She nodded slowly, but traces of her unease lingered. A minute ago, she had been leaning toward me, as though we were old friends sharing gossip. Now she had drawn herself back, her manner wary. If I weren't careful, she might decide to shut me out completely.
I tried to win back her favor. "I'm sure it was tough for you, Paula, losing a colleague like that."
"It was," she said, softening. "As you can imagine, I was stunned by his death, all of us were."
"Did Moria take it worse than the others?"
"I don't think so. In retrospect, maybe she was a bit quieter than usual, a little withdrawn, but not so much that I gave it any thought at the time. You think that's why she killed herself, because of what happened to Dr. Shapira?" Clearly, Paula found the notion improbable.
"I don't know. What was their relationship like? Were they... close?" I said, and instantly regretted the question when I saw Paula's reaction.
Turning up her chin, she lanced me with a rebuking stare. "I'm not sure I know what you mean, Mr. Lapid." But of course she did, she knew precisely, as she made abundantly clear by adding, "For your information, Dr. Shapira was married. Married with two children."
I nodded as though that settled the question, but what I was really thinking was that Moria and her lover had met in secret, and adultery was a likely reason. Also, a doctor often works nights. If Dr. Shapira had indeed been Moria's lover, he could easily have told his wife he had a shift at the hospital on those nights he went to Moria's apartment. A solid marital alibi.
None of which I could share with Paula, who was standing rigid on the other side of the counter, her lips compressed to a line as hard as the one I'd evidently crossed.
I said, "I didn't mean to imply that—"
"You didn't? Because it sure sounded like you did." Paula grabbed her pencil and folder. "You'll have to excuse me now. I'm rather busy."
"All right. But you didn't answer my earlier question: Is Anat Schlesinger working now?"
"Actually, she's off for the day," Paula said with icy satisfaction. "And don't ask me when her next shift is. I don't think I should tell you."
"How about giving me her address?" I said, guessing the answer but trying anyway. "I need to talk to her as soon as possible."
"I don't think I should tell you that either. And now, Mr. Lapid, I want you to leave. This is a hospital, not an interrogation room." She lowered her gaze to her folder, poising her pencil over the top page in a show of dismissal. But abruptly she changed her mind, her head snapping up, and pointed her pencil at my face like a sword. "You should be ashamed of yourself. That poor girl is dead, and you seem intent on tarnishing her reputation."
"I'm intent on discovering why she died."
"By trying to dig up mud, unearth some sordid secret about her life? Not that I believe there's anything like that to find. But suppose you do turn up something, what will that accomplish? It won't help Moria in any way, will it? She's beyond help. You'll only end up robbing her of her good name."
Which brought to mind the warning I'd given Gafni, that my digging into his daughter's life might lead to him learning things about her that he would rather remain ignorant of. A warning he'd decided not to heed. But what about Moria? I had failed to consider what she might have thought of my investigation. Perhaps she would not have wanted me to go rummaging through her life. Perhaps she would not have wanted the father she detested to know anything about it.
For a couple of seconds, I was seized by doubt, uncertain of the morality of my mission. But then I remembered the note. It meant that Moria was a victim, at least in part, a victim in need of justice.
I said, "Trust me, Paula. I'm doing this for Moria."
Paula let out a mocking laugh. "Oh, I'm sure. It has nothing to do with the fact that you're being paid to ask these nasty, dirty questions."
Anger, sudden and bright, blazed in my chest. I hadn't wanted this case. I'd been forced to take it. I wasn't doing this for money. I was this close to telling Paula off, but I stopped myself. Because I realized that what I'd told her, my doing this for Moria, was possibly untrue, considering the unexplained presence of the gun and the fact that one of Moria's colleagues had been shot dead shortly before her suicide. Officially felled by a robber's bullet, but perhaps not.
Which might mean that Moria would not be served by my investigation after all, though for different reasons entirely than those I'd initially contemplated.
Slow down, Adam, I told myself. Don't get ahead of yourself. There's absolutely nothing that links the gun you found to the killing of this doctor.
Yet my heart had picked up, and the tingle of excitement that often accompanied the discovery of a secret or unforeseen connection was spreading down my spine.
To Paula, I said, "I'm only interested in learning the truth."
Paula sneered. "How noble of you. Just try not to ruin a dead girl's reputation while you're at it."
I walked east on the Street of the Prophets, chased by the wind and the echo of Paula's contemptuous words. Not far from the hospital was a café. Through the front window, I saw a guy talking into a telephone at the bar. I went in, ordered a coffee I didn't want, and waited for five minutes while he blabbered to someone in Romanian-accented Hebrew, punctuating his words with flamboyant hand gestures.
When he finally hung up, I picked up the receiver, dialed 0, and gave the operator a number in Tel Aviv. In my peripheral vision, I caught the nervous stare of the proprietor—long-distance calls were expensive—and appeased his anxiety by sliding him a few coins.
"I'll keep it short," I added for good measure. "Now how about a bit of privacy?"
He grumbled under his mustache and moved down the bar. The phone rang in a small office in the police station on Yehuda Halevi Street in Tel Aviv. After three rings, the pleasant voice of Reuben Tzanani came over the line, marred by the rustle of static.
"Hi, Ant," I said, using his army nickname. He'd gotten it during the War of Independence after carrying me, shot twice and on the brink of death, to the rear lines for the medical treatment that saved my life. This despite my outweighing him by a good forty pounds.
"Adam? Is that you? Why are you coming across so bad?"
"I'm in Jerusalem," I said, which was explanation enough. "I need some information."
"You're on a case?"
"Yes. I need to look at a murder file."
"In Jerusalem?"
"Yes."
"That might be tricky, Adam. If this is an active murder case, I doubt I could get anyone to show you the file."
"The murder occurred more than a month ago. Maybe it's not so active anymore."
