“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.