In my notebook I'd listed all the people Rivlin had interviewed ten years ago. I planned on talking to as many of them as were still around. But there were people missing from this list, and there was just one person who could tell me who they were.

Half an hour later, I knocked on her door. She was home. She wore short brown pants and a light-blue work shirt and plain brown sandals, the sort worn by farmers in the Negev. I stared at her legs again. They were long and slender and tanned just a shade lighter than her arms. Her ankles were slim, her feet arched.

Mira Roth did not seem surprised to see me. A small satisfied smile flickered across her thin lips, and her amber eyes glowed like molten steel in the orange sunset light that slanted in through the second-floor landing window. "Come in, Adam."

We walked the few steps to her living room. Neither of us sat. We stood a foot and a half apart, and I caught her scent. Clean and stringent and familiar. She had showered recently, using the rough utilitarian soap the government allotted to each citizen. I used the same kind. If she'd washed her hair, it had had time to dry. It was pulled back, revealing shapely ears without earrings.

"I came by to tell you you got your wish," I said. "I started working on the case."

Her smile broadened by half an inch. "Was I that obvious? What gave me away?"

"A couple of things. I started wondering why you had talked to me at all, especially about something you don't want your boss to know. Then I recalled you making sure I was a private investigator when we spoke outside the salon. It all became clear—you told me about the Salonika and the botched-up raid because you want me to find out who killed Esther and Willie."

"It appears I made the right decision. You're perceptive."

"It wasn't that hard. It's going to take a lot more than that to solve these murders."

"You can do it," she said, her tone completely earnest.

"That's a nice sentiment, but the likelihood of my succeeding is about the same as that of snow falling tomorrow on Allenby Street."

"But you're going to try."

"Yes. But even if by some miracle I manage to discover who killed them, getting proof that will stand up in court is a whole different matter."

"Don't worry about a trial. Just find out who did it and give me his name. I'll take care of the rest."

I stared at her in blank astonishment, trying to see if she really meant what I thought she did. Her tone had been flat, emotionless, and cold. Her face wore an unwavering expression of calm resolve. Her back was as straight and rigid as a sheet of steel. Only her eyes betrayed what she was feeling. A fire raged within them. All doubt was erased. She was deadly serious. I recalled my earlier impression that she was a woman familiar with death. I just hadn't realized she was comfortable with it as well.