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?

28

An hour later, back in Tel Aviv, I found a deserted café with a stooped, hatchet-faced barwoman and a telephone in the rear. It took a while, and a good number of calls, but eventually I managed to find the former manager of Moshe Klinger, back when he'd worked for Tnuva in Haifa.

He had a gruff, well-fed voice, and I could picture him in my mind: tanned skin lined by sun exposure; thick mustache; heavy frame with a bit of a gut, but not soft; thick arms dotted with sunspots; Shorts and sandals and strong legs sporting brown or black curls; and a face that was showing its forty-something years, but might stay that way for the next twenty. His name was Menashe Harel.

"I understand Moshe Klinger worked for you," I said into the mouthpiece.

"Who wants to know?" he demanded. A busy man in the middle of a busy day.

"Sergeant Dov Remez," I said, taking the first name of one government minister and stitching it to the last name of another. "Tel Aviv police."

A long pause. Breathing on the other end. In the background were sounds of men shouting instructions to each other and truck or tractor engines growling. The sounds were muffled, like Harel was in an office in a loading area with the door closed.

"Police? What's this about? Has Moshe done anything?"