I set my cup on the desk and leaned back in my chair. "Is there anything you'd like to ask me, Mr. Gafni?"

His eyebrows twitched. "Ask you?"

"You're wondering if you can trust me. I don't blame you. Having to get a man out of jail before you even met him does not inspire confidence."

A small smile spread across his mouth. "Are you always this direct, Mr. Lapid?"

"It gets me where I'm going faster. Here's the situation as I see it: You have a certain problem, and you wish to employ a private detective to solve it for you. You don't know any detectives yourself, so you asked Birnbaum for a referral. He's written extensively about crime, so you figured he would know someone. He recommended me. So far, so good, but then you learned that I'd been arrested for beating a cop so hard he had to go to the hospital. Birnbaum persuaded you to pull some strings to get me out, and you did, which tells me your problem is painful, personal, and urgent. Otherwise, you would have searched for another detective, one who wasn't facing serious charges. How am I doing so far?"

"Go on," Gafni said, which I took to mean I was right on the money.

"Still, you can't help but worry that I'm not the right man for the job. Like I said, I don't blame you. So I thought maybe you'd like to ask me some questions that might ease your mind. But before you do, I'd like to tell you a few things: I did not put that cop in the hospital. Another demonstrator did that. But I did take part in the demonstration yesterday in Jerusalem, and I did fight with cops outside the Knesset. I'm not proud of the latter, but I am of the former. I think it's wrong for Israel to negotiate with Germany. I think it would be wrong to take money from it. I suppose you feel differently."

"You're damn right I do. Israel could use these reparations. There's no good reason not to take them."

The last thing I wanted was a repeat of my argument with Birnbaum. I dug my fingernails into my palms and said, "So we know where each of us stands on this issue. Now, do you have any questions for me?"

"I do," he said. "First question: Do you support the Herut party?"

"That's none of your business."

He blinked. "I thought you were trying to set my mind at ease."

"I am, but I don't approve of politics-based hiring. That's how they do things in dictatorships, like Nazi Germany."

A flush invaded his cheeks. "You're getting dangerously close to being thrown out of this office and back into a jail cell, Mr. Lapid."

I took a breath, berated myself for my childishness, and said, "I apologize, Mr. Gafni. I was out of line. I appreciate your concerns. You're an official of Mapai. You're worried that if I learn anything embarrassing about you or your family, I'd share this information with members of Herut. You have my word that won't happen."

"I noticed you haven't answered my question."

"That's right. And I'm not going to."

"Are you always this stubborn?"

"More often than not. It's part of why I'm good at my job."

"So I'm simply supposed to trust you, is that it?"

"You're going to have to trust somebody. It might as well be me."

Gafni scrutinized my face for a long moment. Then he burst out laughing. It was a short laugh, born more out of surprise than humor.

"You're strange, you know that? Any other man would have just said 'No, Mr. Gafni, sir, I don't support those dirty fascists of Herut. I voted Mapai, and all my family too.' But you're different. You have principles and you stick to them, even when you may pay dearly for doing so. I respect that."

I didn't feel worthy of praise. Mostly, I felt stupid for not lying through my teeth. My head throbbed where the policeman had kicked me. I might have been thickheaded, but evidently not enough.

"Any other questions?" I asked.

Gafni rubbed the sides of his chin with thumb and forefinger. He looked contemplative and sad. "Do you have any children, Mr. Lapid?"

I shook my head.

"But you did, didn't you? I can see it in your face."

This wasn't a subject I wanted to talk about. Not with him, not with anyone. But I said, "I had two daughters. Both died in the war in Europe."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said.

His commiseration made me uncomfortable. As if I was being forced to share something private and painful, to expose a part of me that was raw and vulnerable and bleeding. Yet, hadn't I, mere minutes ago, expressed my own condolences for his loss?

Perhaps Gafni sensed my emotional state, for he did not wait for a reply. He settled his forearms on the edge of the desk and intertwined his fingers. He looked determined and certain—a man who had made up his mind.

"I don't need to ask you anything else, Mr. Lapid. I want you to do a job for me."

"Her name was Moria," Gafni said. "She was twenty-three years old. A little over a month ago—on December 6—she was found dead in her apartment in Jerusalem."

"How did she die?" I asked.

"Pills. She took pills."

"Suicide?"

"According to the pathologist, she swallowed more than twice the amount it would have taken to kill a woman of her size. Moria was never one for half measures. It was one of the only things in which she took after me."

He said that last bit with a crooked little smile on his mouth, but his tone was that of hopeless regret.

"And you believe the suicide was staged? That Moria was murdered?"

"What? No. Why would I think that?" Gafni looked as though I'd suggested cats were capable of flight. "There was no sign of violence or a struggle. The police did not hesitate in ruling it a suicide. Here, I have a copy of their report. You can read it yourself."

The report was three pages long. It stated that Moria Gafni had been found dead in her apartment at three thirty on the afternoon of December 6, 1951, and that she had died around noon of the same day. Empty pill bottles were found by her bed. The pills had come from the hospital where Moria Gafni had worked. The police found a suicide note next to the pillow, written in the dead woman's hand, though for some reason, the message therein had not been recorded. The woman who discovered the body stated that the door to the apartment had been locked when she arrived. There was no sign of any disturbance inside. No hint of violence. A clear-cut suicide.

I put the report on the desk. "If you don't suspect foul play, why do you need a detective?"

Instead of replying, Gafni reached into his inside jacket pocket. His hand came out holding a folded piece of paper. "This is the note Moria left."

I unfolded the paper and read the message written across it in black ink. "Are you sure this is Moria's handwriting?"

"Yes. I recognized it instantly."

It was possible someone had coerced Moria into writing this note, but my instincts doubted it. The writing was precise and neat, the product of a steady hand. This wasn't written by a woman beset by roiling emotion or under a threat more terrible than imminent death.

In addition, if the note had been written under duress, or if it had been forged, the killer would have crafted a depressed and unremarkable farewell. Something along the lines of "I can't go on anymore" or "I see no point in carrying on living." Instead, the note was decidedly cryptic and its tone aggressive rather than desolate. The killer would have wanted the note to settle all questions regarding Moria's frame of mind and her decision to end her life. But what it did was the opposite: it raised questions. And unanswered questions arouse curiosity and invite scrutiny. The exact things a murderer would least want.

I read the note again, pondering its hidden meaning. "Who is the person Moria refers to?"

"I don't know."