The second identity card bore the name Erich Kantor. I took out the picture Henrietta had given me and compared it to the picture on the card. The boy in the second picture was older, of course. He had been six months old when it was taken. But the resemblance was evident. These two pictures were of the same boy.

"You came so close, little one," I found myself muttering to the dead boy in the photos. "So close."

There was another picture in the file. This one showed both victims together. Esther was sitting on a park bench with Willie on her lap. He was a big boy now, nine months old perhaps, chubby-cheeked and healthy looking, and was leaning back into Esther, like young children sometimes do with their parents. Esther wore her hair loose and had on a summer dress and a necklace of pearls tight around her long neck. Willie had on black shorts and a white shirt that looked a little too big for him. He was smiling a crooked little smile and his eyes twinkled. She had her arms around him and was smiling broadly. The smile elevated her beauty from exquisite to dazzling. She exuded such joy and warmth that my mind rebelled against the notion that she was dead. Mira had been right when she told me Esther had grown to love the boy with whom she had been entrusted. They looked utterly happy and carefree in each other's company. No one would have doubted for a moment that the two were mother and child.

I reread the list of items the police cataloged in Esther's apartment. A pearl necklace was not among them. Nor was any other kind of jewelry—a friend of Esther's had reported her owning some earrings and rings, nothing very expensive. A handwritten note in the margin of the item list read "Killer swiped all jewelry."

Returning my attention to the picture, I recognized the location: Gan Meir Park in Tel Aviv. A date had been scrawled on the back. August 22, 1939. Just four days before the murders.

Would Henrietta Ackerland like to have this picture? Would it ease her hurt to see that her son had been happy when he died? Or would it augment her pain to see him so happy with another woman? I couldn't really say. With a pang of guilt, I slipped the photograph into my pocket. Reuben would not have approved of me taking anything from a police report, but I figured it would do no harm. If I hadn't asked to read this report, no one would have ever laid eyes on it again.

I kept on reading.

Sergeant Shabtai Rivlin was the detective in charge of the case. His notes were written in a black pen, and his handwriting was cramped and slightly crooked. But it was legible, and his notes seemed thorough enough.