Shulamit mulled it over. "If you had asked me this question then, I would have said no, but now? Yes, I suppose it's possible."

"But you saw no sign of it?"

"No. Nothing. Why do you ask?"

I didn't answer her. My mind was churning, swirling with questions.

Davidson could have denied having an affair with Esther, because he figured it would cast him as a suspect. But why had he insisted on it even after I told him a colleague of Esther had confirmed the affair? At that point, Davidson believed his initial alibi was strong, that he was beyond suspicion. He should have felt safe enough to come clean about the affair. It was only later that I revealed to him what I knew about Saul Mercer and got him to admit he had not been on his boat the night of the murders.

What Davidson had said about the night he forced a kiss on Esther by the docks could explain what Elena Warshavski had claimed she saw. What it couldn't explain was what Leah Goldin had told me. She'd said that Esther had told her she was having an affair with Alon Davidson. So either Esther had lied to Leah at the time, or Davidson had lied to me yesterday, or…I rubbed my face. Someone was lying, and I desperately needed to find out who.

Regardless of whether Davidson and Esther were having an affair, he could have killed her. He had motive. He had opportunity. He knew the layout of the building and the habits of the neighbors. He knew that he would be able to get in and out of the building without being seen. Davidson was vicious and violent and capable of harming women. He had lied about his alibi. He was the best suspect I had.

But if he had been truthful about not having an affair with Esther, it would cast doubt on his guilt. Just as his giving me Shulamit's name and address, despite knowing she was unlikely to speak of him fondly, did not seem like something a guilty man would do. On the other hand, I'd threatened to go to the police if he didn't cooperate.

Shulamit was looking at me, and I recalled that I hadn't answered her last question.

"It's not important," I said, getting to my feet. "Thank you for seeing me."

At the door I turned to her. "I apologize for making you relive painful memories."

"No apology is necessary," she said. "Actually, I want to thank you."

"Thank me?"

"Yes. I feel better now for having talked about those bad times, like a weight's been lifted off me. Do you know what I mean?"

I said that I did, though in truth I did not. How could talking about your awful experiences make you feel anything but lousy?