"Go on. Take one. Or two. A big man like you—one would hardly suffice."
I took two rugelach and ate them with greater speed than good manners would tolerate. The outer shell was crispy, but the soft dough inside fairly melted on my tongue, filling my mouth with the taste of cinnamon and butter. Elena had dotted each rugelach with raisins, and these had puffed up in her oven, popping like hot balloons when I broke their skin with my teeth.
"Good, huh?" said Elena with obvious relish. "Here, try the lemonade."
She poured me a tall glass and I took a big gulp. The lemonade was tasty and cold and very sweet. I raised an eyebrow.
"You've either been saving up your sugar rations or you have a good black-market supplier."
Elena poured herself a glass and sat down. "Don't tell me you're one of those government hounds always sticking their snouts into other people's business."
"Do I look like one?"
"I wouldn't have invited you up here if you did. When I first saw you from my balcony, I thought you might be a salesman. But you weren't schlepping around a sample case or any merchandise I could see. Besides, you don't look like a salesman."
"What do I look like?"
"I can't say, and that's difficult to admit because I fancy myself a good judge of people." She raised her glass and took a sip. "What do I look like?"
"A teacher," I said.
Elena stared at me, eyebrows elevated.
I offered a smile. "Those pictures of you and your students were pretty hard to miss."
She turned her eyes in the direction of her living room, where the pictures I'd referenced filled up one wall. Then she burst out laughing. Her laughter was rolling and musical, and my smile stretched wider in response to it.
She set her glass on the table and dabbed her eyes with a napkin. "Nicely done, Adam. You don't mind if I call you Adam, do you?" I shook my head. "And you must call me Elena. You're right, of course. I am a teacher. Have been one for the past thirty-six years. Geography and history and Hebrew. You get top marks for your deduction skills." She folded her napkin and laid it on the table. "But I notice you have some pictures of your own with you."
I had set the stack of pictures I'd taken from Manny Orrin upside down on the table. I peeled off the top one and handed it to her. She lodged her eyeglasses on the bridge of her nose and studied the picture.
"My God, it's her."
"You remember her?"
Instead of answering, she said, "Can I see another one?"
I handed another picture over. This one had been taken two days before Esther's death and, like the former, it was a street shot, not one taken inside her apartment. Fortunately, Elena did not ask me where I got the pictures.
She glanced at the photo and let out a deep sigh. "Yes. It's definitely her. Poor girl. What was her name? It's on the tip of my tongue."
"Esther Kantor," I said, giving Esther's false name.
Elena handed the pictures back and removed her eyeglasses from her nose. They dangled from their cord, resting against her chest. "Yes. Now I remember. I remember how shocked I was hearing what had happened to her and her baby."
"So you lived here at the time of the murders?"
"Yes. I've been living in this apartment for fourteen years now."
"And you knew Esther?"
"Not really. We exchanged pleasantries once or twice when we passed each other on the street. That's about it. Are you a relative?"
"No. I'm a private investigator. I was hired to look into the murders, to see if by some chance I can find out who committed them."
"A private investigator. I don't believe I ever met one before. So that's what you were doing here today."
"I was hoping to find neighbors who remember Esther, who knew her."
"Did you find any?"
"Almost none. Some people remembered the murders, but that's about it. The only person who had any meaningful contact with Esther is Mr. Sassoon, her landlord."
"I know him. He's a nice man."
"But even he says he didn't know her well. He told me that Esther was friendly with one of his former tenants. Natalie Davidson. You know her?"
Elena pursed her lips. She picked up a rugelach and nibbled on its edge, averting her eyes to look across Lunz Street.
"What is it, Elena?"
She turned back to face me. She set what remained of the nibbled rugelach on the table and brushed the crumbs from her fingers. She clasped her hands under her chin, her lips twisting like she had a bad taste in her mouth. Things you preferred not to say often tasted that way.
"What is it?" I repeated.
"I hate to speak ill of the dead."
"I'm not here to judge the dead, only those who made them so."
That seemed to persuade her. "Like I told you, I didn't know Esther Kantor, but that doesn't mean I didn't form an impression of her. As I said, I fancy myself a good judge of people, and my instinctive impression of her was very positive. Don't ask me why this was; I can't really say. It was just a feeling I had."
"And…"
"And…well, that all changed one day, or should I say one night. It had to do with Natalie Davidson. Mr. Sassoon is absolutely right; the two were friends. I saw them together on many occasions. They seemed very close."
"Seemed?"
She nodded. "One night, a week or so before the murders, I was walking by the docks when I saw Esther Kantor kissing a man in the street. The man, I'm pretty sure, was Alon Davidson, Natalie's husband."
I let that sink in for a moment. There was no mention of this in Rivlin's report. Not even a hint. Alon Davidson, in his interview, hadn't brought up any kiss.
"You say you're pretty sure it was Alon Davidson. You're not certain?"
"The way they were standing, the man had his back to me. I didn't see his face clearly, only hers. My eyes—well, I'm afraid they've never been very good at night. So if you're asking me whether I would swear in court that it was him, I'd have to say I wouldn't."
"Let's say it wasn't in court. Let's say you were talking to your students. Would you say it was Davidson?"
Elena favored me with an approving smile. "I would have enjoyed having you in my classroom, Adam. That's a very good question. The answer is yes, I would have said it was him. Alon Davidson is not a man who's easy to mistake for another. There is also the matter of location—by the docks. Davidson is a fisherman. I suppose he moors his boat there."
"What do you mean it's not easy to mistake him for another man?"
"Are you planning on talking to him?"
"Yes."
"Then you'll understand when you see him."
She poured herself another glass of lemonade and took a tiny sip. She seemed not entirely happy with the fact that she'd told me what she did.
"The thing is that once I saw her kissing him, my opinion of her changed drastically. I don't approve of any woman who goes around with a married man, but with the husband of a close friend? Reprehensible. I quite disliked her after that." She sighed. "And then she was killed. Murdered. Along with her son. I felt guilty for thinking ill of her."
"Did you tell anyone about this? The police?"
"Yes, but it wasn't until three weeks after the murders. A week before the murders occurred, my daughter gave birth. She lived in Nahariya. I stayed with her for a month to help her with the new baby. It's only when I came back that I learned what happened."
"And then you went to the police?"
"Yes. I talked to a detective. Rivlin—that was his name. I remember him wrinkling his nose when I told him I wasn't positive it was Alon Davidson that I saw. He said that Davidson had an ironclad alibi."