"Where can I find Sergeant Shabtai Rivlin?" I asked Reuben in his office, handing him the investigation file.
Reuben set the folder aside on his desk. He picked up the phone, dialed an internal extension, and asked if Rivlin was around. A moment later he hung up. "There's a café near the corner of Lillenblum and Rishonim. You should be able to find him there. You can't miss him. He's bald and got a big mustache."
"All right. I'll find him."
I thanked Reuben and made my way to Lillenblum Street. I found the café easily enough and spotted Shabtai Rivlin within two seconds of stepping inside. Reuben's description was dead-on. Rivlin had a brush mustache the color of mud and a bald scalp that glistened like the belly of a fish. He wore a blue shirt with rolled-up sleeves, pants that were also blue, but a shade darker, and black loafers that had not been shined since the reign of King David. He was the only person at the bar, the other three patrons split between two tables. He sat stooped over a quarter-full glass of red wine, almost like he was praying to it.
I walked up to him. "Sergeant Rivlin?"
His weary face turned to me, and it took less than the blink of the eye for me to peg him as a drunk. It didn't make me a master of observation or deduction. The burst of red capillaries on his bulbous nose and the alcoholic flush in his cheeks were a dead giveaway. Add to that the fact that his bleary eyes were equal parts brown, white, and red, and that the stink of alcohol hung around him like a shroud, and the dismal, depressing picture was clear. Sergeant Shabtai Rivlin was a drunk and had been one for quite some time. It was affecting his health. There were purple bags under his eyes, and the skin on his face had a grayish tint. He was paunchy and jowly. His bent posture made it difficult to determine his height. He looked like he had poison running through his veins, which, I supposed, was more true than not.
"Who are you?" he asked me in a gruff voice, though I noticed his speech was not slurred. He was drunk, but not out of it. What remained to be seen was what sort of drunk he was.
"My name is Adam Lapid. I'd like to ask you some questions if you have a moment."
"I don't. I'm busy." He gave a chuckle that sounded like a raven's squawk. "Can't you tell?"
So not a gregarious drunk. A nasty one.
A lanky, balding bartender was watching the two of us with obvious interest from across the bar. I said to him, "One more glass of wine for him. And bring me one as well."
I eased myself onto the stool beside Rivlin's. He said nothing. The only way I could tell he had heard me make the order was that he emptied his glass and pushed it aside.
The bartender placed two glasses before us. I left mine untouched. Rivlin lifted his. He didn't bother with a toast or a thank you, just took a long slurp. Only after he had swallowed and dried his mouth with the back of his hand did he deign to look at me.
"Who did you say you were?"
"Don't give me that," I said. "You heard my name just fine."
Rivlin nodded, possibly in grudging respect, though I couldn't say for sure. "Well, what do you want?"
"To talk to you about a case you worked on."
"A case? Why do you want to talk about a case?"
"I'm a private investigator."
"Oh, one of those." He chuckled again, favoring me with a derisive grin. His breath was awful. "You think I have time for jokers? I'm a police detective, not some amateur. Go bother someone else." With that he turned back to his glass and took another swallow.
I thought of telling him I'd learned his whereabouts from a fellow policeman, but decided not to. I doubted it would make him more receptive to my questions, and it might get Reuben into trouble. Besides, I had another way to win him over.
"Put the bottle on the bar," I told the bartender, "and step away so we can talk in private."
The bartender didn't appear to be thrilled about the second part, but the look I gave him convinced him it was a good idea. He brought the bottle over and moved away to the far end of the bar. I refilled Rivlin's glass. He considered it for a long moment, his hairy forearms forming a triangle on the bar top, fingers laced. "All right," he finally said. "You bought yourself a minute. What case are you interested in?"
"A murder you worked ten years ago."
He stiffened. By no more than an inch, but I still caught it.
"You expect me to remember a case from ten years ago. Are you crazy?"
"It's not the sort of murder you're likely to forget."
When Rivlin faced me this time, his eyes were no longer bleary. He was looking at me—really looking—for the first time since I approached him. I wondered what he was searching for. I wondered what he ended up seeing.
"Maybe I'm a forgetful guy."
I shook my head. "You know the case I'm talking about. August 1939. Lunz Street. Two victims. A woman and a baby. Do I need to remind you what he did to their faces? Their eyes?"
