"It was probably not that serious, then."
"Maybe not," I said, remembering Natalie Davidson telling me that Esther had assured her she could handle this problem, whatever it was. Still, I was disappointed that Leah Goldin could not fill in this gap in my knowledge.
I scratched my knee through the fabric of my pants. Leah clasped her hands together over one thigh. Her expression was one of solemn reflection. Probably thinking about Esther.
As the silence lengthened, I gave Leah a long look, reconsidering my early assessment of her. She was flighty and self-centered, but that was not all she was. Esther must have known a different side to Leah to have confided in her about her affair with Alon Davidson. In her way, Leah had been a friend to Esther, had cared for her, and had mourned her loss. I could tell by her face that merely talking about Esther and the murders had a deep effect on her. She appeared withdrawn and worn out. Her eyes were downcast, shoulders slightly hunched.
I reached over and touched her shoulder. She started.
"Sorry," I said, withdrawing my hand. "I didn't mean to scare you."
She chuckled. "It's my fault. I was just…someplace else for a minute."
"I understand," I said. "The past can be a dark place."
"Yes. Yes, it can."
"I should get going. Thank you for talking to me."
She walked me to the door and mumbled a goodbye. I heard the snick of the lock before clearing half a flight of stairs.
21
It was just shy of eleven when I exited Leah Goldin's building. Too early to pay Becker & Strauss another visit. Too early for lunch. But Lunz Street was a five-minute walk away, and Haim Sassoon was due back from his army unit that morning, so that was where I went.
Haim Sassoon was so similar to his father, the two might have been cast from the same mold, only twenty-something years apart. Their height and build were almost identical, as were their facial features and hair. But unlike his father's, the skin on Haim's face was unmarked by age or acne scars, giving him a look of youthful innocence.
His father had accompanied me upstairs to his son's apartment. Haim's wife had gone out and taken their baby boy with her, so there were only the three of us. The elder Sassoon and I sat side by side on the sofa while Haim poured coffee into three glasses before taking a chair. The brew had the same scent as the coffee his father had offered me when I visited him—harsh and bitter. I took a careful sip and found that its taste did not stray far from its scent, but both father and son relished it.
Haim Sassoon was in uniform, sleeves rolled up his thin biceps, dog tags hanging on a chain outside his shirt. He had removed his army boots but still had on the thick woolen socks that went with them. He looked tired, as soldiers often do. I told him I was sorry for keeping him from his bed.
He waved a hand. "Don't be. Dad told me what you're doing. I want to help any way I can."
"Good," I said. "You were twelve when the murders took place. You remember the victims?"
"Sure. I used to see them almost every day."
"Did Esther ever talk to you?"
"Oh, sure. She was very nice. Whenever she saw me, she'd ask how I was doing, how was school, things like that. I remember one time I was playing in the street with some friends and Esther walked by. She called out to me and smiled and waved. My friends were full of questions: Who was she? Where did I know her from? How old was she? I felt so proud knowing this beautiful woman." He gave his father a sheepish smile and added by way of explanation, "I was a boy then."
"Did you ever see her with any men?"
"No," Haim said.
"No one you remember hanging around the building?"
No, again.
"Do you remember Alon Davidson?"
"Sure. One time he taught me how to tie a special knot, like they use on boats. For a time, I wanted to be a fisherman when I grew up. First time I stepped on a boat, I got so seasick I thought I might die. That was the end of my sailing dreams."
"Ever see him with Esther when his wife wasn't around?"
He shook his head. I turned to his father, who I could see was frowning at me from his end of the sofa. "How about you?"
"Don't recall seeing them together," the elder Sassoon said stiffly. He obviously did not approve of the implication of my question. "Why are you asking this?"
"Just something I'm trying to clear up," I said, quickly turning back to Haim and changing the subject. "Think back to the day of the murders. Did you see anyone lurking around, someone who didn't belong?"
Haim took a sip of coffee. "I don't remember anyone. I'm sorry." He looked disappointed with himself that he was giving me so little.
"No need to apologize. What about that night, did you hear anything?"
"Just the baby crying."
"What time was this?" I asked, sitting up straight. Nowhere in the police report had this been mentioned.
"I don't know. I didn't check my watch. I just remember waking up and hearing a baby crying. It wasn't unusual. I'm not even sure I told the detective about it at the time. There were two babies in the building: the Davidson kid and Erich Kantor. Babies cry."
"But you remember it still, so something must have been different."
Haim gave a cautious nod. "If it hadn't been on that particular night, I'd probably not remember it at all, but I remember the crying sounded very loud, louder than it usually did. Then it gradually grew softer, and then it died down completely." He paused. His eyes became huge brown orbs. "Died down—you think that what I heard was the baby being killed?"
"I don't know," I answered truthfully. But it fit in with the scenario Rivlin had painted. I could picture the scene: Willie Ackerland is wrenched from sleep by the sound of Esther being slaughtered. He senses the wrongness of the situation and is struck by fear. The fear rises to sheer panic by the sight of the stranger in the room, by the smell of blood. He opens his little mouth and begins shrieking. The sound reaches Haim's ears. It's louder than usual because this is no ordinary crying. Then the killer acts. Maybe he tries putting a hand over Willie's mouth, partially muffling his cries; or maybe he stabs down with his knife. The knife finds the heart and Willie's cries quickly subside in volume as his life flickers out.
So yes, Haim Sassoon indeed might have heard Willie's death cries.
I said, "Are you sure you can't say at what time you heard this? Not even a rough estimate?"
Haim shook his head, his expression close to despair.
"It's all right," I said, warding off the pointless apology or excuse that I could see coming. "You couldn't have known what was happening." I smiled a reassuring smile, but I was cursing inside. If Haim could have told me at what time he'd heard a baby crying, I might have known the exact hour the murders took place. All I had now was the frustrating sense of being close to a crucial piece of information, only to see it slip from my grasp.
"You did good," I told him, feeding him the lie that would make him feel better. "You helped."
"Yeah?" He smiled, relieved.
"Yeah."
I started to get up, extending my hand to him, when I caught a contemplative look on his face.
"What?" I said.
"It's funny, but a memory just popped into my head. I'm not sure how useful you'd find it."
I sat back down, elbows on thighs, hands clasped together between my knees. "Let me hear what it is and I'll decide."
"It was a few days before the murders," Haim said. "I can't say for sure how many. Two, maybe four or five, no more than that. I was walking down Rothschild Boulevard and I saw Esther sitting on a bench. She was talking with a woman—more accurately, the woman was doing most of the talking. She was angry. She wasn't shouting, but I could tell by her gestures."
"Angry with Esther?"