"It's good that you've come," she said, eying me up and down and nodding once, as if in approval. "I've been sitting on my porch for the past hour, watching you walk in and out of one building after the next, and I asked myself, Elena, what is this serious-faced man up to? And when is he going to come up here and tell me? But where are my manners? Come in, come in. Let's go sit on the balcony."
She led the way through a cozy living room to her sun-bathed balcony and gestured toward one of the two wicker chairs that stood by a round table, which carried a pitcher of lemonade, two glasses, and a plate of rugelach. My nose told me the rugelach were freshly baked. My mouth watered. I swallowed the excess saliva. Elena noticed and laughed.
"Go on. Take one. Or two. A big man like you—one would hardly suffice."
I took two rugelach and ate them with greater speed than good manners would tolerate. The outer shell was crispy, but the soft dough inside fairly melted on my tongue, filling my mouth with the taste of cinnamon and butter. Elena had dotted each rugelach with raisins, and these had puffed up in her oven, popping like hot balloons when I broke their skin with my teeth.
"Good, huh?" said Elena with obvious relish. "Here, try the lemonade."
She poured me a tall glass and I took a big gulp. The lemonade was tasty and cold and very sweet. I raised an eyebrow.
"You've either been saving up your sugar rations or you have a good black-market supplier."
Elena poured herself a glass and sat down. "Don't tell me you're one of those government hounds always sticking their snouts into other people's business."
"Do I look like one?"
"I wouldn't have invited you up here if you did. When I first saw you from my balcony, I thought you might be a salesman. But you weren't
"What do I look like?"
"I can't say, and that's difficult to admit because I fancy myself a good judge of people." She raised her glass and took a sip. "What do I look like?"
"A teacher," I said.
Elena stared at me, eyebrows elevated.
I offered a smile. "Those pictures of you and your students were pretty hard to miss."
She turned her eyes in the direction of her living room, where the pictures I'd referenced filled up one wall. Then she burst out laughing. Her laughter was rolling and musical, and my smile stretched wider in response to it.
She set her glass on the table and dabbed her eyes with a napkin. "Nicely done, Adam. You don't mind if I call you Adam, do you?" I shook my head. "And you must call me Elena. You're right, of course. I am a teacher. Have been one for the past thirty-six years. Geography and history and Hebrew. You get top marks for your deduction skills." She folded her napkin and laid it on the table. "But I notice you have some pictures of your own with you."
I had set the stack of pictures I'd taken from Manny Orrin upside down on the table. I peeled off the top one and handed it to her. She lodged her eyeglasses on the bridge of her nose and studied the picture.
"My God, it's her."
"You remember her?"
Instead of answering, she said, "Can I see another one?"
I handed another picture over. This one had been taken two days before Esther's death and, like the former, it was a street shot, not one taken inside her apartment. Fortunately, Elena did not ask me where I got the pictures.
She glanced at the photo and let out a deep sigh. "Yes. It's definitely her. Poor girl. What was her name? It's on the tip of my tongue."
"Esther Kantor," I said, giving Esther's false name.
Elena handed the pictures back and removed her eyeglasses from her nose. They dangled from their cord, resting against her chest. "Yes. Now I remember. I remember how shocked I was hearing what had happened to her and her baby."
"So you lived here at the time of the murders?"
"Yes. I've been living in this apartment for fourteen years now."
"And you knew Esther?"
"Not really. We exchanged pleasantries once or twice when we passed each other on the street. That's about it. Are you a relative?"
"No. I'm a private investigator. I was hired to look into the murders, to see if by some chance I can find out who committed them."
"A private investigator. I don't believe I ever met one before. So that's what you were doing here today."
"I was hoping to find neighbors who remember Esther, who knew her."
"Did you find any?"
"Almost none. Some people remembered the murders, but that's about it. The only person who had any meaningful contact with Esther is Mr. Sassoon, her landlord."
"I know him. He's a nice man."
"But even he says he didn't know her well. He told me that Esther was friendly with one of his former tenants. Natalie Davidson. You know her?"
Elena pursed her lips. She picked up a rugelach and nibbled on its edge, averting her eyes to look across Lunz Street.
"What is it, Elena?"
