Before he could formulate an excuse why that was not possible, I uttered a relieved thank you, took a decisive step forward, and pushed the door open, brushing past him into the apartment. I cast my eyes quickly about the room. I had three seconds, no more, before he recovered from my brusque entry.
Everything seemed perfectly ordinary. A dining table on the right. A radio on the left. A big leafy potted plant by the door to the balcony. A sofa, rug, and two padded chairs. Heavy gray curtains on the windows. Bookshelves.
Wait. Eyes back. There, just visible on the floor behind the potted plant. A camera, with an elongated lens like a snout. I moved left for a better view. Black with a chrome top, with the name KODAK stenciled across the front. Sleek, elegant, professional.
The thought flashed through my mind: Camera lens. Blinding light reflected off glass. And right across Lunz Street, clearly visible from the nearby window, was the apartment where the murders had taken place, where I had stood ninety minutes before.
Turning to the man, I said, "You like spying on people, Mr. Orrin?"
He just stood there in the open doorway, gawping at me. His mouth hung open and the tip of his tongue lay pink and quivering across his lower lip like a beached salmon.
I noticed other things. Photographs, a great many of them, adorning the walls—of people, trees, and buildings in Tel Aviv, and of the sun setting into the Mediterranean. Quality photographs.
"You're a photographer?"
Orrin swallowed, recovering from his shock. "I don't take kindly to people who barge into my home. I would like you to leave."
"No," I said simply.
"No?" He became flustered, agitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His top lip glistened with fresh sweat.
"Not until you answer my question: Are you a photographer?"
"Ah, yes," he stammered. "I own a photography studio."
"And you're sure you never heard about the two murders that occurred in that building right across the street?"
Orrin rubbed his hands together nervously. "Well, now that I've had time to think about it, I do remember something. Not the details, you understand, just the general fact that it happened."
"So a moment ago you had no recollection of it and now you suddenly do?" I had pitched my voice intentionally lower and narrowed my eyes threateningly.
"Yes," he said, and offered a self-deprecating smile that served only to make him look more insincere, "I'm afraid my memory is weak and—"
Ignoring him, I knelt down and grabbed the camera from the floor.
"Put that down! That's mine!" His voice came in a screech. He rushed at me, arms reaching forward, fingers curled like claws. Rising to my full height, I thrust one hand on his sunken chest and shoved him away. He fell on his ass and back, yelping in pain. I strode to the door and shut it and turned the key in its lock. This might take some time, and I did not want interruptions. I flipped the camera over and rewound and extracted the film. I set the camera on a table and weighed the film in my hand.
Suddenly, I heard a scuffing sound and sensed motion coming from behind. I instinctively jerked my head aside. The candlestick Orrin wielded swished past my ear and smashed into the wall, gouging an ugly trench in the flowery wallpaper.
I whipped around and sank my fist in his gut, just under the belly button. He was soft around the middle, and my punch folded him in half, knocking the air out of him. He crumpled to the floor, clutching his abdomen. The candlestick clattered on the tiles beside him. I set my foot on it, holding it down.
Taking another quick look out the window and across the street, I saw the living room of apartment six in Mr. Sassoon's building, where his son, Haim, lived with his wife and baby boy. The same apartment where Esther and Willie had lived.
I gazed down at Manny Orrin. He was lying on his back, breathing hard, his cheeks flushed with effort and pain. I loomed over him, holding the film so he could see it. “What’s on this that’s worth bashing my head in?”
Orrin didn't answer, so I prodded his side with the tip of my shoe. He cringed.
Looking at his miserable face, it came to me. “You like taking pictures of women? Is that what’s on this film?”
By the way his eyes dilated, I could tell I’d guessed right.
"Get up! On your feet!" I held out a hand to help him up. His palm was cold and clammy. I resisted the urge to rub my hand on my pants. "Where are the rest of the photos? Where do you keep them?" For there were more, of that I was sure.
"You have no right to touch my possessions." His whining tone grated on my ears.
"Where are they?" I growled. "Either show me, or I'll hit you again."
