I took a sip. The coffee was rich and smooth. A pleasant warmth spread throughout my body.
"This is good," I said, taking another sip. "Thank you."
She smiled without parting her lips. A smile of simple satisfaction rather than one of true joy. Something in her face, something almost as rigid as her neck brace, gave the impression that the latter sort did not happen very often. At least not recently.
She said, "I appreciate you coming over on such short notice, Mr. Lapid. Unfortunately, venturing out is not something I do often."
She indicated the walking stick that was propped against the sofa by her right leg. Made of wood and as thick as a shepherd's staff, its handle had been intricately carved into the shape of a galloping horse—mane flaring, mouth gaped, legs stretched with muscles in action. It seemed an odd choice for an implement built to aid a person who had trouble walking—a true work of art, but one with a cruel, mocking edge to it. Most invalids would be repelled by such a constant reminder of their handicap. Evidently, Dahlia Rotner was made of different stock.
"A pretty thing, isn't it?" she said, hoisting the stick and holding it horizontally before her.
"I've never seen one quite like it," I said.
Her mouth twitched as she ran her hand along the shaft. There was a strange look in her eyes. Small part affection, big part something much less positive.
"The most dependable friend I've ever had," she said, "and I hate it with all my heart. I've had it for five years now. Well, five years, two months, and eleven days, to be precise." She returned the walking stick to its former position and raised her eyes to mine. "Car accident. Left me with permanent damage to my neck, hip, and right leg. I can walk, but not very far and only very slowly. And it hurts like hell. The doctors at the time said I should count myself fortunate to be alive."
"But you don't feel that way, do you?"
"No," she said flatly. "I don't. That accident may not have killed me, but it deprived me of what I loved most dearly."
"You mean acting?"
She looked surprised. "I thought you said you didn't know who I was."
"I asked around after you called."
"And what did you learn?"
"That you were an actress, and that you stopped performing about five years ago. But the woman who told me this did not know the reason."
She looked at me, as if waiting for me to say something more. When I didn't, she said, "Most people at this point in the conversation would tell me how sorry they are for my condition, or something to that effect. But you're not going to, are you?"
I gave a half smile. "I have a feeling you wouldn't like that."
She smiled back, and this time I caught a glimpse of her teeth. "You're right. I wouldn't. I've heard it too many times. If it ever helped, it ceased doing so a long time ago." She paused. There was appreciation in her eyes. "You're perceptive. It appears that I've picked the right man for the job."
"What job is that, Mrs. Rotner?"
She opened her mouth to answer, but what emerged instead was a cough, rattling and moist. It sounded like someone was churning a pot of liquid deep inside her chest. She grabbed a handkerchief that had been lying on the sofa next to her and pressed it to her mouth, muffling the coughs that were making her shoulders shake and her face contort in agony.
"Hold on. I'll get you some water," I said, rising from my chair, feeling alarmed. She shook her head, gesturing for me to sit down with quick motions of her free hand.
A few seconds later, her coughing died down. She wiped her lips with her handkerchief and set it aside. She sat still for a moment, catching her breath, eyes shut, head turned to one side.
"You all right?" I asked.
She nodded. A short up-and-down movement of her head, as much as her neck brace allowed. "It's not as bad as it looks."
"Glad to hear it, because it looked pretty bad. Sounded bad, too."
She opened her eyes and stared right at me, composed once more. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would not have believed the woman in front of me had been gasping for breath less than a minute ago. "I appreciate your concern, Mr. Lapid, but I assure you that I'm quite fine. I had pneumonia a while back. A rather severe case of it. But I'm better now. This cough is all that remains of the illness. It's persistent and has the annoying habit of popping up at the wrong moment, but, all in all, it's nothing to worry about."
"Sure I can't get you some water? How about a cup of your excellent coffee?"
"No to both. Really, I'm fine. I'd rather we get down to business, if you don't mind."
I signaled my agreement with a shrug, drank what remained of my coffee, returned the cup to the tray, and sat back, waiting for her to begin.
"I understand you were a policeman," she said, "that you have experience in investigating serious crimes."
"Where did you hear that?"
"An acquaintance. Does it matter who?"
"Not really. The answer to your question is yes. I was a police detective in Hungary before the world war. I investigated all sorts of crimes—from the petty to the horrific."
"And since then you've worked as a private investigator?"
Not exactly. There was the time I'd spent in a Hungarian forced-labor battalion, made up entirely of Jews. After that came my imprisonment in Auschwitz, where my mother, sisters, wife, and daughters were murdered. Then I hunted Nazis for a while, trying in vain to quench my thirst for vengeance. And finally, in 1947, I immigrated to Mandatory Palestine, joined the nascent Jewish forces battling for independence, and took two bullets fighting the Egyptian army in the south of Israel. It was only when I was discharged from the hospital that I became a private investigator in earnest. But I saw no reason for her to know all that.
"Just about," I said. "What is it you want me to do?"
"I want you to help me bring a criminal to justice."
"For what crime?"
"Murder."
I raised an eyebrow. "Murder?"
"The murder of a young woman. Right here in Tel Aviv. Her killer was never punished. I want that to change."
"The police investigate murders in Israel, Mrs. Rotner."
"The police tried to solve this case and failed."
"What makes you think I'll succeed where they didn't?"
"Because I can supply you with a crucial piece of information the police never possessed."
"What piece of information?"
"The identity of the murderer."
She said this in a tone almost devoid of inflection, as though she were remarking upon the weather on a dull day. But a slight shift in the lines of her mouth, an almost imperceptible curling of her lips, belied the blandness of her delivery. She was enjoying this, piecing out details, building anticipation—like in a play. She the performer, and I the audience.
Frowning, I took a long breath and let it out very slowly. The distinct impression that I was wasting my time came over me. Had she invited me here just to play a part? Was she making this all up as a form of amusement? Or did her injuries extend beyond the physical and into the mental? Had being exiled from the stage driven her mad? Or was she simply lonely, desperate for any sort of audience to act before?
Yet, eying her, it seemed that she was utterly serious and honest and sane. So in spite of myself, I found myself asking, "Who is it?"
She waited a beat before answering, milking the moment, ratcheting up the tension. Her eyes gleamed with a distant light, like a bonfire on a barren mountaintop. Her lips curled a bit further before she uttered two simple words.