"Yes. You brought this on yourself by attacking me. Now answer the goddamn question."
He let out a theatrical sigh. "Fine. I did kiss Esther by the docks, all right? Happy? I admit it. But I didn't have an affair with her."
"What, then?"
Davidson wiped blood off his nose with his hand. "She was something, Esther was. Like one of those models you see in magazines. I wanted her as soon as I saw her. Her being around my wife and our apartment so much didn't make it easy to approach her. I tried catching her eye a few times, to gauge her interest, but I couldn't read her. Then, one evening, as I was starting to head back home from the docks, I saw her getting out of a truck and walking down the street toward me. She was wearing a white summer dress, showing her legs. Beautiful. We got to talking and then I kissed her. I just pulled her to me and kissed her."
Beside me Greta let out a small sound. I didn't turn to look at her. I kept my eyes on Davidson, feeling my anger toward him mount.
Davidson licked his lips, as if reliving the kiss. Then he grimaced. "The bitch slapped me. She told me I should be ashamed of myself, me a married man with a wife and baby at home. I told her I couldn't get her out of my mind. She told me to forget about it, that it was never going to happen. She said even if she wasn't friends with my wife, I had no chance with her." He gritted his teeth and the anger he must have felt ten years ago was still there, like glowing coals ready to be stoked to flame. "She looked at me like I was dirt."
"It got you mad, didn't it?" I said. "That she rejected you like that?"
He didn't answer, but the hateful expression on his face was answer enough.
"Getting slapped, that must have made you mad. Bet you were itching to return the favor."
"I told you I don't hit women," Davidson said, not denying he'd had the urge to do just that.
"What about slashing their throat? Ever find yourself doing that?"
He stared at me. "Huh? What the hell are you talking about?"
"Did you kill her because she turned you down? Or was it because you were scared she'd tell your wife?"
"I didn't kill Esther."
"And why did you cut her face? So she'd be ugly in death? Was that a part of your revenge? Why kill the baby?"
"I didn't kill them, I tell you." He was shouting now, face taut and eyes blazing. His words bounced off the walls, hanging in the air like a death cry. Beside me I could hear Greta breathing sharp and fast. Michael, on the other hand, was unmoved by this outburst. He held a cigarette loosely between two fingers, his posture loose and relaxed.
I said nothing. Davidson, his face softening to a triumphant smile, leaned back in his chair. "The police questioned me about Esther ten years ago. I had an alibi. I was on—"
"Your boat," I said. "I know. I read the report."
"Then why are you making these stupid accusations? You know I couldn't have done it."
"You were on your boat with someone, am I right?"
"Yes. A fellow fisherman. We were out all night at sea."
"Saul Mercer?"
He hesitated, but could see no harm in answering. "Yes. Saul Mercer."
"He's a friend of yours."
"Well, yes. Yes, he is."
"He must be a good friend, twice he got you out of trouble with the law."
Davidson sat as still as a boulder. His mouth had dropped open in the shape of an O, like a train tunnel going into his big head.
"I asked a policeman friend of mine to run a check on you. He told me how one time you got in a bar fight and cut a man up pretty badly after an argument about a woman. Did you use this knife here, or one just like it?"
"I was defending myself," Davidson said. "He came at me with—"
"A bottle. Yes, I know. That's the story you told. You and Saul Mercer. The same man who said he was with you on your boat the night someone took a knife to the woman who spurned you and her baby."
Davidson opened his mouth to speak, but I waved a hand, cutting him off.
"The cops who questioned you about that bar fight did not think to check whether Saul Mercer was in the habit of covering up for you. And the detective who investigated the double murder ten years ago had no reason to suspect that Mercer was lying about your alibi. What do you think would happen if I go to the police and enlighten them? They'll pay Mercer a visit. They'll lean on him. Ask him if he was one hundred percent sure you were on that boat with him that night. What do you think he'll do? Maybe he'll stick up for you. Or maybe he'll say he made a mistake, that he got the dates mixed up. It could happen to anyone, nothing sinister about it. Maybe he'll leave you with no alibi. What do you think?"
Davidson's mouth dropped open further. Big as he was, he no longer looked intimidating.
"All that would be left for the cops to see is a man with a reason to get back at Esther Kantor, a man in the habit of cutting people with a knife."
He swallowed so hard it was audible.
"So tell me, Alon. Where were you really that night?"
I'd been putting on an act this past minute or so, ever since I'd mentioned Saul Mercer. Because if Davidson had indeed been on that boat, then nothing I'd said would have any effect on him. He would—smugly, no doubt—inform me that his friend would vouch for him. Which he might well do, even if he were lying. But I could see no other way to shake his alibi, to shake him. I'd rolled the dice and was now waiting to see what numbers came up.
For a long moment Davidson didn't speak. Then he averted his eyes, cleared his throat, and said in a low voice, "I was with a woman."
"What was that? Speak louder."
He raised his eyes. "I was with a woman, you little turd. You happy?"
"That night? The night Esther and Erich were killed?"
"Yes. Saul and I, we cover for each other sometimes. We tell our wives we're on the boat together overnight, but one of us stays ashore and spends the night with another woman."
I noticed he used the present tense, meaning that he cheated on his wife regularly and had done so for at least ten years. My hands were below the table, bunched into fists. Natalie Davidson had defended her husband and tried covering up for him by lying to me. He didn't deserve her love. He didn't deserve her.
"So you were cheating on your wife, just not with Esther?"
"Yes," he said.
"You were with this woman all night?"
"I was at her place until four or five in the morning. Then I went to the docks to wait for Saul to bring the boat in."
"Are you still seeing this woman?"
He shook his head. "I got tired of her. You know how it is." And the lowlife actually grinned a man-to-man grin at me, showing his big teeth. Still grinning, his eyes drifted, passing over Greta as if she weren't there, and came to rest on Michael's face. Michael did not smile back. Instead, he eyed Davidson with such cold menace that the smile melted off Davidson's face like ice cream in an oven.
I could guess what was going through Michael's mind. Probably something similar to what was going through mine. He had lost his wife like I had lost mine, and he'd probably do anything to get her back—just as I would have done anything to be reunited with my Deborah. And here was this lucky moron with a loving wife and three children with a fourth on the way, and it wasn't enough for him. He was willing to risk it all for a thrill. Not only that, but he was actually gloating about how little he cared for his lover. No wonder Michael looked on the verge of beating him up again.
"Michael," I said, and when his eyes turned my way, I could tell he got my message. Calm down. Don't go crazy now.
Michael nodded and dropped his cigarette to the floor, crushing it with his foot. Then he jerked his eyes to Greta, sending her an apologetic look for dirtying her floor.
"I need this woman's name," I said.