He hesitated. I explained who I was and that she might have information pertinent to a case I was working on. I assured him that she was in no trouble.
He sighed. "Why should I care if she were? But I do care, even after all these years. Look, Mr. Lapid, I haven't seen or spoken to Shulamit since our divorce. But I've heard that she remarried some years ago and moved to Herzliya. Her husband's name is Ayalon. If you see her…well, I'd prefer it if you don't mention you talked to me."
From a phone in a nearby restaurant, I called the Herzliya town hall and asked a sleepy-voiced male clerk for Shulamit Ayalon's address.
"I'm not allowed to give out that information," the clerk droned in my ear.
"Listen, the reason why I need to find Mrs. Ayalon is for a story I'm working for."
"A story?"
"Yes. I do research for Shmuel Birnbaum at
"Greenspan," he said. Then, suddenly more alert: "Wait a minute. Why do you need my name?"
"So we can cite you in our story as a helpful source—if you can spare the time to find that address for me. Give me your first name, too. Spell it out for me, so I'll know I got it right."
Prompted by the promise of negligible fame, it took Yuram Greenspan less than five minutes to find Shulamit Ayalon's address. "When do you think your story will be published?"
"Anytime in the next thirty days," I told him. "Keep your eyes peeled for it."
After hanging up, I caught a bus downtown, and there switched to another bus that conveyed me the twenty kilometers north to the town of Herzliya.
It was a small town made up of tidy streets with modest one-story houses. It took me less than twenty minutes to locate the Ayalon residence. My knock was answered by a five-foot-five gentle-faced woman with tight brown curls and sloping eyes, cradling a two-year-old boy on her hip. She confirmed that she was indeed Shulamit Ayalon.
"My name is Adam Lapid. I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes about Alon Davidson."
Whatever I was expecting, it wasn't what happened next. Her face, pale enough to begin with, went three shades whiter, and she began trembling. For a moment, I worried she might lose her grip on her son. She looked terrified out of her mind.
"You're a friend of Alon?" she asked, her voice quavering. She took a small step back, arm tightening around her son.
"Hardly," I said. "In fact, I don't like him very much. I'm a private investigator, and I'm working on a case Davidson may be connected to. Do you recall a double murder of a woman and child that took place ten years ago in Tel Aviv?"
I told her a little about the murders, and she said she had a vague recollection of them.
"How awful. You think Alon may have had something to do with it?" She seemed surprised, but certainly not as shocked as she would have been if the notion of Davidson being a killer had struck her as outlandish.
"I was hoping you might be able to help me determine that. You see, Davidson told me he was with you the night the murders took place."
Her cheeks turned pink. "So you know."
"Yes," I said. "But I am not here to judge you, Mrs. Ayalon. All I'm interested in is Alon Davidson."
We were still standing on her threshold. With a sigh, she opened the door wider. "You'd better come in, Mr. Lapid. I don't want my neighbors to catch wind of any of this."
It was a three-room house, and she kept it tidy and neat. She set her boy in a playpen, where he began piling blocks on top of each other, then asked me if I wanted a glass of ice tea. I said that sounded good, and she poured each of us a tall glass.
Sitting across a low table from each other, we each took a sip. I was formulating an opening question, but she beat me to it.
"I met Alon shortly after I moved to Tel Aviv. Ethan—that's my first husband, Ethan Hendleman—was just starting out as a doctor. He worked very long hours, including night and weekend shifts. I had come from a kibbutz and knew no one in Tel Aviv. I was lonely, out of sorts. I think he recognized that in me."
"Davidson?"
She nodded and took a quick, nervous sip from her glass.
"I didn't see it then, of course. What I saw was this tall, imposing, handsome man. The sort of man who could wrap me up in his arms, keep me warm, and protect me from anything. I was surprised he took an interest in me. It was flattering." A pause, another sip. "I didn't plan on being unfaithful to Ethan—I loved him very much—but when Alon put his hands on me, I just didn't say no."
"How long did the affair last?"
"Eighteen months, give or take. We would see each other most weeks, once or twice, on nights when Ethan was at the hospital. I betrayed my husband in our own bed." Her eyes filled up and tears hung on her eyelids before tumbling down her cheeks. She wiped her eyes with the heel of her right hand. "I'm an awful person, aren't I?"
I shook my head. "I don't think so. You're just weak like the rest of us."
