"What? No, of course not. I'd rather not think what he'd do if he knew I was talking to you."
Her face had a fearful cast, but underneath flickered a different sort of emotion. Determination? Hope? I couldn't be sure, but it was brittle. Then I remembered what she said a moment ago, hearing me tell her husband I'd be here at noon.
"Were you eavesdropping on my conversation with your husband yesterday?"
Her cheeks flushed, and she gave an abashed nod. "When I saw you two in the living room, I could tell it was serious by my husband's face. He's been on edge these past few days, but he won't tell me why, and I thought you might have something to do with it, so I listened through the door."
I didn't know what to make of this. I repeated my earlier question, "What are you doing here, Mrs. Leitner?"
She licked her lips. "Can we go somewhere quiet to talk? I'd rather not discuss this on the street."
We found a small café that was half empty despite the hour. We took a rear table, and I ordered us two glasses of tea, but when I brought them to the table, neither of us made a move to touch them.
I waited. This meeting was her initiative. I'd let her talk first.
Away from the prying eyes of the multitudes on the street, Ada looked more assured and confident. I spotted the instant she shattered the last shackles of hesitancy as she reached into her bag and drew out an envelope.
"Here. Take it."
Inside was a cylindrical object and something flat and rectangular. I reached under the flap and slid the contents out. A roll of film and a stack of photographs. My breath caught in my throat as I recognized the two women in the topmost photo: Naomi Hecht and Moria Gafni.
I flicked my gaze at Ada, but she had her eyes on her hands, so I returned my attention to the photo.
There was nothing salacious about it. Just two women walking through a park, sharing a smile. They looked like nothing more than good friends; they weren't even holding hands. In none of her other pictures had I seen Moria so happy. As for Naomi Hecht, she looked joyful and vibrant. Her face looked younger than I'd ever seen it, and it took me a second to realize why—there were no bags under her eyes.
The next picture was similar. As were the following four. Then, after a picture from the rear showing the two women entering a dense copse of trees, the tenor of the images changed.
There were eight photos, partially obscured by low branches, each showing Moria and Naomi Hecht kissing passionately. The pictures left no room for doubt or alternative interpretation.
I lowered the final photo, stacked it with the rest, and put them and the roll of film back in the envelope. I said to Ada, "Why did you bring these to me?"
"I heard nearly everything you two said to each other. What Yosef did with these photos, what he forced that poor nurse to do, it was wrong. Evil. I only wish she were still alive."
Me too, I thought, especially now that I knew Moria hadn't been a murderer after all. Just a pure-hearted victim with tremendous bad luck.
"Where did your husband keep these?"
"In a small safe in his study. Only he and I know the combination."
"So he'll know you were the one who took them."
She nodded, gulping. "Yes. He will."
"You're taking a big risk, aren't you? Why? Just because what your husband did was bad?"
For a few seconds, she said nothing. Then she showed me another photo, an older one, ten, twelve years old, judging by how much younger she looked in it.
"That's me and my son, Moshe. He's three years old here. Doesn't he look like me?" He did, and I told her so. "He's fourteen now, and he doesn't look like me at all. He's a copy of his father."
She stated that last fact with aching bitterness, and I remembered the photo of the three of them on the piano in Leitner's apartment. How the boy resembled his father not only in features, but also in manner and bearing.
"We used to be so close, Moshe and I, when he was little. Now he barely notices me, but he worships his father. Every day, he grows a little more like him. And not just physically. He's adopting more and more of my husband's immorality, his ruthless ambitiousness. I'm losing my son bit by bit. Soon it'll be too late, there'll be nothing of me left in him, and he'll be as evil and selfish as his father. I can't let that happen."
"I'm sorry to hear that," I said. "But what does that have to do with you giving me these photos?"
She leaned forward, her eyes bright and animated. "You were pointing a gun at my husband, weren't you? I heard him telling you to be careful with it."
I looked around us. There was no one at the neighboring tables. No one had heard her question. "And if I was?"
"You can't imagine what a thrill I felt when you threatened to shoot him. I was praying you'd do it. But then Yosef said you wouldn't dare because I was in the apartment, and you relented. I cursed myself. Why couldn't I have been out?"
"Let me get this straight, you actually wanted me to shoot your husband?"
She nodded. "More than anything. It would have freed me, freed my son. I would have been able to change him back to the sweet little boy he once was. But Yosef, damn him, he had the photos to protect him. I heard him threatening that they'd be released if he died."
"So..." I began, still not sure where she was going with this.
"So," Ada said, and I noticed her posture was better, lending her height and an aura of power. "Now there's nothing to stop you."
"You brought me these pictures so I'll kill your husband for you?"
"Yes," she said, and there was a simple, fragile strength in that short utterance. A strength that her husband might have squashed and stifled and nearly killed over years of bad marriage, but not quite. And accompanying that strength was a filament of courage that allowed her to state her wish without averting her gaze. "He'll be alone in the apartment all evening. I'm taking my son to visit my sister. We won't be back until nine."
"Why don't you kill him yourself if you hate him so much?"
She wrung her hands. "I thought about it a thousand times. I pictured it in my head. But I can't. I'm not sure I'd be able to go through with it. And I don't know how to do it without getting caught."
"You could hire someone."
