Rivlin nodded, possibly in grudging respect, though I couldn't say for sure. "Well, what do you want?"

"To talk to you about a case you worked on."

"A case? Why do you want to talk about a case?"

"I'm a private investigator."

"Oh, one of those." He chuckled again, favoring me with a derisive grin. His breath was awful. "You think I have time for jokers? I'm a police detective, not some amateur. Go bother someone else." With that he turned back to his glass and took another swallow.

I thought of telling him I'd learned his whereabouts from a fellow policeman, but decided not to. I doubted it would make him more receptive to my questions, and it might get Reuben into trouble. Besides, I had another way to win him over.

"Put the bottle on the bar," I told the bartender, "and step away so we can talk in private."

The bartender didn't appear to be thrilled about the second part, but the look I gave him convinced him it was a good idea. He brought the bottle over and moved away to the far end of the bar. I refilled Rivlin's glass. He considered it for a long moment, his hairy forearms forming a triangle on the bar top, fingers laced. "All right," he finally said. "You bought yourself a minute. What case are you interested in?"

"A murder you worked ten years ago."

He stiffened. By no more than an inch, but I still caught it.

"You expect me to remember a case from ten years ago. Are you crazy?"

"It's not the sort of murder you're likely to forget."

When Rivlin faced me this time, his eyes were no longer bleary. He was looking at me—really looking—for the first time since I approached him. I wondered what he was searching for. I wondered what he ended up seeing.

"Maybe I'm a forgetful guy."

I shook my head. "You know the case I'm talking about. August 1939. Lunz Street. Two victims. A woman and a baby. Do I need to remind you what he did to their faces? Their eyes?"

He sat perfectly still for a few heartbeats, did not even blink. Then he drew a loud breath through his nose, held it in for a long moment, and blew it out of his mouth with a whoosh. He picked up his glass and gulped down half of it with one big mouthful. I didn't need to remind him. He remembered all right.

"Your minute is up," he said, not looking at me.

"I don't think so."

"Well, I do. Beat it."

"Fine. I'll go," I said. I reached for the bottle. He grabbed my wrist, fingers digging into my flesh.

"Leave it here."