All that German scenery made me curious as to what the proprietor thought about Israel entering into direct negotiations with his former homeland, but I held my tongue. I didn't want to ruin my appetite.

I stretched out the meal and lingered over multiple cups of coffee, reading eighty more pages. The proprietor didn't mind; the place wasn't full.

It was after six by the time I finally paid my bill and left. It was dark now, the air chillier, but the sky still clear.

I finished the book by the light of a candle in another café, where I also ate a small dinner. The bad guys were dead; the good cowboy was wounded, but he'd live. No need for compromises or deals with the devil. I left the book on the table and went out.

I got to Fink's a couple of minutes late and scanned the patrons. Not a uniform among them. I figured Sergeant Rapfogel was running even later than I was, but then a guy wearing civilian clothes motioned me over from the back.

He'd taken the rearmost table, and Reuben must have given him my description because he hadn't hesitated before calling me over. He was medium height and stocky, with cropped black hair and a mustache that obscured much of his upper lip. Light-brown eyes, a cleft chin, round face, pale skin. He flashed a broad smile and offered me his hand.

"Adam, right? I'm Mordechai Rapfogel."

He hadn't ordered yet. I guessed he'd waited for me and my wallet. It was to be expected: he was doing me a favor; I was supposed to respond in kind.

I sat down. The place smelled of good food, good wine, and good cigarettes. This was going to cost me.

Rapfogel said, "You hungry? They have terrific food here."

"I just ate."

This news didn't faze him. "Mind if I have something? I missed both lunch and dinner. There's too much to do and not enough officers to handle it all."

"Go ahead. It's on me, okay? I'm grateful that you're taking the time to help me out."

He told me it was no trouble and finger-summoned the waiter. He ordered appetizers, a main course, and wine, which explained why he'd come in civilian clothes. It wouldn't do for a cop to be seen drinking alcohol in uniform.

The wine was an old vintage. Rapfogel was taking full advantage of my generosity.

He said, "This cop from Tel Aviv, Tzanani? He says you're a private detective."

"That's right."

"This is your case, the Shapira murder?"

I shook my head. "I'm working on something that may be related."

He waited for me to elaborate, but I didn't. When the silence got a bit too long for comfort, he said, "Fine. You don't have to tell me. But if you have something that could crack a murder..."

"If I had anything, I'd share it, don't you worry."

That seemed to satisfy him. He put a file on the table but kept his hand on it. "I can't let you take it. You'll have to read it here."

I told him that would be fine, and he pushed it toward me. As I reached for it, I caught Rapfogel staring at my hand, my bruised knuckles. I was sure he was going to ask me about them, but he didn't. I opened the file and started reading.

Dr. Shapira's body was discovered in an alleyway at five in the morning of November 29 by an early riser on his way to work. The police were called. The picture seemed clear enough.

Dr. Shapira had been shot twice at point-blank. Both times in the chest. One bullet tore into a lung; the other chewed his heart to pulp. He didn't stand a chance and had likely died within seconds.

His wallet was missing, as was his watch. His clothes had been rifled through for other valuables: his trouser pockets were turned inside out. Even his belt was gone.

There were no defensive wounds or signs of a struggle. The victim was either shot immediately, or he had refused to hand over his belongings, and the killer had wasted no time on persuasion. The pathologist estimated that the murder occurred around midnight.

The motive seemed clear: robbery. If I were the investigating officer, that would have been the conclusion I'd have jumped to as well.

Speaking of investigating officers, reading who led the investigation made me cringe. It was Inspector Kulaski. Rapfogel noticed my reaction and asked if I was okay.

"It's just the pictures," I said, though I'd seen much worse.

Rapfogel made a face and then did a sweeping motion with his hand. "Put them away, will you? Don't let the waiter see them."

I flipped the pictures over and waited while the waiter served Rapfogel his food. "And another one of these," Rapfogel told him, gulping down his wine and waggling the empty glass. He grinned at me, wine staining his teeth red. "Sometimes you just get thirsty, you know?"

I nodded without comment and returned my attention to the file.

The pictures added little of investigative worth. Dr. Shapira sprawled on his back, arms close to his body, his head tilted to one side, his face slack, eyes partway open. Hardly any blood apart from on his shirt; a bullet in the heart makes for a relatively tidy scene.

