"I'm a private investigator. I'm working for Moria's father."

Leitner's eyebrows shot up. "Baruch Gafni?" At my nod, he said to the nurse, "Go back to work now, Sarah. I'll finish telling you the rest of the story later."

By the speed at which the nurse made her escape, I doubted she was looking forward to it.

"Let's go to my office," Leitner said, and led the way to a door bearing his name. Beyond it was a neat room with a desk, three chairs, and a skeleton propped on a metal rod in the corner. The skeleton was grinning at me, as though saying, Now you're in for it, you fool. It had heard its share of boring stories.

Leitner went behind his desk, smoothing his white coat before he sat down. I took one of the opposite chairs. On the wall behind the desk were framed diplomas and pictures of Leitner with various dignitaries. Leitner giving a tour of his ward to Daniel Auster, the first Israeli mayor of Jerusalem. Leitner rubbing shoulders with President Chaim Weizmann. Leitner shaking hands with David Ben-Gurion. An important man, and he wanted you to know it.

The important man was now eying me across his desk. "I must say I'm surprised to learn that Mr. Gafni has employed a detective."

"Mr. Gafni wishes to know what caused his daughter to take her own life."

"I see." Leitner nodded sagely a few times, as though in approval. "It's a question that has been bothering me incessantly as well, I assure you."

"Have you come up with any answers?"

"Alas, no," he said, adopting a tone of amiable superiority. "Of course, taking into account Moria's age and sex, matters of the heart are the likeliest reason."

"Her sex?"

"Naturally. Oh, I suppose there are some weak-hearted men who kill themselves due to unrequited love, but women are more sentimental, more prone to emotional outbursts and illogical acts, and Moria was young and single, which increases the likelihood further."

"You think Moria killed herself because of a man?"

"I don't know for certain, but if I had to venture a guess, that would be it."

"Any idea who this man might be?"

He smiled without parting his lips. "I'm sorry, but no. I don't involve myself in the private affairs of my nurses, Mr. Lapid."

Of course he didn't. He probably knew next to nothing about them. They were good only as employees, inferior to him, and as a captive audience to his self-glorifying stories.

"Did Moria strike you as an overly emotional woman?" I asked.

"No. Not overly," he answered, and the implication was clear—he considered all women to be too emotional for their own good. Susceptible to bad judgment and hasty acts. Like a suicide.

"Did Moria like working here?"

"Very much."

The certainty of his answer surprised me. Either he knew more about Moria than I had given him credit for, or he simply assumed that all the women working under him must be happy in their roles.

"Was she a good nurse?"

"Quite satisfactory. I told Mr. Gafni as much."

"You talked to my client?"

"Certainly. I called him after the tragedy to express my condolences. He didn't tell you?"

"No. That was nice of you, calling him."

"It was the least I could do."

"'Quite satisfactory,'" I said, repeating his words to him. "It doesn't sound like you were that impressed with Moria's performance."

Leitner tensed. "You misunderstood me, Mr. Lapid. I meant the exact opposite. I thought Moria was an exemplary nurse. I do hope Mr. Gafni knows how highly I valued his daughter."

I frowned at him. Why did he care what Gafni thought of him?

"So no complaints?"

"None whatsoever. Moria had a grand future ahead of her on this ward. I was very distressed by her suicide. I told Mr. Gafni that as well."

"I'm sure he appreciated it," I said, and Leitner's posture relaxed.

I said, "Tell me, then, what happened that day, about three weeks before the suicide, that caused Moria to leave your office in tears?"

Leitner froze. All apart from his tongue, which flicked out to wet his lips and then disappeared back into his mouth. The question had stunned him, and it took him a few seconds to regain a semblance of composure.

"Who told you about that?" he asked. His voice was mild, as though the answer was of but minor interest to him, but in his small dark eyes, I could see the glint of anger, the promise of retribution. I bet Anat Schlesinger would be out of a job before the day was out if Leitner discovered she was my source.

"What difference does it make?" I said. "Answer the question!"

It was the first time I'd used a forceful tone with him, but I wanted to press him a little. I was taking a risk, but I didn't think it was a big one. I was Baruch Gafni's man, and for some reason, Dr. Leitner wanted to be on my employer's good side.

Leitner brushed a finger along the space between his nose and mouth. Reaching into a drawer, he brought out a pack of Nelsons, offered me one, and when I declined, lit one for himself.

He took a couple of rapid, deep drags, blowing the smoke toward the grinning skeleton, then examined the glowing tip of his smoke with a thoughtful expression before turning his eyes back on me.

"Would you agree, Mr. Lapid, that there are times when telling the whole, unvarnished truth is not only unwarranted but also cruel?"

There were such times, but I wasn't going to give him an inch until I knew more. "Go on," I said.

Leitner pulled on his cigarette again and said, "When I said that I had no complaints about Moria's work, I was not being entirely truthful. I did this because I assumed you'll be reporting what I said to Mr. Gafni." He paused, waiting for me to confirm it, but I gave no indication either way. He continued, "I felt that was the impression a grieving father should have of his dead daughter."

"And the truth is...?"

"The truth is that Moria was a good nurse. But on that occasion, and a handful of others, I had to rebuke her."

"What for?"

"For her work, naturally. I was her boss, you know."

"What about her work? Be specific."

Dr. Leitner took a final drag and mashed out his cigarette, even though it was nowhere near done. He steepled his fingers, eying me over them.