"That's why I got nowhere in my investigation. There were no physical clues. No one saw the killer enter or exit the building. No one had any motive to kill her. The murder didn't fit any former killing. It was a first. All I could do was wait until some clue turned up or the killer struck again. But he never did. The guy did it once and that's it. And I don't have a goddamn clue who he might be."

Rivlin stopped and drew in a breath. He suddenly looked even more weary than he had before. He picked up his wineglass and gazed into it. The red of the wine looked a little like blood. Apparently, he didn't see the resemblance, because he drank deeply from the glass. If he enjoyed it, he showed no sign of it.

"What do you think happened to him?" I asked.

"The killer?" He shrugged. "Maybe he had a heart attack the next day. Maybe he stepped on a land mine during the war. Or maybe he's the sort of killer for whom once is enough. I don't know. I'm not even sure I care anymore. I worked this case hard enough, let me tell you. Not that it did me much good. The brass chewed me out for failing to bring in results. I even had to type daily reports in English to the goddamn CID, explaining why I was getting nowhere, not that they ever offered to help any. So if you think you can waltz into this case after ten years and find the killer, go right ahead. Be my guest. Waste your time all you want, just don't take any more of mine. I'm done answering your questions. Pay the man for a second bottle and then get lost and let me drink in peace."

Having said all that, he jerked his head forward, ignoring my presence. I studied his profile and wondered how old he was. He could have been in his late thirties, but he looked an unhealthy forty-five, maybe closer to fifty. Closer to the end. He had nothing more to give. Not to me, probably not to anyone. I didn't want to talk to him anymore. I didn't want to be anywhere near him. But I had one more thing I needed him to tell me.

I got up from my stool and said, "How long have you been a lush?"

That got his attention. He whirled in his seat and gaped at me.

"Not that I care, but it's important I know if you started before August 1939. Because I need to know whether your investigation was worth a damn, or if I need to do it all over again."

"You son of a bitch," he snarled.