Which was fine by me. There was no other way to make Strauss pay. Leah Goldin would not break down a second time, not after she'd spoken with Strauss—a telephone call that might have been taking place that very moment. I doubted the police would ever question her. They had more pressing matters on their plate than an attempted rape that might have occurred a decade ago, for which no complaint had ever been lodged.

Strauss might also be the killer. True, his wife had provided him with an alibi, but the police had never tested it because Strauss was never considered a suspect. He'd had no motive—until I'd squeezed one out of Leah.

But I had no clear proof that he was the murderer. Strauss might have been guilty of nothing more than attempted rape. If Mira killed him, I might never learn the truth.

And there was another reason why I did not wish to see Mira just then. I suspected that I knew what she'd kept from me, and why she had done so, as well. But I wanted to be sure, to give my mind time to process it.

So I turned left, walking south along the busy western sidewalk of King George. The air carried the mingled odors of exhaust fumes, sunbaked street dust, sweat, and the variety of perfumes and colognes of passing pedestrians. I paused for a split second at the turn to Hamaccabi Street, but decided against going home. I kept on walking, made the turn to Allenby and continued putting one foot ahead of the other till I pushed through the door to Greta's Café.

Inside it was marginally cooler. The ceiling fan rattled its steady rhythm. I mopped my wet forehead with a handkerchief and walked over to the bar. I said hello to Greta and let her pour me a cup of coffee. I carried the coffee and my chessboard to my table.

The place was busy—just one vacant table—so Greta had little time for me. This suited me fine. I wanted to pass a few quiet hours while I let my mind work. This case was nearing its end. I just didn't know whether that end included me catching a murderer or admitting defeat.