"You want to ask me questions, she and him have to be around to hear me answer them?"
"Yes. You brought this on yourself by attacking me. Now answer the goddamn question."
He let out a theatrical sigh. "Fine. I did kiss Esther by the docks, all right? Happy? I admit it. But I didn't have an affair with her."
"What, then?"
Davidson wiped blood off his nose with his hand. "She was something, Esther was. Like one of those models you see in magazines. I wanted her as soon as I saw her. Her being around my wife and our apartment so much didn't make it easy to approach her. I tried catching her eye a few times, to gauge her interest, but I couldn't read her. Then, one evening, as I was starting to head back home from the docks, I saw her getting out of a truck and walking down the street toward me. She was wearing a white summer dress, showing her legs. Beautiful. We got to talking and then I kissed her. I just pulled her to me and kissed her."
Beside me Greta let out a small sound. I didn't turn to look at her. I kept my eyes on Davidson, feeling my anger toward him mount.
Davidson licked his lips, as if reliving the kiss. Then he grimaced. "The bitch slapped me. She told me I should be ashamed of myself, me a married man with a wife and baby at home. I told her I couldn't get her out of my mind. She told me to forget about it, that it was never going to happen. She said even if she wasn't friends with my wife, I had no chance with her." He gritted his teeth and the anger he must have felt ten years ago was still there, like glowing coals ready to be stoked to flame. "She looked at me like I was dirt."
"It got you mad, didn't it?" I said. "That she rejected you like that?"
He didn't answer, but the hateful expression on his face was answer enough.
"Getting slapped, that must have made you mad. Bet you were itching to return the favor."
"I told you I don't hit women," Davidson said, not denying he'd had the urge to do just that.
"What about slashing their throat? Ever find yourself doing that?"
He stared at me. "Huh? What the hell are you talking about?"
"Did you kill her because she turned you down? Or was it because you were scared she'd tell your wife?"
"I didn't kill Esther."
"And why did you cut her face? So she'd be ugly in death? Was that a part of your revenge? Why kill the baby?"
"I didn't kill them, I tell you." He was shouting now, face taut and eyes blazing. His words bounced off the walls, hanging in the air like a death cry. Beside me I could hear Greta breathing sharp and fast. Michael, on the other hand, was unmoved by this outburst. He held a cigarette loosely between two fingers, his posture loose and relaxed.
I said nothing. Davidson, his face softening to a triumphant smile, leaned back in his chair. "The police questioned me about Esther ten years ago. I had an alibi. I was on—"
"Your boat," I said. "I know. I read the report."
"Then why are you making these stupid accusations? You know I couldn't have done it."
"You were on your boat with someone, am I right?"
"Yes. A fellow fisherman. We were out all night at sea."
"Saul Mercer?"
He hesitated, but could see no harm in answering. "Yes. Saul Mercer."
"He's a friend of yours."
"Well, yes. Yes, he is."
"He must be a good friend, twice he got you out of trouble with the law."
Davidson sat as still as a boulder. His mouth had dropped open in the shape of an O, like a train tunnel going into his big head.
"I asked a policeman friend of mine to run a check on you. He told me how one time you got in a bar fight and cut a man up pretty badly after an argument about a woman. Did you use this knife here, or one just like it?"
"I was defending myself," Davidson said. "He came at me with—"
"A bottle. Yes, I know. That's the story you told. You and Saul Mercer. The same man who said he was with you on your boat the night someone took a knife to the woman who spurned you and her baby."
Davidson opened his mouth to speak, but I waved a hand, cutting him off.
"The cops who questioned you about that bar fight did not think to check whether Saul Mercer was in the habit of covering up for you. And the detective who investigated the double murder ten years ago had no reason to suspect that Mercer was lying about your alibi. What do you think would happen if I go to the police and enlighten them? They'll pay Mercer a visit. They'll lean on him. Ask him if he was one hundred percent sure you were on that boat with him that night. What do you think he'll do? Maybe he'll stick up for you. Or maybe he'll say he made a mistake, that he got the dates mixed up. It could happen to anyone, nothing sinister about it. Maybe he'll leave you with no alibi. What do you think?"
Davidson's mouth dropped open further. Big as he was, he no longer looked intimidating.
"All that would be left for the cops to see is a man with a reason to get back at Esther Kantor, a man in the habit of cutting people with a knife."
He swallowed so hard it was audible.
"So tell me, Alon. Where were you really that night?"
