His voice cracked on that last word, and his gaze dropped. I couldn't be sure he was telling me the truth. I think he might not have been sure of himself, either. He wasn't going to give me a straight answer. He might have been a drunk ten years ago, or he might have had his drinking under control. Maybe it had affected his work, and maybe it hadn't. I would never know.

"All right," I said, "I get it."

I fished a one-lira note from my pocket, rolled it into a ball, and tossed it to the bartender.

"Get him another bottle," I said.

15

It was past six thirty when I left Rivlin to wallow in his wine and misery and wound my way north. Either the heat had broken or something else was chilling me, because I felt cold. I was also ashamed. A part of me—perhaps most of me—had longed to put my fist in Rivlin's face, even though he posed no real threat to me, even though hitting him would have served no purpose other than personal gratification. My father would have not recognized this part of me. If he had known of it, he would have mourned it.

I lit a cigarette, shaking off my dark thoughts along with the match. My stomach began rumbling, and I realized I was hungry.

On Rothschild Boulevard, I found a small café with a radio that played jaunty European music and had a light dinner. I often had a drink with dinner, but on that evening I found the thought of alcohol repellent. I had seen men destroyed. Watching one destroy himself was stomach turning in a whole different way.

As I ate, I ran my conversation with Sergeant Rivlin through my mind. What he'd said about the killer being a madman who had chosen his victims at random could very well be true, but I didn't believe it. This had nothing to do with facts or logic. I simply did not want to believe this was what had happened.

The reason was simple: If Esther Grunewald and Willie Ackerland were the random victims of a deranged killer, one who had never killed in a similar fashion before or since, then Rivlin was correct. I had absolutely zero chance of ever catching him.

And I wanted to catch him.

I wanted it even worse than I did the day Mira Roth had informed me of their deaths. Seeing their pictures and reading the details of the injuries they had sustained had made me realize I was chasing a monster the likes of which I had not pursued since my Nazi-hunting days. Whoever did this was evil—the sort of evil most men and women cannot imagine nor fathom. Bringing him to justice would be immensely satisfying.