Ofra resented her former friend's success and benefited from her death. But did she have reason to kill the others?
I did not have all the answers yet, but my blood had begun humming in my ears all the same. I had not moved backward as I'd feared. I had taken a giant leap forward. And for the first time since I'd started this case, I felt certain that I would catch this killer. I did not yet know how. I was not yet sure who. But I knew with utter, soaring elation that I would succeed.
"What is it, Adam?" Greta asked. "What were you searching for in your notebook?"
I told her, and she smiled and nodded. I smiled right back at her. Then something occurred to me that wiped away that smile like tears off a cheek.
"The problem is," I said, "that if Anna's murder is one of a bunch, it's a totally different case than if it's an isolated incident. The motive might be different, for one thing. And the killer's personality, too. A onetime killing could mean a stranger did it, or someone who simply acted out of impulse. But three or four murders, spread over years, suggest a careful, calculating, methodical murderer. Someone with an abundance of self-control, someone with a natural talent for killing."
Greta rubbed her arms. "You're starting to scare me, Adam."
"There's nothing to be scared about, Greta. If it's the latter, then this killer has no interest in you or me or anyone outside Shoresh Theater. We're totally safe."
"Unless the killer feels threatened by you. Then he might make an exception."
She had a point. I could become a target. And who knew? Perhaps I already was. I had talked to nearly all the people who'd worked at Shoresh Theater when Eliezer Dattner died. Those who were still alive. The killer might well be one of them. Dahlia certainly thought so.
"In that case, I'll be the one in danger, Greta. You have nothing to worry about."
She gave me an exasperated look. "I'm worried about you, Adam."
Now I felt like a moron. I said, "The killer might not even know about me. It doesn't have to be one of the people I've talked to. He could be a maniacal fan. An aspiring actor who failed to pass an audition. A supplier who had been cheated out of a payment. Someone with a reason to hate Shoresh Theater in its entirety."
I could tell by Greta's face that I had failed to ease her mind. I tried again. "He may even be dead himself, Greta, which could explain why no one working for the theater has died since 1948."
"Or he could be biding his time," Greta said. "Like he did between 1940 and '46." The time gap between Nahum Ornstein's death and Anna's murder. Six of the bloodiest years in history, but no dead Shoresh Theater actors. Strange.
Greta must have been wondering the same thing. "Why do you think he waited so long?"
"That's assuming I'm right," I said, "which is still a remote possibility."
"Remote or not, that's what your intuition is telling you. So why?"
I spread my hands. "I don't know. It's one of the reasons Birnbaum and Meltzer thought I was wrong."
"But if you're right, it has to mean something, doesn't it?"
"Yes," I said, "but I have no idea what."
25
Before I left Greta's Café, I made further use of her telephone. I called Reuben Tzanani first and asked him to find out the exact dates and places in which Eliezer Dattner, Nahum Ornstein, and Emil Polisar had died. I gave him the approximate dates of their demise and the formal causes of death.
"Only one of these is a murder," he said. "Why do you need to know all this?"
"It might have some bearing on the case I'm working on."
"You need to read our files? Because it might take some time to locate them all."
"Get them if you can, but for now the dates and places will do."
"All right, Adam. I'll probably have the information in a couple of hours. As for the files, I'll see what I can do."
I thanked him, cradled the receiver, picked it up again, and called my client.
"Hello," I said. "It's Adam Lapid. Is your husband home?"
She let out a rich, rolling laugh. "Spoken like an experienced adulterer, Mr. Lapid."
I felt my cheeks grow hot. "I'm calling on business, Mrs. Rotner."
"I was well aware of that, I assure you. To answer your question, Isser is out. What do you wish to discuss?"
There was no reason not to get straight to the point. "Do you remember the night Eliezer Dattner was shot?"
Silence reigned for half a minute. Then her exquisite voice dethroned it. "Why do you ask?"
"It would take too long to explain. Do you remember it?"
"As though it were yesterday. I was in Haifa. I heard the news when I returned the next day."
"Was your husband with you in Haifa?"
"No, he stayed in Tel Aviv. Why?"
"Do you know why Dattner went into Jaffa that night?"
Again a pause, though this time shorter. "He had a lover there. An Arab widow. We managed to keep it out of the papers. We didn't want his reputation to be tarnished."
Or that of the theater, I thought. "He would visit her often?"
"Every week or so. I told him he was taking his life into his own hands every time he went there, but he wouldn't listen. He thought that going after midnight meant he was safe, the arrogant fool."
"What about Nahum Ornstein?"
"Nahum? My my, Mr. Lapid, you certainly have been busy, haven't you? But what does Nahum, or Eliezer for that matter, have to do with Anna Hartman?"
"I'm wondering if your husband was with you when Ornstein died."
She sucked in a breath and held it. When she spoke again, her voice was throatier, thrumming with bloodthirsty exhilaration.
"Are you suggesting what I think you are, Mr. Lapid?"
"Was he or wasn't he?"
"How I wish I remembered, but I don't. It was a long time ago, and that particular night wasn't as memorable as the night Eliezer died."
"Because you were closer to him?"
"Because I was nearly killed that night as well."
"What?"
"I was in Haifa, coming out of a restaurant, when a car came to a screeching halt a few meters from where I stood. There were three men in it. Two of them stuck machine guns out of the open windows and sprayed bullets at a café. The way they were shooting, I was lucky not to get hit myself."
"But you weren't the target."
"No. It was the café. An Arab establishment. Poor Eliezer. I've always thought that he was killed as revenge for that shooting in Haifa. That's the way it was in those days. The Arabs would kill some Jews, and Lehi or the Irgun or one of the other groups would retaliate, and so on and so forth. But you think otherwise, don't you?"
What I was thinking was that she did not sound remotely upset about witnessing a shooting that likely resulted in numerous casualties. And I was also thinking that someone who knew Dattner was about to visit his lover could have easily followed him into Jaffa, shot him, and left his body there, safe in the knowledge that the death would be attributed to Jewish-Arab tensions. Leaving an anti-Jewish pamphlet in Dattner's mouth was a nice finishing touch, one that would erase any vestige of doubt the police might have had.
And Isser Rotner had no alibi for that night.
"How did your husband feel about Eliezer Dattner and Nahum Ornstein?"
"He hated them both," Dahlia responded in a gleeful sort of voice that made me cringe. "He detested Eliezer because he was the better actor and got the best parts. And he loathed Nahum for being praised by the critics. If you're searching for a motive, Mr. Lapid, you need look no further."
"You don't seem at all troubled by the notion that your husband killed these two men."
"Why would I be? I already know he killed a woman."