The buzz of street noise jerked me awake. The bus had stopped. We had arrived in Netanya. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the seat behind me was empty. Turning back with a sudden, inexplicable panic, I scanned the few passengers who still hadn't disembarked, but the woman who had hummed the lullaby was not among them. I peered out the window, frantically ran my gaze over the people milling about the station, but she had gone.
Why did I seek her out? To thank her? To ask where in Hungary she had come from? Or maybe on some illogical level, her absence was tantamount to the loss of my mother.
I had no answer. Nothing that would satisfy me rationally. I didn't know whether to smile at my foolishness or worry about my state of mind.
After asking the bus driver for directions, I walked the few blocks to the police station. I asked the officer at the desk where I might find Sergeant Meltzer.
"Inspector Meltzer, you mean," he said, and asked why I wanted to see him.
I explained that Meltzer was expecting me, and he gestured down a hall to the right. "Second door from the end, left side."
Meltzer was sitting behind a metal desk, reading a paper he held in his left hand. His right was tapping the end of a pencil on the desktop.
I rapped on his open door and got his attention. I told him who I was, and he put down the pencil and paper and stood. "Hillel Meltzer," he said, and I noted he hadn't used his rank.
He assessed me with his eyes, as cops tend to do. I did the same to him. It was part of the trade, an ingrained habit. Something you learn when you first put on the uniform and never get rid of.
He was a tough-looking guy in his late forties. Not tall, but powerfully built, with wide shoulders and a deep chest. Square face, with a fleshy nose, a full mustache, and a big angular jaw. Cynical laugh lines around the eyes and mouth. Close-cropped thinning salt-and-pepper hair. Light blue eyes that appeared to be perpetually half-narrowed.
We shook hands. His was warm, fingers blunt and thick. He had quite a powerful grip, but didn't seem the type to be doing it to prove a point. His face and forearms were nicely tanned.
He didn't sit back down. "I was just about to head out to lunch. You hungry?"
I got the underlying message. I was expected to pay for the meal. It didn't surprise me. He was doing me a favor, and I was supposed to show my appreciation.
"I can eat," I said.
He plucked his cap from a wall peg and slapped it on top of his head. The uniform fit him well, maybe a bit too tight across his belly. He looked the sort of police officer criminals know not to mess with, the sort that would come down on you hard if you stepped out of line. His voice fit the part—gruff, with a scrape of gravel. We marched out of the station and onto the sun-drenched street without exchanging another word.
The silence persisted for another block. Then he said, "I gotta admit, I was quite surprised when I heard the reason you wanted to see me." He flung me a sidelong glance. "How come you're working on this case?"
"I was hired to."
He waited a beat, and when I said nothing more, a smile twitched a corner of his mouth. "Let me guess: you're not about to share the identity of your client."
"I'm under specific instructions not to."
"See, I got to wonder why that is. Your client got something to hide?"
"My client wants to see Anna Hartman's killer brought to justice. We're all on the same side here."
His short bark of a laugh let me know what he thought of that statement. We were walking west, toward the sea. The sun was at its zenith, beating down hard, making the low stone buildings shine like old ivory. I was hot all over and thirsty. My shirt clung to my spine with perspiration. Wherever Meltzer was taking me, I hoped we would get there soon.
As if reading my mind, he said, "Just a couple of minutes more." And that was as far as our conversation went until we arrived at the restaurant.
It was on the west side of Ha'atzmaut Square, not far from the beach. Half a dozen tables on the sidewalk and twice that inside. Meltzer led the way in and was greeted with a warm smile by the waiter, who gestured toward a table by the window. Meltzer's regular spot, apparently. But the inspector shook his head. "We'll take the one at the back this time, okay?"
The table was in a corner, and each of us sat with his back to a wall. Meltzer's cap ended up on a third chair. The air smelled of cooking oil, beans, and tobacco.
"Thank you for giving me your time," I said.
"I couldn't help feeling curious," Meltzer replied, and I couldn't tell by his tone whether he appreciated my involvement or not.
The waiter came to the table and asked Meltzer if he'd have the usual.
Meltzer explained: "Lentil soup, potatoes with onions, lemonade if you want it."
I said yes to everything. Half a minute later, when the waiter served us our drinks, I gulped down mine in one long, glorious swallow. Smacking my lips, I handed the glass back to the waiter and asked for another one.
Meltzer wore an amused expression. "You been hiking through the desert or something?"
"Had nothing to drink since morning," I said. "By the way, lunch is on me, all right?"
Meltzer chuckled. "You knew that before you got on the bus, I bet."
"The time of day gave it away. And I used to be a cop myself."
"Reuben told me. In Hungary, he said. Before the war."
"That's right."
"Ever think about joining the force here?"
I shook my head. "Not for a second."
The question why was in his eyes, and probably on his tongue as well, but he held it back.
The waiter returned with my glass, and this time I took a moderate sip. The cool lemonade tasted wonderful.
Meltzer said, "I understand you read the police report."
I nodded, worried that Reuben might have gotten himself in trouble for letting me see it. "You mind?"
"Not really. It's irregular, but the case has lain dormant for a while now. I don't see the harm in you reading it." He sampled his drink, set down the glass, and tapped two fingers against the side of it. "But I don't know if there's anything I can add to it."
"You ran the investigation. Your impressions and thoughts would be invaluable."
Meltzer shrugged his wide shoulders. "Not much to say. It's one of those frustrating cases where there was never the end of a thread on which to pull and unravel the whole business. No real leads, no main suspect. Just a heinous crime and one dead girl." He nailed me with those narrow blue eyes. "I don't see why you think you'll have better luck than I did. Not unless you know something I don't."
"I don't," I said.
"Uh-huh," he muttered, and then plunged into a ponderous silence, and I got the impression he was good at making suspects sweat in the interrogation room and blurt out things they shouldn't. At length he added, "I can tell you're lying, my friend, and that irritates me."
So he was perceptive as well as naturally suspicious, which meant that Dahlia's performance on behalf of her husband five years ago must have been extraordinary. Meltzer was also a good deal more than irritated. I could tell that by his clenched jaw and simmering eyes.
It was a tense moment, and it might well have proved to be the last in our conversation had the waiter not chosen it to arrive with our soup. Steam rose from our bowls, and with it the mouthwatering aromas of garlic and lentils. Sliced pieces of carrot bobbed enticingly on the brownish surface of the soup.
Neither of us reached for our spoons. Hoping to lighten the mood, I said, "Since I'm paying for this soup, you might as well have it before it goes cold." Meltzer blinked, and some of the tension drained from his face. "I don't have anything you can use," I added. "Just some rumors. Nothing substantiated. Nothing that would justify reopening the investigation. But if I get anything concrete, you'll be the first to know."