"That has to do with timing. Naomi Hecht found Moria's body at three thirty, right after her shift ended. About three and a half hours after Moria died, according to the police report. It seems like a lot, but isn't really, when you take into account the suicide method. Dying from pills isn't instantaneous like shooting yourself in the head or jumping off a building. It can take quite a bit of time, even if you swallow a lot. You slip into a deep sleep and can remain that way for quite a while. Moria would have known this, as well as how long it would take Naomi Hecht to get to her apartment from the hospital. If she had arranged for Arye Harpaz to find her before Naomi Hecht did, she would be taking a big risk. What if he got delayed? Or came too early and found her still alive? Either way, it doesn't seem likely."
Greta spent a minute taking this all in. Then she nodded. "But why? What awful thing did Naomi Hecht do to Moria Gafni?"
"I don't know exactly, but I think it has something to do with Dr. Shapira's murder. Otherwise, why did Naomi Hecht lie to me about Moria working that night? She didn't want me to suspect Moria of the murder. So she showed me the shift log and didn't say that she and Moria had switched shifts, that she had worked that night in Moria's place. I think she knows Moria killed him. I think she knew beforehand. Based on the note, there's a good chance she put Moria up to it."
"Dear God," Greta whispered.
"It all fits. Moria killed herself due to guilt. She wrote the note for Naomi Hecht to find. She omitted her name just in case someone else found her body first."
"But why did she keep the gun?"
"I don't know."
"And why did Naomi Hecht leave the note at the scene?"
"It might not have been a conscious decision. She took the note with her to the bedroom and dropped it when she saw Moria dead. Maybe, in the emotional turmoil that followed, she simply forgot about it. Or maybe she figured the note couldn't hurt her. After all, her name wasn't mentioned in it."
Greta's eyes were saucers of horror. "Why would she do it? Naomi Hecht, I mean. Why would she want Dr. Shapira dead?"
"Apparently, Dr. Shapira was an unpleasant man to work with. He could be especially hard on the nurses. He'd made life difficult for Moria. Perhaps he did the same to Naomi Hecht."
"Why didn't she shoot him herself? Why have Moria do it?"
"I don't know. It's a good question."
"If you're right, Adam, she's absolutely evil."
"Yes, she is."
"You need to go to the police."
"And tell them what? That I found a gun hidden in Moria Gafni's apartment and didn't report it? And who do you think I'll need to speak with? Kulaski is the investigating officer. I'll have to explain it all to him. He'll either laugh in my face or try to pin the murder on me. I wouldn't put it past him." I shook my head. "No, I can't talk to the police."
"Then what are you planning to do?"
I kneaded the back of my neck. I was tired and aching and feeling the tragic weight of this case pushing down on my shoulders and back.
"I have no proof of Naomi Hecht's guilt. I'm going back to Jerusalem to find some. Maybe then I'll have enough to risk going to the police."
"But if Kulaski finds out you're back in Jerusalem..."
"I'll need to make sure he doesn't."
"And if you fail?"
"Then," I said, "I'll likely end up in the cold ground alongside Dr. Shapira and Moria Gafni."
As much as I hated to admit it, Greta was right. I was in no shape to work a case. Hell, I was in no shape to go down the three flights of stairs from my apartment to street level. I was hurting all over, I couldn't draw a proper breath without my ribs screaming, I was weak and tired constantly, and I still had a fever.
Greta looked after me as well as any person could. She cooked my meals, made sure I took my medicine; she even brought me a couple of Western paperbacks to pass the time.
My fever broke two days after my return to Tel Aviv. The swelling in my nose went down. Gradually, my urine lost its redness. Still, it was only after seven days of Greta's firm yet gentle ministrations that I felt strong enough to go out.
Greta didn't like the idea. "What's the urgency?" she asked, her arms folded across her chest.
"I need to talk to my client. I told him I'd report to him a week after he hired me."
"Can't it wait until tomorrow?"
"I'm late as it is."
"You sure you want him to see you this way?"
My bruises were in vibrant, colorful bloom. Having lost nearly all traces of blue and purple, they glowed in a range of yellows, a few tinted a sickly green or a disconcerting brown. The abrasions across my forehead had scabbed over, looking like a bunch of earthworms paralyzed mid-squirm on my skin. They itched like mad, and Greta admonished me to not touch let alone scratch them.
In short, I wasn't a sight to inspire confidence in any client. But as I was recuperating, I was also growing restless. I wanted to do something. And while I still wasn't ready to go back to Jerusalem, where I might run into Kulaski, I felt well enough to see Gafni.
"Why not call him?" Greta asked. "You can deliver your report over the phone, can't you?"
I could, but I had a few questions for Gafni, and I wanted to see his face when he answered them.
I called his office from the public phone in Levinson Drugstore, on the corner of my street. The secretary answered. I gave her my name, and ten seconds later, Gafni came over the line. I told him I wanted to see him and asked when I could come by.
"Have you discovered what I hired you to?" he asked.
"Not yet. But I'm getting close. I have a couple of questions I need to ask you."
"I understand." There was a pause. All I could hear was his breathing. Then he said, "Come by at six thirty. I'll be waiting."
