"Oh." She looked startled. "I... I..." She obviously didn't know what to say and finally blurted, "Well, I don't know why she did it. Not a clue."

"That's all right," I said. "I'm actually wondering about something else. Do you remember the night of November 28?"

"November 28? That was over a month ago."

"It's the night Dr. Shapira got killed."

Her eyes went huge. "Sure I remember. I was working that night. How awful."

"The log says Moria was the other nurse on shift with you. What I want to know is whether you were asleep at some point during that night or if you were awake the whole time."

"Well, I don't remember..." She paused. "Wait a minute, Moria wasn't with me that night."

"She wasn't? But the shift log says—"

"She was supposed to work that shift, but she switched with another nurse."

A frisson of excitement started in my belly and spread over my arms. "Who did she switch with?"

The answer left me reeling.

Why did she lie? That was the question that ricocheted in my head as I made my way south toward Jaffa Street. Or had she simply forgotten?

No. I immediately rejected the latter option. Naomi Hecht hadn't forgotten. She was not the type to forget such a thing. She had shown me the shift log, knowing what it said, and let me believe it was true. She wanted me to think that Moria had worked the night shift when Dr. Shapira was murdered.

Why had she done so? To protect her friend? To make sure I didn't suspect Moria of this murder? Or did it mean she wasn't as certain of Moria's innocence as she claimed?

It occurred to me that I might have been justified in feeling anger toward Naomi Hecht, but there was no trace of it in my heart. Rather, I respected her for protecting her friend, even posthumously. Most friends, even close ones, would not have done so, especially considering that she'd given up her own alibi in the process.

Maybe she could just count on her husband to say she was home, if it came to that, a nasty voice in my head said, and I clenched my teeth, yanked my cigarettes from my pocket, and fired one up.

I told myself it didn't matter why Naomi Hecht had lied to me. What mattered was that Moria had no alibi for the night of Dr. Shapira's murder. Sarah Greenberg did not know why Moria had switched shifts with Naomi Hecht, only that it had happened at the last minute, which was probably why the shift log had not been updated.

Perhaps Moria had done so purposely, to cover up her tracks, but I couldn't say for sure.

What I did know was that Moria had the three things all murderers share: means, motive, and opportunity. But maybe the police report would change that. Maybe it would show that the gun I found in Moria's bedroom could not be the murder weapon. I hoped so.

I called Reuben Tzanani from a café on Jaffa Street. The phone went unanswered. I ordered coffee, smoked a couple of cigarettes, tried his number again. No luck.

I walked east past display windows showing neckties and women's hats and all manner of other goods. I browsed the shelves in the Steimatzky bookstore without buying anything. I stood across from the Generali Building and gazed long and hard at the stone winged-lion statue on its roof, trying unsuccessfully to decipher its expression. I telephoned Reuben again, and this time he picked up.

"How are you?" he asked, still worried about me.

I told him I was fine, said I couldn't stay on the line for long, and asked if he had something for me.

"As it so happens, I do. I called one of the Jerusalem officers I know, and he connected me with a Sergeant Rapfogel. I asked him if you could see that homicide file. At first, he balked, but I vouched for you, and he said he'd see what he could do. He called me back an hour ago and said it would be fine. Why don't you call him directly and set up a meeting? I'll read you the number. You got a pencil?"

Sergeant Rapfogel had a scratchy voice and a local accent. He sounded very friendly. He asked if I was in the city. When I said that I was and added that now would be a good time for me to get the file, he apologized.

"I'm swamped, have to work late. Why don't we meet this evening, say eight thirty?"

The meeting place he proposed was a restaurant called Fink's on Ha-Histadrut Street, not too far from where I was now. It surprised me that Rapfogel wanted to meet outside his police station, but it saved me the trouble of suggesting it myself. I wanted to steer clear of Jerusalem police installations. I had no desire to run into Inspector Kulaski.

I returned to Amos Street to do some more canvassing. In the apartment that shared the second floor with the Shukruns' lived a family of six. The father was at work, the kids at school. The mother said that Moria had visited her children several times when they were sick with fever.

