By now it was around seven and my stomach was sending me signals. I walked east and by seven thirty was at my regular table at Greta's, a melted cheese sandwich, a steaming cup of coffee, and my chessboard before me.

I stayed at my table for the next two and a half hours, had two more cups of coffee and a soda, and ate a second sandwich. I played one game after another, striving to clear my mind of all I'd learned over the past two days, of the possibilities that new knowledge aroused, of the case in its entirety. It worked only partly—I enjoyed brief snatches of mental liberty, in which my mind became joyously free of Esther and Willie and Henrietta and all the people I'd met and talked to during this investigation. But my mind never stayed liberated for long. It seemed intent on submerging itself in the swamp of details and facts that I'd learned, and in the questions and suppositions that those facts and details gave birth to.

What I really wanted, I realized, was to talk about the case, to voice my thoughts and see how another person reacted to them. So I remained at my table until I was the sole remaining customer in the café, until Greta had locked the door and flipped over the open/closed sign, until she'd flicked off half the lights and came over to my table.

She dropped onto a chair with a sigh. "Long day. My feet are killing me."

"You should soak them in hot water. Give me a minute; I'll hop to the kitchen and fill up a bowl."

When I returned with a large stirring bowl, she removed her shoes and socks and gingerly slipped her feet into the water. A smile spread slowly on her lips.

"That feels good. Now why didn't I think of it myself?"

"That's why you keep me around, to solve problems for you."

Her smile widened. "And you do a fine job, I must say. Even if you do eat me out of house and home." Her face turned serious. "You look tired. Sleeping okay?"

"As usual. It's not lack of sleep that's the problem; it's this case I'm working on." I told her about Henrietta Ackerland and how a hopeless missing person case morphed into an equally hopeless double murder investigation. I related to her the various steps I'd taken and described the people I'd met and the conversations I'd held with them over the past few days. I listed the things I'd learned and the open questions that had cropped up. I told her about Alon Davidson. Greta listened in silence, her wise eyes focused on my face, full of compassion and sorrow.