Choosing side streets as often as possible, I wended my way to where Dr. Shapira had met his doom. I had no idea what I'd find when I got there, but it's never a mistake to visit a murder scene.

The alleyway where Dr. Shapira had perished was a patch of wet tarmac that held no traces of the violent death that had occurred there. Someone had shattered a bottle against the ground, and glass glittered at my feet. An old chair missing a leg leaned crookedly against a wall, its wood distended and cracked with rain. A child's mitten lay forgotten and soiled in a puddle.

But no blood. No clues left by the killer. No sense of death.

What was I expecting, more than a month after the slaying? I hated to admit it, but I had no idea how to proceed. Returning to the hospital to ask more questions was risky. Kulaski might have asked one of the employees on the ward to keep an eye out for me. So how was I supposed to find the evidence that would nail Naomi Hecht to the wall? The longer it took, the greater the chance that I'd be spotted. I needed a solution fast.

Until I came up with one, I had to get off the street. It was almost three by now. Soon the cinemas would open. I went into the first one I saw, bought tickets to all three shows, and chose the farthest seat in the last row. I buried my head in a newspaper I'd picked up on the way until the lights went out and the newsreel started playing.

Ben-Gurion was being shown around a factory in Haifa. Foreign Minister Sharett was shaking hands with a bunch of European ambassadors. Miserable immigrants in an immigrant camp in the north were repairing weather damage to their makeshift homes, mud everywhere.

Then the movie started. Voices speaking American English. Images of skyscrapers and an unbelievable number of cars.

The darkness felt safe, and I relaxed slightly. I watched the movie and tried to clear my mind, hoping inspiration would strike.

It didn't.

I sat through two more screenings of the same film. I used the time to grab some shut-eye. With how tired I was, it was easy to sleep, even when the cinema hall filled up for the evening screenings.

When the lights came on after the last show, I dragged my feet toward the exit, knowing that outside would be colder and likely wetter, and that I had more time to pass before I dared go to Moria's apartment for the night.

Luckily, the night was dry, though the wind was a cold knife that whistled like an incoming bomb. I wedged my hands into my pockets and meandered aimlessly for a while. I was hungry but didn't feel like sitting anywhere after being in a chair for hours. At certain times, I again had the feeling that I was being watched, but I was starting to suspect that it was just my nerves playing tricks on me.

Then a man called my name, and I felt the bottom drop from under me.

I whipped around, my heart pounding in my ears, ready to pull out the gun and start blasting.

But it wasn't Kulaski. Nor Rapfogel. Not a cop at all. In my agitated state, it took me a second to place him. Then I remembered and almost laughed with relief.

Arye Harpaz. Moria's lover. The untrustworthy businessman whom Gafni wanted nothing to do with. A man I'd considered hunting down for a conversation if I ran out of ideas, and here he was before me.

He had a pretty brunette on his arm. He pulled her across the street toward me. She looked a little reluctant but didn't utter a peep. Up close, I saw his cheeks were flushed and his eyes sparkled. Hers too. Both smelled of wine and cigarettes; he also of cologne and she of some overly sweet perfume.

"Adam Lapid," Harpaz said. "Fancy running into you."

"Arye Harpaz," I replied.

He grinned. "You remember me."

I nodded. Looking around, it seemed no one had heard him call my name or cared if they did. "Indeed I do. In fact, just the other day, I was talking about you with Baruch Gafni."

That sobered him up quick. He was dressed in a dark blue coat that must have cost what some men make in two months. His trousers and shoes looked expensive too, as did his hat. He really was handsome. And about two decades older than the bored-looking brunette.

"Why were you talking about me?" He sounded wary and on edge.

"Because of Moria," I said, and saw his Adam's apple bob as he gulped.

He worked up a smile and said to the brunette, "Go to the hotel. I'll join you in a little while."

She began to protest, but he cut her off brusquely. "Go, I tell you. I have business with this man."

She pouted; she had the lips for it. It made her look even younger, innocent and vulnerable. Harpaz caressed her cheek and softened his voice.

"I don't want you to stand out here in the cold. I promise you it won't take long. Now run along, sweetheart. I'll be there before you even miss me."

The brunette flicked me an accusatory look and sashayed away. Harpaz watched her go, then turned back to me.

"Your wife?" I asked, though I guessed the answer.

His smile was a perfect blend of the boy who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar and the Casanova who enjoys nothing more than to see other men envy him his conquests.

"You can say she's a close friend of mine. My wife is in Tel Aviv, no doubt turned in for the night."

"She's very young, your friend."

"Twenty-one last month. But intriguing despite her age. You're intriguing as well," he said to me. "From the moment we first met in Baruch's factory, you interested me."

"You didn't," I said. "Not at the time."

He smiled. Perhaps he truly didn't mind the dig.

We were on Jaffa Street, people still milling about us, heading home from cinemas and late suppers.

"Let's find someplace more private to talk," I suggested.

He nodded. "There's a café down the street. It stays open late and has a back room. I know the owner."

"Lead the way."

The café was narrow and dingy and hosted just a solitary customer bent over his drink. The owner, a burly guy with a bushy beard, greeted Harpaz by name. He nodded when Harpaz asked him if the back room was vacant.

"What will you have?" Harpaz asked me.

"I'm not thirsty."

"It's on me."

"That makes no difference." I didn't want to drink with him. I didn't like him, and I wanted him to know it.

Harpaz shrugged, but I could see that my rejection had unnerved him. He recovered quickly and faced the barkeep. "Give me a good bottle of red and two glasses." To me he added, "Maybe you'll change your mind."

With the bottle and glasses in hand, Harpaz led the way to the back room and switched on the light. The room was small and held the residual smell of sweat, cigarettes, and wet shoes and clothes. Next to the rear wall was a round table bearing a couple of half-full bottle crates. Five chairs stood against one wall, striving for innocence like suspects in a lineup.

"You like to gamble?" I asked.

Harpaz gave me a surprised look.

"Those two crates are nice camouflage," I said, "but they don't look too heavy. Remove them, drag the table to the middle, right about here"—I stood directly under the overhead light fixture—"pull some chairs around, and you're all set for a nice game."