"She had a way with children," she told me. "They'd see her and their little faces would light up. I felt terrible the day she died. As long as I live, I won't forget the moment they took her body down the stairs. She was all covered up, but I could imagine how she looked under the sheet. I don't mind telling you it brought me to tears. I had no idea she'd been so sad."

When I left the apartment, Lillian Shukrun opened her door and peeked out. She saw me and smiled. "I thought I heard voices."

I smiled back, thinking of what the downstairs neighbor had told me about Lillian's nosiness. We exchanged a few pleasantries, and I left.

I spent three hours knocking on doors in the neighboring buildings. Asked the same questions: Had they known Moria? How well had they known her? Had they seen her with other people? Did they have a clue why she killed herself? The first twenty conversations yielded plenty of speculation but nothing concrete. But then I talked to a fifty-something woman who remembered seeing Moria arguing with a man about a week before her death.

"What did they argue about?"

"I couldn't hear them properly. My hearing's not what it used to be, and they weren't talking loudly, and I was on the other sidewalk, and I wasn't trying to listen, you know? He wasn't hurting her, so I minded my own business." She sounded ashamed when she said this, but I understood. Why get involved in someone else's mess when you don't have to?

"But you're sure they were arguing?"

"Sure I'm sure. I could tell by their faces and how they were moving their arms. Especially her. She was the angry one, far as I could tell. Then I saw her start to walk away. The man started coming after her, but she held up a hand and yelled at him to leave her alone. 'Stay away from me, Arye!' That part I heard loud and clear."

"Arye? Are you sure that was the name?"

"Sure I'm sure. Wouldn't have said so if I wasn't."

I sat very still. I had met a man called Arye recently and had promptly put him out of my mind. But was it the same man?

"Do you remember what this Arye looked like?"

She screwed up her face in concentration. "What I remember best is he was well dressed. I'm a seamstress, so I have an eye for such things. His clothes cost a lot of money. Other than that, let's see... he was thin and had dark hair. I don't remember his face."

"How tall was he?"

She puckered her lips and shifted her head side to side as she estimated in her mind. "He was taller than her. Five ten, five eleven, maybe even six feet."

It fitted. As did the thin build and dark hair and expensive attire. The man was called Arye Harpaz. I had met him on the way out of Baruch Gafni's factory.

Harpaz had met Moria, had fought with her outside her building. He was a handsome guy, and he fit Lillian Shukrun's description of the man she'd seen leaving Moria's apartment.

Her lover. I finally knew who he was.

Having time to kill and nothing to kill it with, and with my feet aching from all the walking and stair climbing I'd done, I went back to my hotel. I lay on the narrow bed and closed my eyes, but sleep eluded me. I was restless, my brain a jumble of careening thoughts, and I felt every lump and depression in the old mattress. My mind was going places I didn't want it to go, and the small room felt stifling and close, so I pushed myself up, more tired than I'd been before I lay down, put on my shoes, and hurried out.

Needing a distraction, I returned to the bookstore. I bought a slim paperback Western and read the first fifty pages sitting on a street bench with the din of the city in my ears. The day was clear and bright and warmer than at any time since I'd arrived in Jerusalem.

The sidewalks were awash with people. I heard Arabic and German and French and Hebrew accented in all of the above and a slew of other tongues. I saw bearded Orthodox Jews in black suits and diminutive nuns in black habits. I saw Jews from Europe and North Africa and the Arab countries to the east. I saw a line of people curling out of a grocery store advertising the sale of chicken. I saw children gaping into shop displays or chasing each other around, their laughter high and tinkling. Some of them had on clothes that were darned and patched to within an inch of their life or wore comically mis-sized hand-me-downs. Would the money Germany give Israel improve these children's lot? Would it allow parents to put more food on their plates? Would it help Israel provide proper housing to its new immigrants, many of whom still lived in tents or makeshift shacks in haphazard immigrant camps?

I had a late lunch at a café with a German name that had pictures of German landmarks on the walls. Someone was homesick for a home that didn't exist anymore.