your human ideas about decency and become a reporter-bot.