A woman in late pregnancy appeared at the other end of the hall. Early thirties. Five foot four. Straight dark brown hair framing an open, good-natured plain face. Soft brown eyes that were slightly too close together, a low forehead, a nose that drew too much attention to itself. Her best feature was her skin—it shone with that radiance common to pregnant women. She wore a green-white striped dress with large pockets that ballooned over her distended belly, a thin gold necklace, and no shoes. Even from a distance of a few meters, I could tell her feet were swollen. Both her hands were pressed to her lower abdomen, as if fearful that without their support her belly would burst open under the weight of the child within.
I was struck by a sudden urge to laugh. At myself. This woman, with her bloated feet and swollen belly, did not seem capable of harming a kitten, let alone brutally killing a woman and a baby. The very idea was preposterous. But, I reminded myself, killers came in all shapes and forms, and Natalie Davidson had not been pregnant at the time of the murders.
"What did I tell you about shouting, Danny?" she said, not unkindly, to the boy, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"Not to do it," he intoned, rolling his eyes.
"That's right." The hint of a smile on her lips told me she was well aware of her son's expression, even though his back was turned. My mother had had the same uncanny ability to read my sisters and me. The similarity made me uneasy. If Natalie Davidson turned out to be a killer, I wanted her to be nothing like my mother. If she were innocent, I was liable to cause her some pain today, because I had hard questions to ask and unpleasant truths to share with her.
She shifted her eyes to me. "Can I help you?"
I gave her my name and told her I was a private investigator and that I got her address from Abraham Sassoon. "I want to talk to you about Esther and Erich Kantor," I said, using the names she would have known Esther Grunewald and Willie Ackerland by.
Her hand spasmed on her son's shoulder, squeezing it so tightly that he yelped in pain. She let go without a word, heaved a deep breath, and told me to come in.
I followed her to the living room, with the boy—Danny—close on my heels. His mother noticed his presence.
"Go to your room, Danny."
"But I want to hear," the boy protested.
Her lips bunched up, but then her face softened. From her purse she withdrew a banknote. She held it in front of the boy like a carrot before a donkey. "Take this and go buy yourself some ice cream." Danny reached for the money with eager fingers, a smile plastered on his face. "And take your brothers with you."
The smile vanished from the boy's face, replaced by a pout. "But, Mom, they're too little."
"Either take them with you or go to your room." She made as if to put the money back in her purse, but Danny plucked it from between her fingers and went yelling for his brothers. Two boys, ages six and eight, emerged from an interior room and followed their elder brother out of the apartment, chattering loudly.
After they had gone, Natalie sighed. "May God bless me with a daughter this time." She smiled self-consciously. "That sounded awful, I know, but three boys are a handful. Do you have children, Mr. Lapid?"
"No," I said, a familiar ache squeezing my heart. Whenever I was asked this question, I considered telling about my daughters, but I never did.
She asked me if I wanted anything to drink. I said I didn't. She dropped heavily onto a padded armchair, resting both feet on a low stool, and gestured for me to park myself on the sofa. Judging by the furniture, the new radio, the thick rug on the floor, and the size of the living room, the Davidsons were well-to-do. There was a tall vase filled with flowers on a table to my left and their pleasant scent filled the room.
"I was thinking about Esther earlier today," she said. She had a mellow voice, the sort that is hard to imagine ever being raised. I was again reminded of my mother, who had always exerted a quiet authority, and I had to swallow hard as a cold lump formed in the base of my throat.
"What brought that on?" I asked.
"Oh, nothing. I think of her often."
"I understand you two were close."
Her eyes were glistening. "We were. She was my best friend. We used to spend a lot of time together—us and the children—and I used to watch over Erich for her. He was a lovely boy, a truly beautiful boy." Her voice cracked on that last word, and so did whatever dam was holding back her tears. They streamed down her cheeks in rivulets. She started to heave herself up from her seat, but her weight was making it a challenge. She gestured toward the dining table. "Get me a napkin, please." There were a number of pink napkins standing upright in a metal holder, folded like fans. I handed her one and she pressed it to her eyes.
During my years as a policeman, I'd met people—men and women both—who could turn on the eye faucets at a moment's notice and voila! the tears would start flowing. It's a neat trick, one used by the craftiest of criminals. The best have it down to a fine art, where you can't tell that they're faking. Watching Natalie cry, I concluded there were two options. Either she was truly heartbroken by the murders, or she was one of those rare black souls who can cry on command and affect the expression and mannerisms for it to appear natural.
It took a minute for the tears to stop. Then, still watching her face closely, I asked her directly, "Did you know Esther wasn't Erich's real mother?"
There was surprise on her face, but not as much as I'd expected.
I leaned closer. "You did know."
She twisted the napkin between her fingers. Her nails were short. "No. No, I didn't. I knew that some of the things she told me about herself were not true, just not that. I never suspected that. If she wasn't his mother, what was she doing with him?"
I gave her a two-sentence-long version of the truth. It made her weepy again. Half of the napkin I'd handed her had darkened with her tears by the time her sobbing ceased.
"Have you a cigarette, by any chance?"
I lit one for her and another for myself. She puffed on hers greedily a number of times. Coughing, she waved the smoke away from her eyes, laughing a self-deprecating laugh. "I don't even like smoking all that much, but it does soothe the nerves, don't you agree?"
I shrugged. "I just smoke because I like it."
She took a long pull on her cigarette, then handed me the still-burning remnant. "There's an ashtray on the table there."
I crushed out her cigarette and tapped some ash off mine.
"So Esther's real surname was Grunewald? And Erich was actually Willie?"
"Yes."
"I never knew."
This, I believed, was the truth. I could see no upside for her in lying to me about that. Not if she was innocent. Not if she was guilty. Did the fact that Esther had kept her true identity a secret from Natalie say anything about their friendship? It might be an indication that they weren't as close as Natalie claimed. But, more likely, Esther had simply followed Mira's instruction not to tell a soul her real name.
"What did Esther tell you that wasn't true?" I said.
"She told me her husband was a sailor who'd died at sea. My husband is a fisherman. As a fisherman's wife, I know quite a bit about sailing and seafaring, and it quickly became clear to me that Esther didn't, that the story she told me was false."
"Ever call her out on it?"
"Never. I assumed that Erich's—I mean Willie's—father was alive and well, and that he and Esther had never been married. I understood full well why she would lie. Society frowns on women who have children out of wedlock. I didn't want her to feel as if I were judging her, so I never raised the issue."
"You never suspected that she wasn't Willie's mother?"
Natalie inclined her head an inch to the right, considering. "Well, I remember remarking on the fact that she never breastfed him, but Esther said she had no milk. Some mothers are like that; it's actually quite common. With the way she cared for him, with such love and devotion, I never would have guessed she wasn't his mother."