As the silence lengthened, I gave Leah a long look, reconsidering my early assessment of her. She was flighty and self-centered, but that was not all she was. Esther must have known a different side to Leah to have confided in her about her affair with Alon Davidson. In her way, Leah had been a friend to Esther, had cared for her, and had mourned her loss. I could tell by her face that merely talking about Esther and the murders had a deep effect on her. She appeared withdrawn and worn out. Her eyes were downcast, shoulders slightly hunched.

I reached over and touched her shoulder. She started.

"Sorry," I said, withdrawing my hand. "I didn't mean to scare you."

She chuckled. "It's my fault. I was just…someplace else for a minute."

"I understand," I said. "The past can be a dark place."

"Yes. Yes, it can."

"I should get going. Thank you for talking to me."

She walked me to the door and mumbled a goodbye. I heard the snick of the lock before clearing half a flight of stairs.

21

It was just shy of eleven when I exited Leah Goldin's building. Too early to pay Becker & Strauss another visit. Too early for lunch. But Lunz Street was a five-minute walk away, and Haim Sassoon was due back from his army unit that morning, so that was where I went.

Haim Sassoon was so similar to his father, the two might have been cast from the same mold, only twenty-something years apart. Their height and build were almost identical, as were their facial features and hair. But unlike his father's, the skin on Haim's face was unmarked by age or acne scars, giving him a look of youthful innocence.

His father had accompanied me upstairs to his son's apartment. Haim's wife had gone out and taken their baby boy with her, so there were only the three of us. The elder Sassoon and I sat side by side on the sofa while Haim poured coffee into three glasses before taking a chair. The brew had the same scent as the coffee his father had offered me when I visited him—harsh and bitter. I took a careful sip and found that its taste did not stray far from its scent, but both father and son relished it.

Haim Sassoon was in uniform, sleeves rolled up his thin biceps, dog tags hanging on a chain outside his shirt. He had removed his army boots but still had on the thick woolen socks that went with them. He looked tired, as soldiers often do. I told him I was sorry for keeping him from his bed.

He waved a hand. "Don't be. Dad told me what you're doing. I want to help any way I can."

"Good," I said. "You were twelve when the murders took place. You remember the victims?"

"Sure. I used to see them almost every day."

"Did Esther ever talk to you?"