What Davidson had said about the night he forced a kiss on Esther by the docks could explain what Elena Warshavski had claimed she saw. What it couldn't explain was what Leah Goldin had told me. She'd said that Esther had told her she was having an affair with Alon Davidson. So either Esther had lied to Leah at the time, or Davidson had lied to me yesterday, or…I rubbed my face. Someone was lying, and I desperately needed to find out who.
Regardless of whether Davidson and Esther were having an affair, he could have killed her. He had motive. He had opportunity. He knew the layout of the building and the habits of the neighbors. He knew that he would be able to get in and out of the building without being seen. Davidson was vicious and violent and capable of harming women. He had lied about his alibi. He was the best suspect I had.
But if he had been truthful about not having an affair with Esther, it would cast doubt on his guilt. Just as his giving me Shulamit's name and address, despite knowing she was unlikely to speak of him fondly, did not seem like something a guilty man would do. On the other hand, I'd threatened to go to the police if he didn't cooperate.
Shulamit was looking at me, and I recalled that I hadn't answered her last question.
"It's not important," I said, getting to my feet. "Thank you for seeing me."
At the door I turned to her. "I apologize for making you relive painful memories."
"No apology is necessary," she said. "Actually, I want to thank you."
"Thank me?"
"Yes. I feel better now for having talked about those bad times, like a weight's been lifted off me. Do you know what I mean?"
I said that I did, though in truth I did not. How could talking about your awful experiences make you feel anything but lousy?
An hour later, back in Tel Aviv, I found a deserted café with a stooped, hatchet-faced barwoman and a telephone in the rear. It took a while, and a good number of calls, but eventually I managed to find the former manager of Moshe Klinger, back when he'd worked for Tnuva in Haifa.
He had a gruff, well-fed voice, and I could picture him in my mind: tanned skin lined by sun exposure; thick mustache; heavy frame with a bit of a gut, but not soft; thick arms dotted with sunspots; Shorts and sandals and strong legs sporting brown or black curls; and a face that was showing its forty-something years, but might stay that way for the next twenty. His name was Menashe Harel.
"I understand Moshe Klinger worked for you," I said into the mouthpiece.
"Who wants to know?" he demanded. A busy man in the middle of a busy day.
"Sergeant Dov Remez," I said, taking the first name of one government minister and stitching it to the last name of another. "Tel Aviv police."
A long pause. Breathing on the other end. In the background were sounds of men shouting instructions to each other and truck or tractor engines growling. The sounds were muffled, like Harel was in an office in a loading area with the door closed.
"Police? What's this about? Has Moshe done anything?"
"No, Mr. Harel, he's done nothing wrong," I said, aiming for a tone that signaled both assurance and weary impatience. I was committing a crime by impersonating a police officer, but I doubted I would ever be punished for it. Besides, I wanted to get answers quickly, without begging or wheedling, and couldn't think of a better way of getting them. People like Harel have respect for authority. "But his name has come up in connection with an investigation we're running, so I'm doing a little background check on him. Your full cooperation would be appreciated. Now, did Moshe Klinger work for you?"
"Yes, he did," Harel said, eager to help. "But not for, oh, ten years now."
"Yes. That fits in with what we already know," I said. As an interrogator you learn that it's always good to look like you already know a great deal. It makes people less likely to lie or hide things from you. "What exactly were his duties?"
"Driving. He also did some work on vehicles; he was pretty handy with a wrench. But his job was to drive a truck, delivering produce."
"What was his route?"
"He didn't have just one. He'd drive wherever I'd tell him."
"Including Tel Aviv?"
"Sure." A pause. "Listen, Sergeant, Moshe still works for Tnuva. If he's suspected of something, we should—"
"We're interested in Klinger as a potential witness, not a suspect. Tnuva has nothing to worry about. Now tell me, did Klinger's work ever require him to stay the night away from home?"
"On long trips, yes."
"Where would he sleep? Hotels?"
Harel snorted. "Hardly. In the back of his truck, most likely. It's what most drivers do if they don't have family who can put them up for the night. It's not as bad as one might think; I've done it a few times myself over the years."
