"You son of a bitch," he growled, slicing the distance between us, and I could tell he had just one thing on his mind. I would have stepped back from the bedroom doorway, but I didn't want him to see the hole in the wall and what was in it.

I wished I had the gun in my hand. I couldn't see how this would end peacefully without it. Even worse, being in the doorway meant my range of motion was limited; without being able to fully swing my arms, I couldn't throw a proper punch. The man suffered no such handicap. He pulled his right arm back and launched a sweeping roundhouse that might have taken my head clean off if it connected. Luckily, he wasn't quick, and I ducked under his swing. I could feel the air splitting as his fist sailed a couple of inches above my head.

Then came a solid thump followed by a loud howl of pain. The man stumbled backward, clutching his right hand in his left, his ugly face a mask of agony. A sideways glance showed me what had happened. A fist-sized crater marked the door jamb about the height of my head. Cracks spread from the crater like fissures in dry earth.

So much for my lamenting the fact that I was standing in a doorway. I couldn't have chosen a better position.

The man was breathing hard and moaning, but he wasn't out of commission yet. The bastard was actually flexing his fingers, testing them. He must have had steel for bones.

Before he could recover further, I went at him, giving him a quick one-two punch right in the middle of his big belly. My bruised knuckles screamed, but it was worse for the other guy. The blows knocked his breath out and dropped him to his knees. I shoved him hard, toppling him to the floor, his head thumping on the tiles. He sprawled there, dazed and wheezing, cheeks blotched by lack of oxygen.

I thought about kicking him for good measure but managed to hold myself back. Instead, I went into the bedroom and put the gun in my pocket. I considered shoving it in his face just to scare the daylights out of him, but then decided a softer approach might prove better. Stepping around his gasping form, I went to the kitchen and filled a glass with water. By the time I returned to the living room, he was on hands and knees, his forehead damp with sweat despite the cold, looking up at me with a mixture of fury and wariness.

"Drink this," I said, handing him the glass. And when he didn't move, "Go on. You could use some cooling down."

He took the glass and drained it in one quick gulp. His breathing was still accelerated, but not by all that much. He was a tough one, that was for sure. I put a hand on the gun, just in case.

"Are you going to behave, big guy?"

He glared at me, and his fingers tightened around the glass, like he was about to throw it in my face.

"Don't even think about it," I said. "Put the glass down, or I'll kick your teeth in."

He hesitated, and I could see the calculation in his eyes, trying to decide who'd be quicker, me or him. He came to the right decision and set the glass on the floor.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Why should I tell you?" His tone was belligerent and sulky. He wasn't used to being bested in a physical fight, and he had a bad opinion of me to begin with.

I said, "It will take me no more than five minutes to find out, you know. One of your neighbors will tell me. You live on the second floor, right? Closest door to the stairs?"

His eyes grew wide. He was wondering how I knew where he lived, and what it meant.

I pointed at his muddied boots. "It wasn't that difficult to figure out. You left a trail of mud across the lobby and all the way to your door. A little inconsiderate, if you ask me."

"I didn't notice," he said, and I could hardly believe it, but he actually sounded embarrassed. This from a guy who tried to clock me before I could get a word in.

"How did you get in here?" I asked.

"Door was unlocked."

I felt like kicking myself, but instead directed my anger at him. "Why the hell did you try to hit me?"

His jaw tightened, and he fairly spat the words at me. "Because you're a thief. The worst kind. You steal from the dead."

"You think I'm here to rob the place? I'm here by permission. I have a key." I tossed it at him. "You can get up and try it. It can't be comfortable being on your knees like that."

I retreated two paces, and he got up and, after eyeballing me for five long seconds, went to the door and slid the key in the lock. His shoulders sagged as it turned. A few seconds later he was back, turning the key in his fingers, glowering at me. A vein throbbed in the side of his thick neck. I had hoped giving him the key would placate him, but apparently it didn't.

He said, "Who are you? A new tenant? I heard no one is supposed to move in until at least the end of next month."

"I'm not a tenant. My name is Adam Lapid. I'm a private investigator. I'm working for Moria's father. He gave me the key."

The man's eyebrows dipped. "What's there to investigate?"

"Moria's father was shocked by her suicide. He wants to know why she did it."

"I heard she left a note."

"She did. But there are still some open questions. What's your name?"

"Daniel Shukrun," he said, the aggression draining out of his body. "Listen, I apologize for what happened before. I acted without thinking."

He looked at me steadily as he said it, and I couldn't help but respect that. A lesser man would have been staring at his shoes. It suggested he was genuine in his remorse and that he was the sort of man who took responsibility for his mistakes. Still, when he offered me the key back, I kept my distance and told him to put it on the table. I also maintained my hold on the gun in my pocket.

"How did you know I was up here?" I asked.

"My apartment is right below this one. My wife and I heard footsteps from above, so we knew someone was here."

"And you came charging in to catch whoever it was red-handed?"

"I wanted to make sure no one was robbing the place. When I came in, I saw the bag." He indicated the bag I'd placed by the door. "I thought the burglar had brought it to carry the loot. An aunt of mine died a couple of years back, and two days later, before her family could decide what to do with her things, someone broke in and made off with some valuables. I thought the same was happening here. And when I saw you, I was sure of it."

"Why? Do I look like a criminal?"

He took a thoughtful moment before answering. "Not right now. But when I first saw you, there was a look on your face like you couldn't believe what was happening, and that you were worried, maybe even scared, about something. Like getting caught in an apartment you were robbing by a guy like me."

He said "a guy like me" in an offhand way, not bragging about his size, just aware of it and the effect it had on people. And he'd read me perfectly. I had been unnerved by finding the gun and worried about the implications of its presence.

"I was worried about the door jamb," I said, putting on a smile.

He chuckled. "Yeah. I guess I should have apologized to it instead of you." He paused, shifting his fingers. He winced a little, but they did not seem to be the worse for wear. He held them up. "I guess I got what was coming to me."

"It might have been worse if indeed there was a robber here," I said. "You never know what a criminal will do when he's caught in the act."

Daniel puffed his big chest out, looking offended. "I can handle myself just fine, don't you worry."

I raised a mollifying hand. "I'm sure you can. I've seen how hard you can punch. Tell me, is this the first time you visited the apartment since Moria died?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Just wondering. How long have you been living in this building?"

"Six years."

"So you knew Moria Gafni for a long time?"

"About two years."