Which was fine by me. There was no other way to make Strauss pay. Leah Goldin would not break down a second time, not after she'd spoken with Strauss—a telephone call that might have been taking place that very moment. I doubted the police would ever question her. They had more pressing matters on their plate than an attempted rape that might have occurred a decade ago, for which no complaint had ever been lodged.
Strauss might also be the killer. True, his wife had provided him with an alibi, but the police had never tested it because Strauss was never considered a suspect. He'd had no motive—until I'd squeezed one out of Leah.
But I had no clear proof that he was the murderer. Strauss might have been guilty of nothing more than attempted rape. If Mira killed him, I might never learn the truth.
And there was another reason why I did not wish to see Mira just then. I suspected that I knew what she'd kept from me, and why she had done so, as well. But I wanted to be sure, to give my mind time to process it.
So I turned left, walking south along the busy western sidewalk of King George. The air carried the mingled odors of exhaust fumes, sunbaked street dust, sweat, and the variety of perfumes and colognes of passing pedestrians. I paused for a split second at the turn to Hamaccabi Street, but decided against going home. I kept on walking, made the turn to Allenby and continued putting one foot ahead of the other till I pushed through the door to Greta's Café.
Inside it was marginally cooler. The ceiling fan rattled its steady rhythm. I mopped my wet forehead with a handkerchief and walked over to the bar. I said hello to Greta and let her pour me a cup of coffee. I carried the coffee and my chessboard to my table.
The place was busy—just one vacant table—so Greta had little time for me. This suited me fine. I wanted to pass a few quiet hours while I let my mind work. This case was nearing its end. I just didn't know whether that end included me catching a murderer or admitting defeat.
I killed a few hours playing chess, smoking a series of cigarettes, and drinking multiple cups of coffee. Patrons came and went. Greta came over to ask how I was, and I told her I was fine, and she had sense enough not to pry. At some point, I pushed the chessboard aside, got out the three pictures I'd been carrying in my pocket, and studied them one after the other. Looking at Esther and Willie, blissfully happy and oblivious to their impending doom, gave me a twinge. I did not want to fail them, but I had a sick feeling that I just might. I spent the most time on the last picture, the one Manny Orrin had taken of Esther hours before she died. I looked at it till my eyes hurt, till I could have described every millimeter of it—the hue of Esther's dress, the tone of her expression, the tilt of her beautiful face, the knobby tree to her left, the bench to her right, the crack in the pavement between her feet, and the people around her, some in focus and some blurred.
When I finally put the picture down, my sight was hazy, and my eyes felt on fire. I clamped them shut, massaging them with the heels of my hands till they no longer burned. Slipping the pictures back in my pocket, my stomach grumbled, and it came to me that I had not eaten in hours. At the bar, I asked Greta for bread and soup and vegetables, then went to the bathroom and washed my face and eyes.
When I emerged from the bathroom, there was a man seated alone at a table in the corner by the window, on the opposite side of the café from the bar. Average height, wiry build, pasty skin, mousy-brown hair that had receded to his crown. He had a beer bottle and glass in front of him.
It took me a second, but then I realized the man had been there moments ago, when I had gone to the bar to order my dinner, an anonymous presence at the edge of my field of vision. He might have been in the café for longer than that. I just hadn't fully noticed him before, focused as I'd been on the pictures.
But I noticed him now.
He sat hunched over his glass, forearms on the table, dressed in black pants and a blue shirt, its sleeves rolled back over his arms. He was staring out the window, so I only had a partial view of his face. But then, as if sensing he was being watched, he swiveled his face my way. His eyes, small and black, glided over me, not stopping till they had swept past me, giving no indication that they had registered my presence. Then he turned his head back to his glass and swallowed some beer.
Greta came out with the food, her eyes searching for me, and I hurried toward her, heart hammering, before she could call my name. With a smile and a thank you, I took the tray, the soup giving off the rich odor of cooked tomatoes. I carried the food back to my table, along the way sneaking a glance at the man.
