Anat's eyebrows twitched. "She said that?"

"Yes. Is it true?"

She shifted in discomfort and admitted that it was. "One shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but he was an unpleasant man sometimes. A little too high and mighty and brusque. But that didn't mean it wasn't a shock to learn he got murdered. That's the sort of thing that happens to strangers, you know?"

Most people experienced murder that way. It was an alien, faraway thing. Until it got close, and then it was like a monster screaming at you, its snout sticking in your face.

Based on what Anat told me about Moria's dislike for Dr. Shapira, I saw no point in raising the possibility that he and Moria had been lovers. I knew that Anat would scoff at the idea. But that didn't mean it wasn't true, especially given the fact that Dr. Shapira fit Lillian Shukrun's description of Moria's lover. Moria might have been playacting, all the better to hide the affair.

Conversely, I considered asking Anat whether Moria had merely disliked Dr. Shapira or if she had hated him, but I figured that would only upset her, and I wouldn't get an honest answer. I did not want to believe that Moria had murdered Dr. Shapira, but her disliking him made it just a little more probable.

I said, "So you can't think of anything unusual that happened a week, ten days before the suicide, something that upset Moria?"

She considered it. She still had my handkerchief in her grip. She opened her mouth as though to speak, then threw up her hands. "No, I'm sorry."

"What were you about to say?"

"Huh?"

"It looked like you were about to say something, then stopped."

She waved a hand. "I remembered something, but I doubt it's important."

I leaned forward. "Tell me anyway."

She drew a breath. "All right. But it happened three weeks or so before Moria's death. I can't see how it could be connected to her suicide." She paused, waiting for me to either invite her to continue or tell her to stop.

I gave her a nod. "Go on."

"Well, what popped into my head was an incident with Dr. Leitner."

"Who's Dr. Leitner?"

"Our boss. He runs the Pediatric Ward, one of the chief doctors in the hospital."

"What happened?"

"I was coming in for my shift when I saw Moria storming out of Dr. Leitner's office. Her face was flushed, and there were tears in her eyes. She looked both mad and sad at the same time. I asked her what was wrong, and she told me there was nothing to worry about, that she could handle it."

"Handle what?"

"I don't know. She wouldn't say. I told Naomi about it later, and she talked to Moria, but she got the same story I did—there was nothing to worry about; it was no big deal."

Anat paused, biting her lower lip. "You must understand, Mr. Lapid, Moria was a private person. She always kept a part of herself to herself. I loved her dearly—still do—and I accepted her as she was. So when it looked like she was okay, when it seemed that whatever happened with Dr. Leitner had no lingering effect on her, I let it go."

"All right," I said, thinking that Dr. Leitner and I would soon be having a chat. Then I asked, "Was Moria seeing anyone?"

"Yes."

I sat straight. "Who?"

"I don't know his name. Moria never said one word about him."

"So how do you know there was such a man?"

The smile she gave me was one part sheepishness, three parts pride. "I could tell. I'd known Moria for a long time. One day, I could tell that she had..." She paused, blushing. "Please don't make me spell it out for you."

"That won't be necessary. I understand what you mean."

"I hope I'm not shocking you."

"Not at all, I assure you."

"That's good. Anyway, one morning, when we were both working together, I could just tell that she'd been with someone. I begged her to tell me who it was, but she kept denying it, saying I was imagining things. I didn't relent, peppered her with questions, and when finally I asked her, 'Is he married?' figuring that's why she wasn't spilling it, Moria lost her temper. She said, 'Can't you get it through your thick head, Anat? There is no man.' And then she turned red and wouldn't meet my eyes, which told me I was right, that there was a man. But she was so angry that I was scared to ask her any more about it."

"Do you have any idea whatsoever who this man is?"

"No. But I think I was right: I think he's married; otherwise she wouldn't have erupted at me like that."

"Could it be someone from the hospital?"

"I suppose it's possible. But I have no clue who it might be."

"Do you know what Moria wrote in her suicide note?"

She hugged herself, as though to smother a shiver. "Yes. I can't get it out of my head. It's so grim. Poor Moria, I wish she'd opened up to me instead of... I would have helped her. Naomi and I both would have."

"Do you think this man, this lover, could be the person Moria mentioned in her note?"

Anat's face turned to steel. For the first time, she did not look soft. She pulled my handkerchief so tightly between her hands that it ripped. "If he is," she said, looking right at me without blinking, "and if I ever find out his name, I'll kill him myself."

Before I left, I asked Anat Schlesinger two more questions. First, whether she had a key to Moria's apartment; and second, if she'd been to her apartment since Moria's passing. She answered no to both questions. If she was lying, she hid it better than Naomi Hecht had.

It had stopped raining by the time I stepped out of Anat's building. The air was still and frigid and crisp. The cloud cover had thinned, revealing a lustrous half-moon. The road glistened under its light.

I considered going back to the hospital to look for Dr. Leitner, but it was already evening, and I doubted he'd be there. I headed back to Jaffa Street instead, lost in thought, and turned east with no particular destination in mind.

I walked on until I reached Allenby Square, where I stopped and gazed at the cement wall that bisected the square like an ugly ridged scar. The wall marked the City Line. Beyond it was East Jerusalem, under Jordanian control. The purpose of the wall was less to prevent incursions than to protect Israeli passersby from Jordanian snipers manning the walls of the Old City.

On one edge of the square, on the Israeli side, stood a building housing Berkley's Bank and Jerusalem City Hall. The building carried the marks of bullets and shrapnel from Israel's War of Independence. On the opposite edge crouched Hotel Fast. Formerly owned by Germans, and at one point housing the consulate of Nazi Germany, it was now home to indigent Jewish immigrants. A victory of sorts, I supposed, though the building's German name remained in common use.

IDF positions bristled on the rooftops of several surrounding buildings. Soldiers moved about in the gloom, rifles slung across their backs. Here, by the wall, with the City Line manifested so starkly, one could smell war hanging in the air like an evil promise. It was a terrible smell—of fire, smoke, and burning flesh.

I turned back westward, away from the wall and what it signified. My head cleared a little, and I began searching for a telephone. I needed to call Tel Aviv again.

I passed one drugstore and a couple of small cafés that had no telephone. Finally, I found a public one, dumped a few coins into it, and gave the operator a number in Tel Aviv.

A man answered and asked me my business. I gave him a name. "I need to talk to him. It's urgent."