So that was the real reason why Rivlin had not included Elena's sighting of Esther and Davidson in his report. Since he did not believe Natalie Davidson could have done the killing, and since Alon Davidson had been alibied, Rivlin saw no benefit in recording Elena's testimony. But he could still parlay the testimony into cash. That greedy drunken excuse for a detective. I regretted not punching him when I had the chance.
I looked at Davidson. Michael had hurt him good. By tomorrow that eye would be swollen halfway shut, and his nose and head would probably hurt him for days. But it wasn't enough. Not by a long shot.
"Anything else?" I asked, looking at Michael and Greta. Both shook their heads, Greta looking a little surprised at my question.
Davidson, following this, said, "Good. Then we're done here, right? I'll head on home. Hopefully my wife's had time to cool down."
I turned my eyes once more to Davidson. Despite the bruises and caked blood on his face, he looked self-assured, smug. In some perverted way, his telling us about his mistress had boosted his self-esteem. He'd shown us what a man he was, and he was feeling good about it. No. What Michael had done to him wasn't nearly enough.
"Just a minute. There's one last thing I'd like to get straight: You said you were going to teach me a lesson, is that right?"
Davidson smiled. "That's right."
"By giving me a beating."
"Yes. And I did, didn't I? Before your friend came along to save you."
I pointed at the knife. "A knife isn't used for beating. What were you planning on doing to me?"
Davidson licked his lips. A look of wariness came to his eyes. "To scare you a little, that's all. So you would stay away from me and my wife."
"I think you're lying. You said you were going to hurt me, not scare me."
"That was just talk. Swear to God."
"You weren't going to cut me up?"
He shook his head. He looked worried all of a sudden. Something he saw in my eyes or heard in my voice made him reassess the situation. He sensed trouble.
I got to my feet. It was a process. First I sat forward; then I placed both hands on the table and used them to push myself up. I stood still for a few heartbeats, my head swimming. When I felt relatively steady again, I slipped the damp cloth with which Greta had cleaned my wound off the table and, walking slowly around the table with my hands behind my back, wrapped the cloth tightly around my right fist, padding the knuckles. Davidson watched me approach, a frown on his face. I must have looked like I was about to fall down at any second. With my legs all wobbly and shaky, that was how I felt.
"Hold on now," he started saying. "Just hold—"
I cut him off. "I think you were going to use your knife on me, but I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. That said, I'm certain you were aiming to hurt me pretty badly. Knock some of my teeth out, probably. Maybe do something even worse. Leave your mark on me somehow." Another step and I was in front of his chair. "I can't just let you get away with it without paying you back myself."
"Just a minute." He began pushing himself up, raising his hands to defend himself.
"Sit down!" Michael ordered.
Davidson's eyes jumped from me to Michael, and in that moment I brought my right fist from behind my back and, putting my entire body behind it, landed it right on the side of his mouth.
His head snapped sideways and the rest of him followed, toppling out of his chair and onto the floor like a felled tree. The blow jarred my arm all the way to my shoulder and my knuckles felt as if they'd been stepped on. Tugging the cloth loose from around my knuckles, I was gratified to see my hand wasn't bleeding. Flexing my fingers to alleviate the pain, I watched as Davidson laboriously raised himself to hands and knees. Blood dripped from his mouth. He shook his head, coughed, and spat some more of it out. Something white glistened among the blood on Greta's floor.
"Help me throw him out," I told Michael.
We each grabbed Davidson under one arm and dragged him to the door. Outside, we dragged him a few doors away and leaned him against a wall. His mouth was a mess, but he was conscious and breathing as well as could be expected. I crouched beside him, bringing my face close to his, our eyes at the same level.
"If you ever try to hurt me again, you'll lose more than your teeth. Understand? Be grateful I don't want to leave your wife without a husband and your children without a father. Now get up and go home. Be gone in five minutes, or I might change my mind and let you have some more."
I rose and Michael and I went back into Greta's café.
Inside, Greta was busy with a bucket and mop, cleaning the mess on her floor.
"Here, let me do it," I said, reaching for the mop.
She waved me off. "You're in no condition to do anything but go home and sleep. Sure you don't need a doctor?"
