She poured me a tall glass and I took a big gulp. The lemonade was tasty and cold and very sweet. I raised an eyebrow.

"You've either been saving up your sugar rations or you have a good black-market supplier."

Elena poured herself a glass and sat down. "Don't tell me you're one of those government hounds always sticking their snouts into other people's business."

"Do I look like one?"

"I wouldn't have invited you up here if you did. When I first saw you from my balcony, I thought you might be a salesman. But you weren't schlepping around a sample case or any merchandise I could see. Besides, you don't look like a salesman."

"What do I look like?"

"I can't say, and that's difficult to admit because I fancy myself a good judge of people." She raised her glass and took a sip. "What do I look like?"

"A teacher," I said.

Elena stared at me, eyebrows elevated.

I offered a smile. "Those pictures of you and your students were pretty hard to miss."

She turned her eyes in the direction of her living room, where the pictures I'd referenced filled up one wall. Then she burst out laughing. Her laughter was rolling and musical, and my smile stretched wider in response to it.

She set her glass on the table and dabbed her eyes with a napkin. "Nicely done, Adam. You don't mind if I call you Adam, do you?" I shook my head. "And you must call me Elena. You're right, of course. I am a teacher. Have been one for the past thirty-six years. Geography and history and Hebrew. You get top marks for your deduction skills." She folded her napkin and laid it on the table. "But I notice you have some pictures of your own with you."

I had set the stack of pictures I'd taken from Manny Orrin upside down on the table. I peeled off the top one and handed it to her. She lodged her eyeglasses on the bridge of her nose and studied the picture.

"My God, it's her."

"You remember her?"

Instead of answering, she said, "Can I see another one?"

I handed another picture over. This one had been taken two days before Esther's death and, like the former, it was a street shot, not one taken inside her apartment. Fortunately, Elena did not ask me where I got the pictures.

She glanced at the photo and let out a deep sigh. "Yes. It's definitely her. Poor girl. What was her name? It's on the tip of my tongue."

"Esther Kantor," I said, giving Esther's false name.

Elena handed the pictures back and removed her eyeglasses from her nose. They dangled from their cord, resting against her chest. "Yes. Now I remember. I remember how shocked I was hearing what had happened to her and her baby."

"So you lived here at the time of the murders?"

"Yes. I've been living in this apartment for fourteen years now."