The reason was simple: If Esther Grunewald and Willie Ackerland were the random victims of a deranged killer, one who had never killed in a similar fashion before or since, then Rivlin was correct. I had absolutely zero chance of ever catching him.
And I wanted to catch him.
I wanted it even worse than I did the day Mira Roth had informed me of their deaths. Seeing their pictures and reading the details of the injuries they had sustained had made me realize I was chasing a monster the likes of which I had not pursued since my Nazi-hunting days. Whoever did this was evil—the sort of evil most men and women cannot imagine nor fathom. Bringing him to justice would be immensely satisfying.
But catching him hinged on Rivlin being wrong, that this was not a random burglary that had escalated to murder, but a targeted killing. Someone had come to kill Esther Grunewald—or Kantor, the name she had been using. She had to be the primary target, since Willie, a mere baby, was unlikely to have enraged someone sufficiently to target him.
I had to assume this was the case and act accordingly, because if it wasn't, then I had no way to investigate this case, nowhere to even begin. Sitting in that quaint café on Rothschild Boulevard, with the radio piping merry polkas, I decided that someone had come for Esther Grunewald, had come for her personally, and that I was going to find out who it was.
In my notebook I'd listed all the people Rivlin had interviewed ten years ago. I planned on talking to as many of them as were still around. But there were people missing from this list, and there was just one person who could tell me who they were.
Half an hour later, I knocked on her door. She was home. She wore short brown pants and a light-blue work shirt and plain brown sandals, the sort worn by farmers in the Negev. I stared at her legs again. They were long and slender and tanned just a shade lighter than her arms. Her ankles were slim, her feet arched.
Mira Roth did not seem surprised to see me. A small satisfied smile flickered across her thin lips, and her amber eyes glowed like molten steel in the orange sunset light that slanted in through the second-floor landing window. "Come in, Adam."
We walked the few steps to her living room. Neither of us sat. We stood a foot and a half apart, and I caught her scent. Clean and stringent and familiar. She had showered recently, using the rough utilitarian soap the government allotted to each citizen. I used the same kind. If she'd washed her hair, it had had time to dry. It was pulled back, revealing shapely ears without earrings.
"I came by to tell you you got your wish," I said. "I started working on the case."
Her smile broadened by half an inch. "Was I that obvious? What gave me away?"
"A couple of things. I started wondering why you had talked to me at all, especially about something you don't want your boss to know. Then I recalled you making sure I was a private investigator when we spoke outside the salon. It all became clear—you told me about the
"It appears I made the right decision. You're perceptive."
"It wasn't that hard. It's going to take a lot more than that to solve these murders."
"You can do it," she said, her tone completely earnest.
"That's a nice sentiment, but the likelihood of my succeeding is about the same as that of snow falling tomorrow on Allenby Street."
"But you're going to try."
"Yes. But even if by some miracle I manage to discover who killed them, getting proof that will stand up in court is a whole different matter."
"Don't worry about a trial. Just find out who did it and give me his name. I'll take care of the rest."
I stared at her in blank astonishment, trying to see if she really meant what I thought she did. Her tone had been flat, emotionless, and cold. Her face wore an unwavering expression of calm resolve. Her back was as straight and rigid as a sheet of steel. Only her eyes betrayed what she was feeling. A fire raged within them. All doubt was erased. She was deadly serious. I recalled my earlier impression that she was a woman familiar with death. I just hadn't realized she was comfortable with it as well.
"Is that a problem?" she asked.
It took me a second to find my voice, for in that moment she appeared not merely striking but also beautiful. Like a savage warrior woman of some ancient, extinct culture. "No," I said. "It's not a problem."
And it wasn't. For hadn't I taken it upon myself to serve as judge, jury, and executioner during my time in Germany? Was what Mira suggesting so different? If the only way to bring a murderer to justice was to do it yourself, then I was all for it. I just hadn't expected Mira to feel the same way and to express it openly and without reservation.
"I'll need your help," I said.
"How?"
