Ten Years Gone полностью

It was Sunday, the day of the week on which Henrietta was cleaning the house with a phone in it. I entered a café on Dizengoff Street that had a phone and dialed the number. She answered on the fifth ring.

"Hello," came her voice, tentative and brittle.

"Henrietta, it's Adam Lapid calling in with a report."

"Yes. Yes. Any news?" Her voice had undergone a metamorphosis. Now it was fuller, bolstered by hope.

My mouth opened to deliver the bad news, and in my mind I had already rehearsed what I would say, but no words came out. I could hear her breathing on the other end of the line, and I pictured her pressing the receiver to her ear, eager for the news that would make her life worthwhile again.

"Nothing yet, I'm afraid," I heard myself say. The words sounded strange, as if spoken with another man's voice. "But I'm still working on it."

"Oh. I see." Her disappointment was palpable, and I could scarcely imagine what her reaction would have been had I had the guts to tell her the truth. She also sounded confused, and I could well understand why. I'd told her I would call in two weeks, sooner if I found out anything. Then I had called sooner, but said I had nothing to report. I wished I'd never picked up the phone and wanted to get off the line as fast as possible.

"Anyway. That's what I called to say. I'll call again next week. I hope to have something by then."

I said goodbye and ended the call. Laying down the receiver, I felt like the world's biggest coward. Some hero you are, I thought.

I must have been staring into space, because the bartender snapped his fingers before my eyes. "You okay? Hey, mister, can you hear me?"

I blinked. "Yes. Just daydreaming."

"Yeah. That happens," he said, giving a friendly chuckle. "Hope you were someplace nice. And not so hot."

I forced a smile on my face and told him to get me a beer.

I took the beer to a vacant table and nursed it for the next ten minutes. What had I gained by lying to Henrietta? What good had it done? Her son was still dead, and I would still need to inform her of that fact. Only a quarter of the beer remained when the answer came to me. On some level, I must have known it from the moment I found myself unable to tell her the truth.

I went back to the phone and dialed a number from memory.

"Hello, Reuben," I said when the familiar, warm voice came over the line.

"Adam, how are you?"

I told him I was fine and inquired after himself, his wife, Gila, and his four children.

"Everyone's doing well. Both the goddess and the angels." He laughed at his own description of his wife and children. "You should drop by, the children would love to see you. It's been some time since you last saw them."

A couple of months, I thought, recalling the visit with excruciating clarity. I did not wish to tell Reuben how his children—his lovely, beautiful children—had reminded me of my own.

"Maybe soon," I said, knowing it was likely a lie. "The reason I called is I need a favor."

"If I can help, Adam, you know I will."

"It's about a case. A murder that happened ten years ago."

"Ten years ago? Does this have anything to do with that woman I referred to you?"

"Yes. I found her son."

"I see. I'm sorry to hear that, Adam. Dreadfully sorry. Did I do right when I gave her your name? I wasn't sure, but she seemed hell-bent on keeping on looking."

"Don't worry about it, Reuben. What's done is done. I want to have a look at the investigation report. Can you get it for me?"

"A case that old would have been archived. I'll ask for it and should have it by tomorrow. Unless it got misplaced over the years. I hope it wasn't."

Me too. Because if I don't get that file, I lied to Henrietta Ackerland for nothing.

"The victims' names are Esther and Erich Kantor," I said. "They died on August 26, 1939. The murders took place in Tel Aviv." I explained that the victims were living under false names because they had immigrated to Palestine illegally.

I heard scribbling on his end as he copied the details.

"I'll call the archive right now. If they find it, I'll have it by tomorrow afternoon."

"Thank you, Reuben. I'll come by tomorrow. Give my regards to Gila and the children."

I paid for the call and went back to what was left of my beer. It had gone stale. Like the murder case, most likely. A crime investigation was like that. It started out with plenty of fizz and bubbles, but they quickly evaporated. What was left was a whole lot of stale information that was largely worthless. When a beer got that way, it got poured down a drain. A case was simply put away, to be forgotten or misplaced. Dear God, I hoped it hadn't been misplaced. Because it was no longer forgotten. Because I knew why I had lied to Henrietta Ackerland, why I had refrained from telling her that her son was dead.