"It's all right," I said. "Was this woman familiar?"

"No."

"You never saw her before?"

"I don't think so."

"How did she look?"

Haim tried to recall her image, but soon gave up. "I don't remember."

"Think," I said. "Take as long as you need. Close your eyes. Clear your mind. Try to reach the memory. I'll help you."

Haim shut his eyes, and I started walking him through what he remembered of that day: what the weather was like, how he was feeling, what time of day it was, the clothes Esther was wearing. It was a technique I had learned as a policeman, whereby getting a witness to recall some details connected to a scene made it easier for him to recall even more details—including those you most wanted him to remember.

I worked at it for half an hour, trying one angle and then another, often asking the same question a half-dozen different ways, but Haim kept drawing a blank. He remembered the scene—the place, the weather, the mood of the participants—and he remembered Esther, of course, but he did not recall a single thing about the appearance of the woman who had been angry with her. Not her build, not her age, not her complexion, not even her clothes. Finally, in desperation, I described the women I had encountered on my investigation—a tactic I knew held the risk of corrupting his memory. Nothing.

Throughout all this, Haim's face bore an expression of intense concentration. I had to give him credit—he gave it his all. It was I who finally decided to stop.

"Stop?" Haim said. "No. Let's try some more." He looked exhausted. I had worked him hard mentally. He seemed so crestfallen by his failure at recollection that I was prompted to offer a comforting lie.

"Not today. We'll try again another time." When I saw that didn't improve his mood, I added, "You did good. You helped a lot."

He brightened. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," I said.

22

After my talk with Haim Sassoon, I spent another hour on Lunz Street, knocking on doors and talking to neighbors who were not home the previous time I'd canvassed the street. I learned nothing new.

Before leaving Lunz Street, I gazed up at Elena Warshavski's balcony, thinking I could use another drink of lemonade. She wasn't there. I thought about climbing the stairs and seeing if she was home, but decided against it. It is one thing to be invited; it is another to try to invite yourself.

Around the corner on Rothschild Boulevard stood the grocery store where Esther had done her shopping. I showed her picture to the manager. He remembered her, but had no information regarding the murders. A canvass of nearby stores proved equally fruitless.