Both bullets remained lodged in Dr. Shapira's corpse. The first, the one that ripped through his lung, got mashed against his spine and was unidentifiable. The other, the one that sliced into his heart, was barely dented. It was a .25 caliber, one that could fit any number of handguns. Like the one in Moria's apartment, the one that now nestled beneath the bottom dresser drawer in my dingy hotel room.

My heart sank as I absorbed this new evidence. I had hoped that the police file would eliminate Moria's gun as the murder weapon. It did the opposite. I was now convinced that the gun I found was the one used in Dr. Shapira's murder. Moria had killed him. I was working to bring justice to a murderer.

But why didn't she get rid of the gun before she killed herself? Why did she keep it hidden? Why write such a cryptic suicide note? Why not come clean at the end?

If the terrible act hinted at in Moria's note was the murder of Dr. Shapira, who was the person who drove her to it? Was it Dr. Shapira himself for having complained about Moria to Dr. Leitner, for making her cry? But why write a suicide note that Dr. Shapira, being dead, would never read?

"Got any ideas?" a voice interrupted my ruminations. It was Rapfogel, knife and fork in hand, talking around a mouthful of food.

"Nothing yet," I lied. My brain was teeming with questions but vacant of answers. I couldn't come up with a reason why Moria would bother writing a suicide note for a man who was already dead. A man she herself had killed. It made no sense.

The police had interviewed several of Dr. Shapira's co-workers, including Dr. Leitner and Naomi Hecht and Moria, but I could tell this had been done halfheartedly. Inspector Kulaski believed from the get-go that this was a robbery, so he didn't see the point in examining any of Dr. Shapira's colleagues too closely.

Kulaski had checked with local pawnshops, hoping the killer had tried to pawn off Dr. Shapira's watch or his wallet, which his wife said was made of leather and might have fetched a few liras, but to no avail. He'd sent inquiries to other municipalities, thinking the killer might have chosen to offload the items far from home, but this yielded nothing as well.

Next, he hauled local criminals in for questioning, hoping to stumble upon the killer, but all this resulted in was plenty of paperwork and no breakthrough. Soon, all Kulaski was left with was the hope that a new piece of evidence would miraculously present itself. I had such evidence in my hotel room, but Kulaski wasn't going to get it. Not yet, at least. This gave me a spark of schadenfreude, the only point of light in the dismal reality of Moria Gafni being a murderer.

The night of the murder, Dr. Shapira was on his way home from the hospital, following a surgery that had gone late. It rained but not too heavily, Dr. Shapira did not own a vehicle, and his home was but a ten-minute walk from the hospital, so the doctor made his way on foot.

He took a shortcut through an alleyway that sliced between two office buildings. That was where the murderer pounced. Two shots and Dr. Shapira was dead. He was a minute away from his apartment. It was his regular route, his wife later told the police, which meant that Moria could have been lying in wait at that particular dark and secluded spot. Or maybe she had followed him from the hospital. Either way, she'd known of his scheduled surgery, which was why she'd changed shifts with Naomi Hecht at the last minute.

The choice of location proved smart. There were no witnesses. Hardly anyone was about that late on a freezing November night. No one had seen anything. No one had heard anything, either. This wasn't surprising. A .25 caliber is a small gun, so the reports wouldn't have been too loud. And it was a winter night, cold and wet. People would have been sleeping with their windows shut, which would have muffled the sound even further. And if the two shots had come close together, people could have mistaken the bangs for a car backfiring or even a thunderclap. Either way, Moria had gotten off clean, and she'd known it, or she surely would have ditched the gun. I wondered why she hadn't done it anyway. Why take the risk of keeping the murder weapon in her possession? And why didn't she get rid of it before she killed herself?

"You look like you've swallowed a lemon," Rapfogel said. He was on his fourth glass of wine by then and slurring his words. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes had a wet look to them. He sounded accusatory, on the verge of anger, as though he knew I was holding back the identity of the killer.

But I wasn't ready to tell the police what I knew just yet. Not until I had the whole picture. Not until I knew why Moria had killed herself and to whom she referred in her note.

"Indigestion," I said, putting the papers back into the file and sliding it across the table. I'd read the whole thing. Now I wanted to get out of that restaurant and away from Rapfogel before he got any drunker. I had a feeling he was a bad drunk. I signaled the waiter for the bill. "I'll be fine after a good night's sleep."

Rapfogel nodded. "Sleep's the best medicine for everything. Where are you staying? A hotel?"