He frowned. "Why do you ask?"
"I was just wondering if a single person was in charge of hiring or if it was a collective decision."
"Three of us made all hiring decisions. Me, my wife, Dahlia, and—" He broke off suddenly. "But what does all this have to do with a murder that took place eight years later?"
"Probably nothing. It's just background information."
"Is this your idea of being brief? Asking me irrelevant questions?"
"I like to be thorough, Mr. Rotner."
"There's being thorough and there's wasting time. Your client may be all right with that, but I'm not. When I said I could spare you a few minutes, I meant it."
He was turning belligerent. He was willing to feign cooperation, but only up to a point. I needed to move things along.
"I appreciate your willingness to help," I said. "I'll try not to wander too much with my questions. Tell me, was there anyone who had reason to hurt Anna?"
"No one."
"What about other actors? I suppose working in a theater can get emotional. I imagine arguments are apt to turn quite heated."
"They can and do. But enough to want to commit murder? I can't see that happening."
"You'd be amazed by what drives people to murder, Mr. Rotner."
"Perhaps that's true in general, but I already told you what I believe happened to Anna."
He made a show of checking his watch. He wasn't being subtle about it. My time was almost up.
I said, "Was Anna involved with anyone at the time she died?"
"Involved? You mean with a man?"
"Yes. That's exactly what I mean."
"How should I know?" he said, but there had been a sliver of a delay before he spoke, as though he had to weigh his answer. Maybe he had been about to say that she hadn't, but had then decided it would be better to claim ignorance.
"You never saw her with anyone?"
"Look, Mr. Lapid," he said, tapping his foot impatiently, "Anna was a beautiful girl. She had lots of suitors. But I don't know of anyone serious."
"I see," I said, and decided to change the subject. "Do you have any idea what Anna was doing on the night of the murder, where she might have been going or who she planned on seeing?"
The tapping ceased. "No, I don't," he said, and I peered at his face, hoping to spot some tell that would indicate he was lying. There was nothing. No twitch, no excess blinking, and he met my gaze steadily.
"Where were you the night of the murder?"
His lips curved in amusement. "Are you actually suggesting that I'm a suspect?" His tone was lighthearted, almost playful. He was on firm ground now. He had an alibi, after all. One that had satisfied the police. If only he knew what I knew, that smug smile would be wiped from his face. I had the urge to tell him I knew the truth, but this was not the time, of course.
"I have to rule out as many people as I can," I said. "It's what you do in this sort of investigation."
"If, as you said, you read the police report, you must know the answer to that question."
"Tell it to me anyway. Pretend I don't know."
He rolled his eyes and answered slowly, as though he were humoring an idiot. "I was at home. With my wife. All that evening and night. Isn't that what the police report says?"
"It is. That's precisely what it says. But I wanted to hear it from you."
This elicited a frown. We stared at each other for a moment without speaking. The air between us seemed to grow heavier with our silence and unspoken thoughts. I sensed that he was trying to read me, just as I was trying to read him. I hoped he had about as much success as I did.
He broke the silence. "If you doubt my word, you should talk to my wife. She'd vouch for me."
"As she did at the time."
"Exactly."
You arrogant bastard. You don't have a clue.
He said, "Of course, you would be wasting your time, but you're fond of that, aren't you?"
He smiled a kindly smile, as though trying to take the sting out of his barb, but his eyes were smug and condescending. I resisted the temptation to slap that smile clear off his face. I hoped with all my heart that his wife was right about him. I would enjoy seeing him brought down and laid low.
I said, "What were you doing that day before you went home to your wife?"
"Working. We were putting on a new play the following week, and I was preparing for it."
"You worked until what time?"
"Eight, eight fifteen."
"Were you alone?"
"As a matter of fact, I was. The other actors left at six."
"Did you go straight home?"
"Yes. Any further questions?"
I couldn't think of any. "No, Mr. Rotner. I think that's everything."
"Good. Now if you don't mind..."
I knew a cue when I saw one. I turned and was about to hop down from the stage when a thought occurred to me.
"Just one more thing."
Rotner was already perusing his script. He shot me an irritated look. "What is it now?"
"I was just wondering: this new production you were preparing for, what was it?"
His lips compressed. I thought he was about to berate me for asking yet another irrelevant question. But he simply said, "Antigone. It's a Greek tragedy by Sophocles. Ever heard of Sophocles, Mr. Lapid?" The way he said it, it was obvious he believed I had not.
"It so happens that I have. Was Anna supposed to be in it?"
"Of course."
"In what role?"
"The lead. She was going to play Antigone, one of the biggest female roles in classical theater. As you can imagine, it took quite an effort to put on the play without her."
I stared at him. "You went forward with the production despite her death?"
"Yes."
"I would have thought you all would be too distraught to carry on as usual."
"The show must go on, Mr. Lapid. It's a tenet of our profession."
The way he said it, he was challenging me to pass judgment on him, even while making it clear my opinion mattered not at all.
"Who ended up playing Antigone?"
"Ofra Wexler," he said, pointedly shifting his gaze back to the script. "And now, are we finally done?"
For the moment, we finally were.
13
The cleaning lady was gone, and she had done a poor job. I could see smudges swirling along the lobby's floor. Maybe she had gone to fill her bucket with fresh water.
I exited Ohel Shem, my eyes squinting at the harsh glare of sunlight. Parked at the curb right outside the theater was a dark green Austin, at least ten years old. The trunk was open, and bending into it was a woman. She was pulling something out, and I could tell she was having a hard time of it. I started over to lend a hand, but she got her cargo out before I reached her.
It was a very large sack, and the woman couldn't get her arms to close around it. The moment she maneuvered the sack over the lip of the trunk, it slipped from her grasp and landed at her feet.
By the sound it made, I could tell whatever was in it was soft. The woman muttered something under her breath and bent to pick it up, but I said, "Let me do that."
She straightened, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "Thank you."
I crouched, got a good grip, and heaved. The sack was much heavier than I thought, and stuffed with something that felt like cloth. "Where to?"
She told me to follow her. We entered Ohel Shem, again not seeing the cleaning lady, and took a left through a door that opened onto a long corridor. It stretched ahead and around a corner and culminated in another door, which the woman opened with a key. It was a long walk with the heavy sack, and the muscles in my arms, shoulders, and back began burning within twenty paces. By the time we entered the room behind the door, those same muscles were screaming for mercy.
"Put it right there," she said, gesturing at an empty patch of floor next to a sewing machine and a few bolts of cloth, and I gratefully unburdened myself. "My knight in shining armor," she added with a smile.