There was a metallic taste in my mouth and my muscles were tense. A part of me wanted to hit him. Another part pitied him. He was a lost man. But he didn't feel like a killer to me.
I took a deep breath. "All right. I believe you. Let me ask you something: When you followed Esther to take your pictures, did you see her with anyone? A man?"
"No. But I didn't follow her all the time, just a little."
"Where are the negatives?" I asked.
They were stored in the final two albums on the top shelf, all neatly labeled. I removed the ones holding Esther's image and put them in my pocket.
"I'm taking these too," I said, gathering the pictures on the bed.
"What? No. Please, don't."
I gave him a stare that made him wilt in his seat.
His voice was beseeching. "Can't you leave me with one? Just one?"
"You had no right to take them. They're not yours." And this, I realized, was how I would punish him, by taking away all his favorite photos.
I glanced at the other albums. I couldn't carry them all with me, nor all the pictures in them—even the stack of Esther's photos was too big to stick in my pants pockets, so I had to hold them in my left hand. But I could do something else. I flipped through all the albums, copying down the names of the women Orrin had photographed over the years. There were over twenty names. If any of these women had been murdered, no matter how, Manny Orrin was my man. If not, then I could be fairly certain my instincts had not failed me.
Orrin didn't ask me what I was doing, but sat quietly through all this, shoulders hunched, thin hands in his lap.
I wasn't sure what else I should do with him. I could sic the police on him, but whatever crime they charged him with would be minor. Maybe he would just pay a fine. Maybe he'd spend a few nights in jail. Neither would do anyone much good.
"I'll be keeping my eye on you," I lied. "If I catch you taking pictures of any more women, I'll pay you another visit. I will hurt you badly."
A shudder went through him. He said nothing. I had no idea if he'd heed my warning. He might try to, but his cravings might prove too powerful for him to resist for long.
That wasn't my concern. I was after a killer, not a Peeping Tom. I left him sitting in his mother's chair in her frozen-in-time room. On the way out, I grabbed his camera. I tossed it into a garbage bin on the street. Let him buy another. This one was tainted.
I had knocked on just over two-thirds of the doors on Lunz Street, but after visiting Manny Orrin, I couldn't bring myself to knock on a single one more. I had been climbing stairs and knocking on doors and talking to neighbors for over two hours, and I wanted to get off my feet. In addition, I was clutching a stack of photographs in my hand, and it was uncomfortable to walk around with it.
Ten seconds after tossing Manny Orrin's camera in the trash, while I was briskly walking west in the direction of Rothschild Boulevard, where I planned to grab a bite and a cold drink, I heard a lilting female voice that was five levels too cheery for my mood.
"Yoo-hoo, young man. Yoo-hoo."
It took me a second or two to realize it was addressing me. I turned and tilted my head back to see where the voice was coming from.
"Over here. Yoo-hoo."
She was standing on a second-floor balcony in the building I had just walked past, waving a large straw hat to catch my attention. A chubby middle-aged woman, a little on the short side, gray-haired and round-faced, flashing a smile as big as a house.
"Leaving so soon?"
I frowned in bemusement. I didn't know this woman and was sure we'd never met before.
"Don't go just yet. I got some rugelach and lemonade here for you. Come on up."
I hesitated. A moment ago I couldn't wait to get out of Lunz Street, but the urgency had been replaced by curiosity. It wasn't every day that I got called up by total strangers to partake of rugelach and lemonade. Especially not when I was hungry and thirsty.
"Coming up," I called back to her.
She stuck her straw hat on her head and clapped once in merriment, like a girl fifty years younger.
"Wise decision. Apartment four." Then she vanished from sight, presumably to open the door for me.
I took the stairs, feeling somewhat silly and amused with myself. She was standing at the door, and I saw she was possessed of kind gray eyes, plump cheeks, and extensive smile lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes. She was smiling now, and her smile exuded warmth and welcome. A pair of glasses dangled from a cord around her neck. Her dress was light gray, with a large pocket across its center. Her shoes were brown and sensible. She had pulled her hair back in a bun, and her ears were studded with tiny silver earrings. She held herself with poise and elegance and extended her hand for me to shake much as a man would.
"Elena Warshavski."
"Adam Lapid."
I clasped her hand in mine, and she gave it a single resolute pump before releasing it.
