"Why did you want him to suffer so much?" I asked.

Gafni's eyes fluttered. He seemed to be in some other place, and it took him a second to look at me. "What?"

"Why didn't you just kill Harpaz? Why did you need to torture him?"

"He deserved it," Gafni stated simply.

"But why? Just for sleeping with Moria? She was a grown woman. It's not such a terrible thing, is it?"

Something rippled on his face. He brushed a hand along his mouth and chin, closing his eyes and then reopening them. "She killed herself because of him. He's the man in the note."

"Why do you think so? I never told you that."

His face darkened. "You never told me anything about that, did you? What good are you? Maybe you don't deserve that bonus after all." He pushed out his lip and gazed around his cell with a bewildered expression, as though seeing it for the first time. Then he deflated like a pierced balloon, only silently, losing what he'd regained while in the throes of his killing tale, and returning to the hunched, weathered old man he'd been when I'd first roused him from the bunk.

"Who else could it be?" he said in a sullen voice, looking at his kneading hands. "Who else?"

I didn't answer. There was even less point in telling him the truth now than earlier in our conversation. Besides, I felt no obligation whatsoever to be honest with him. Because Gafni did not deserve the truth from me. Because, and I had no idea why, Baruch Gafni had just lied to my face.

I stood across the street from the building, just as I had done some weeks before, gazing up at her apartment. But then it had been night, and now it was day, and no light shone in her window.

I didn't want to go up there. I didn't wish to see her. But I knew I would do just that. As I had done several times before, though always with a different purpose in mind.

Wishing to postpone the moment, I got out my pack of cigarettes, then swore when I couldn't find my lighter. A mother walking past with a little girl in tow shot me a disapproving look; she didn't like my language. The girl, a rosy-cheeked beauty of four or five, looked over her shoulder at me, and I gave her a wink. She smiled in return, and it made me feel better. I shoved the cigarettes back in my pocket and crossed the street.

I knocked on her door. She opened it with a broad smile on her perfect lips. She had on a red dress that emphasized the swell of her hips and the bloom of her breasts. Sheer stockings through which flawless caramel skin peeked.

Her hair was pulled back apart from a pair of ringlets dangling teasingly on either side of her face. Her large dark eyes sparkled with triumph. It had been a while since I'd come by, yet here I was again. A man with a need on her threshold. Just as it should be. The natural order of things.

But my need today was not the sort she was accustomed to. Sima Vaaknin was in for a surprise.

"Adam," she purred, subtly shifting her stance to enhance the already-considerable allure of her curves, "so nice to see you again."

"Hello, Sima."

She pouted, though her eyes remained mischievous. "Why the serious tone and the long face? Aren't you happy to see me?"

"Can I come in?"

Instead of answering, she leaned a little forward, studying my face. "Something's changed about you. It's your nose, isn't it? It's different."

"It got broken in a fight."

"I like it. It fits your face," she said, not asking whom I'd fought with, or why or when. That was the nature of her interest in me. It waxed and waned according to some mysterious internal logic I never understood.

She moved aside, and I brushed past her, catching a tantalizing musky scent that wafted from her hair and skin.

In her living room, I remained standing while she kicked off her shoes and reclined on her sofa, pulling her legs at an angle beneath her. Her breathing had deepened, a show of excitement, but I suspected that was mere artifice, one of the many tools of seduction she could employ with unsurpassed expertise. Show a man that you desired him and he'd forget the tidy sum of money he would soon be parting with for the pleasure of your company.

"There's coffee in that pot," Sima said, fluttering her fingers at the coffee table. "I just made it not five minutes ago. Have some. It's very good."

I could believe it. Its aroma left no room for doubt as to its quality and authenticity. This was real prime coffee.

Then I noticed there were two cups on saucers by the pot.

"Are you expecting someone?" I asked.

"No one in particular. But I've learned it pays to be ready for company. You can never know when someone will drop by. Like you did." She ran a light hand over her calf, curling her stockinged toes. "Don't worry, Adam. No one will disturb us."

"I'm not here for that, Sima."

She arched an eyebrow. "You mean coffee or—"

"Both."

That made her frown momentarily. Bewildered by the curtness of my reply, perhaps. But she wasn't about to surrender just yet. In fact, judging by the curve of her lips and the twinkle in her eyes, she found pleasure in my resistance.

She rose from the sofa in a fluid movement, glided around the coffee table, and came to stand so close to me that every cell in my body glowed with her warmth. Gazing up at me from under her lashes, she put her hands flat on my chest. "Let's get you out of your coat so you can be more comfortable." She moved her hands to my shoulders, under my coat, and started drawing it off.

I grabbed her forearms and pulled her hands off me. "I said I'm not here for that."

Sima's eyes grew to brown pools of childlike dismay. This wasn't supposed to happen. I wasn't playing my part. She stepped back and looked at me in puzzlement and hurt.

"What are you here for, then?"

"Information."

"What information?"

"About a client of yours."

"I don't discuss my clients. Would you appreciate my discussing you?"

"These are special circumstances. They relate to the death of a young woman."

"What young woman?"

"The daughter of Baruch Gafni."

"I didn't know she'd recently died."

"He didn't talk about it with you?"

Sima didn't answer. She returned to the sofa, poured herself coffee, and took a dainty sip. "How did she die?"

"She killed herself. Pills."

Sima looked relieved. "I was sure you were going to say she was murdered and you suspect Baruch of killing her. How old was she?"