"Perfect sense," Greta said. "You feel like you're chasing a ghost."
"Maybe you're right. Maybe that's it."
"And deep down you know that ghosts cannot be caught."
I looked at her and got the impression that the sorrow in her face was not limited to Esther and Willie and Henrietta, that some of it was meant for me. She reached her big hand across the table and laid it on mine. Her palm was warm, her fingers strong as they closed around my hand. Her blue eyes radiated kindness. "You're afraid she'll haunt you, aren't you? Esther Grunewald. That if you don't catch the killer, she will never let you be."
I swallowed hard, knowing Greta was right. I had enough ghosts haunting me already. I did not want another one to invade my dreams. The thing was, the more I learned about Esther Grunewald, the fuller her shape and character became in my mind, and the less I wanted to fail her. If I did not bring her killer to justice, maybe one day soon she'd start to appear in my dreams, like the family I'd once had and failed to protect or avenge.
"Am I that easy to read?" I asked.
"You do have an expressive face, Adam. What about the baby? Are you worried he'll haunt you, too?"
I considered her question for a moment, then shook my head. "I don't think so. Willie Ackerland is just as much a victim as Esther was, but I know almost nothing about him besides what he looked like in his photographs. My mental image of him is far hazier than Esther's. She's the one I'm worried about."
Greta squeezed my hand once and let go. My hand felt cold without her enveloping fingers.
"But you're still not done, so don't despair. Maybe something will pop up. Now let's talk of more pleasant things. Mira Roth. Tell me more about her."
I had kept my description of Mira to a minimum when I told Greta about the case, but it appeared that she had seen something in my face or perhaps heard it in my voice, when I spoke about her. So I told her a little more about Mira, how she looked, what she'd done for the Irgun, her desire to punish the killer herself. As Greta listened, the corners of her mouth curled upward into a smile.
"What?"
Her smile broadened. "I'm simply enjoying hearing you talk about her. You like her quite a bit, don't you? She appeals to you. Good. I think that's very good."
Suddenly I felt embarrassed, like a self-conscious boy caught staring at a pretty girl. "Don't get your hopes up, Greta."
"Why not? Up is where hopes are supposed to be. What should we hope for? To be down?"
"You know what I mean."
"I do, Adam. I do." Her smile had gone and the sadness was back in her eyes. "But it's all right to hope. You know that, Adam, don't you?"
I didn't tell her that in my experience hopes usually ended up being dashed.
"Do you still think she's keeping something from you?" she asked.
"Mira?"
"Yes."
I nodded. "That's the way it feels to me. Though what it might be, I cannot imagine."
"It seems odd, given how much she wants you to catch this killer."
"That's the thing I don't understand myself."
We talked some more and gradually the conversation shifted from the case to mundane things. I told her about Erwin Goldberg and the books he'd sold me. She told me about a government inspector who'd come nosing around the café, hoping to catch her using black-market food in the kitchen. "The man must have been blind. There were all these restricted items spread out on the work counter and he didn't see them. Just shook my hand and thanked me for being a good citizen."
After a while, she remarked that the water in the bowl I'd brought her had gotten cold. I fetched her a towel to dry her feet. After she'd put on her socks and shoes, she asked me if I might help her to tidy the place up. I turned the chairs over on the tables and swept and mopped the floor while she washed, dried, and put away the dishes. We worked in companionable silence and had the place clean and ready for tomorrow's business in a little over thirty minutes.
"I still have some accounts I want to go over," Greta said. "Come. I'll see you out."
At the door I turned to her and gazed into her compassionate blue eyes that stared right back at me. I wanted to say something, maybe thank her for taking the time to listen to me ramble, and was forming the words in my mind, when she held up a hand. "It's all right, Adam. You go on home now. Sleep tight."
We said goodnight and I stepped out onto Allenby Street. The street was deserted, all the shops and restaurants and cafés closed for the night. Darkness blanketed doorways and storefronts where light from streetlamps failed to reach. A solitary car cruised by, its engine humming. Then it made the turn onto Sheinkin Street and was gone, leaving an empty road behind.
