"I wasn't keeping secrets from you. I just didn't think it would do anyone any good if I told you."
It was clear why Lillian had not told her husband about this. It was the same reason she was reluctant to tell me. An unmarried woman was not supposed to have male visitors late at night. She was not supposed to sleep with men at all. Though, of course, more than a few did.
"How many times did you hear that?" I asked. "How often?"
She thought about it. "Once a week, maybe a bit less. But it also might have happened when I was asleep. I don't know how long it had been going on. It was only after the baby was born that I first became aware of Moria's visitor."
"How old is your daughter?"
"Dina is five and a half months old."
This meant that Moria's affair had been going on for at least four and a half months, given that she'd been dead for a little over a month.
"Did you ever talk with Moria about her visitor?"
"No. Never. What would I have said, 'I can sometimes hear you and him walking around upstairs?' Can you imagine how it would have made her feel? I don't like to think about our downstairs neighbors being able to hear us."
"Did you ever actually see this man?"
"Yes," Lillian said. My excitement spiked and then fizzled out just as quickly when she added, "But only once, and only from the back."
"From the back?"
She nodded. "It was about two months before Moria died. I'd just finished feeding Dina and put her in her crib when I heard footsteps going down the stairs. I got curious. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that I'd been curious for a while by then, and I decided to act on it. I opened the door as quietly as I could and padded out onto the landing. I saw the man as he was leaving the building. He didn't hear me, didn't turn around. That's why I only saw him from the back."
"You didn't catch a glimpse of his face? Not even a part of it?"
"I'm afraid not."
"What did he look like?"
"I just told you, I—"
"I don't mean his facial features," I said. "I mean the rest of him. How tall was he? Was he thin? Fat? Broad-shouldered like your husband?"
"He was nowhere near as big as Daniel," Lillian said, laying an affectionate hand upon her husband's. "He had a sort of narrow build. I'd say he was one, maybe two inches shorter than Daniel, but it's difficult to say because I only saw him from above."
"What color was his hair?"
"Dark. Either brown or black, but I can't say which because the only light was what little filtered in through the lobby's door and windows. The man was little more than a shadow."
"Did he have a full head of hair, or was he balding?"
She gave a shrug of desperation. "I don't know. I'm sorry, but I only saw him for a few seconds, and I was dead tired, and it was impossible to tell—"
"That's all right, Lillian," I said. "Don't worry, you're doing very well."
This was a lie. Lillian's recollection was all but useless. The sort of vague, general description that would fit thousands of men.
I wasn't ready to give up yet. This man, this lover, might hold the key to understanding Moria's state of mind. Suicide is driven by emotion. Powerful emotion. And nothing is as powerful an emotion as love. Particularly the sort of love that one has to hide, as Moria and her lover had done. That sort of love can easily turn to despair.
I tried various techniques to coax additional memories out of Lillian. I wanted some detail, a feature by which I might identify this man.
She tried. I could tell how hard she tried. But she could come up with nothing more. The night had been dark, the man a shadowy form that revealed almost nothing. Just a slender build and an approximate height, and even these impressions were suspect given the lack of light, the brevity of the sighting, the tiredness of the witness.
I hid my disappointment behind a smile and thanked her for her time.
The baby started crying then, and Lillian slipped into the other room to tend to her. Daniel said I was welcome to stay for lunch, but I wasn't comfortable imposing on their meager means. Especially with Gafni's retainer plumping my wallet. Besides, I had learned all I could from the Shukruns for the time being, and I was eager to find out more about Moria.
As I was stepping out, I asked him, "Is your daughter likely to fall asleep again soon? Say in the next hour or so?"
Daniel gave me a bewildered look. "Her next nap won't be for a few hours. Why?"
"Because I wouldn't want to wake her up. I'm going back upstairs now, and I'll be making some noise. I'm telling you so you won't worry."
Daniel opened his mouth, doubtless to ask me what I was meaning to do, but his wife's voice rang out, calling on him to fetch her a diaper, and we hurriedly shook hands before he turned and closed the door. I went back to Moria's apartment, this time locking the door once I was inside. Daniel's unexpected visit had ended up yielding dividends in terms of information, but I had no desire for more drop-ins by concerned or curious neighbors. I had given the place a cursory search earlier, but after finding the gun, I figured greater scrutiny was in order. This was going to take time, and I did not wish to be disturbed.
I started in the kitchen, working methodically, going through every drawer and cupboard, even looking between plates and tapping on the backboards for hollow sounds. I found nothing that shed light on why Moria had killed herself or why she had hidden a gun in her bedroom. I dragged the icebox out of its corner, but the only things I saw where it had stood were ancient dust, some loose hairs, and a couple of dead bugs.
Next came the bathroom, where I peered inside and behind the toilet tank, made sure the medicine cabinet hid no secrets, and studied the broom and dustpan that had been leaning against a corner with far more care than they deserved before setting them back in their place, feeling like a fool.
In the living room, I removed each book from the bookcase and riffled through the pages in the hope that something had been tucked between them, but nothing was. I checked inside, under, and behind the heating stove, but all I got for my trouble were blackened hands and a noseful of the acrid, burned scent of long-dead fires and spent heating oil.
After washing my hands, I examined the undersides of the table and chairs, raked my gaze over the curtains, and pulled the sofa away from the wall, finding nothing behind it. Crouching down, I ran my hand over the upholstery and then brought my face close to the padding and scoured the fabric for any unnatural stitches or seams. There were none.
Rising to full height, I winced as pain stabbed deep in my side where the policeman had kicked me. I braced myself on one of the armrests until the pain receded, then pushed off toward the bedroom.
I stood motionless for a good minute, scanning the bedroom as I had done before, hoping for a flash of inspiration similar to the one that had guided me to the gun.
