So why didn't I feel this way? I felt satisfaction, both for having rid the world of Amiram and for bringing justice to three murder victims. But pride? No, that I didn't feel, and I wasn't exactly sure why.
Birnbaum said, "What was the nature of their relationship? Amiram and Ofra, I mean?"
"They were romantically involved. What I learned from the file is that Ofra paid bail for Amiram twice, and that she visited him in jail during his first three imprisonments."
"And other members of the theater knew about it? This Leon Zilberman, for example?"
"I believe so. That's why he made that remark about her being unlucky with men—that and her unfortunate relationships with Dattner and Ornstein."
"Why did none of her colleagues mention this to the police five years ago, after the Hartman murder?"
"I don't know. Maybe they simply didn't believe that one of their own could be responsible."
"Just goes to show that you can never really know anyone, can you?" Birnbaum said. Then he frowned. "I wonder why Amiram agreed to kill Dattner and Ornstein. They were Ofra's lovers. I can see him killing them to get them out of the way, but to do so at her request? How do you think that came about?"
"I've been wondering about that too," I said. "I think they had an intermittent relationship. If you check the dates of Amiram's incarcerations, they fit the times in which Ofra was involved with Dattner and later Ornstein. Both men hurt her badly. Amiram might have agreed to kill them in order to regain her favor, to prove his loyalty to her when other men had betrayed her. A similar thing must have happened with Anna."
Birnbaum nodded. "Love does make fools of us all." Then he smiled and his eyes twinkled with exultation. "You've given me a spectacular story, Adam. Just what I hoped for."
It wasn't a scoop, as word of Ofra's suicide, and the reason behind it, would by day's end reach the ear of every industrious reporter in Israel, but Birnbaum held the advantage. While his counterparts would spend valuable time struggling to collect all the relevant information and form the proper narrative, Birnbaum would be checking his story for misspelled words and misplaced commas. He would be the first, and in his profession that meant more than anything.
"About the story, Shmuel..."
He caught the tone of my voice and narrowed his shrewd eyes. "I have a feeling a favor is about to be asked."
"Can you keep my name out of it?"
Two years earlier, on another case, I had made a similar request. Then as now, he didn't understand me. But he neither asked for my reasoning nor did he attempt to change my mind.
What he said was: "It may prove pointless, Adam. Amiram Gadot's death is public knowledge. Other reporters might be able to put two and two together."
"Let's hope their algebra fails them," I said.
He chuckled, then held up a finger. "Even if it does, someone in the police might decide to leak the information."
"I don't think they will."
"No? Why not?"
"Because then the credit will go to me instead of them. Cops move up in rank based on their record. They'd prefer not to share the glory with a private investigator like me."
"You may be right," Birnbaum said. "Very well, I'll do my utmost to obscure your identity, though my journalistic spirit rebels against such an omission. Therefore, I would like something in return for my cooperation."
I smiled in spite of myself. "And what would that be?"
"I would like to know what you haven't told me."
"And what would that be?" I repeated, knowing full well.
"The name of your client, for one."
I shook my head. "It isn't mine to give, Shmuel."
"Surely now, with the case concluded, your client would have no cause to keep his identity a secret."
"What makes you think it's a he?"
He arched an eyebrow. "So it's a woman?"
"My lips are sealed, Shmuel."
He grunted. "I'll have you know you are one of the most frustrating men I have ever encountered. Very well, next question: what made you doubt Isser Rotner's alibi for the night Anna Hartman was killed?"
And there it was, the unresolved question that kept niggling at the back of my mind. Why did Rotner have his wife lie on his behalf? Where had he been and what was he doing the night Anna perished? What did he have to hide?
And why did he exhibit all that fear and dread as he slept beside his wife while Anna's body grew cold?
I said, "I can't tell you that either, Shmuel. But let's just say, I haven't changed my mind about it."
He took that in, then grinned mischievously. "I would have liked to have been there the moment you laid him out. Men of such unfounded arrogance should be brought down a peg or three at regular intervals."
"I only punch those who deserve it, Shmuel."
His fingertips brushed his jaw. "Let's agree to disagree on that score, Adam, all right?"
I nodded.
He leaned his elbows on the table. "You know he must hate you, don't you?"
"Rotner? I imagine so."
"But he has much to thank you for."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because of your tireless efforts, Shoresh Theater is about to receive a boatload of free publicity, and of the best kind there is."
"Which is?"
"Sordid, morbid, depraved, and blood soaked, of course. I predict all shows for the foreseeable future will be sold out. You, dear Adam, may have singlehandedly solved Shoresh Theater's financial woes and in so doing granted Isser Rotner the thing he wanted most—to be the leading man of a leading theater."
My guts twisted. Birnbaum was right. If there was anyone who emerged from this case better off than he had entered it, it was Isser Rotner.
And again I wondered where he had been that night. And what had made him so fearful?
35
Later that night, when I knew Shoresh Theater would be playing, albeit without its most experienced actress, I made a telephone call from a café on Ben Yehuda Street. The phone rang eleven times before it was picked up. Then came her voice, as beautiful and resonant as ever, but underlying it was a layer of dejection and despair. I thought I knew the reason.
"Good evening, Mrs. Rotner, this is Adam Lapid."
"Ah, Mr. Lapid, I was expecting your call." It did not sound like she had done so with relish.
"You've heard the news, I take it."
"Indeed I have. Three murders and a suicide. The recipe of a good tragedy."
I did not know what to say to that.
"Add a sprinkle of betrayal, a dash of humiliation, a pinch of heartbreak, and a spoonful of envy, and the dish is set. Now raise the curtain and serve it to the hungry masses. Just remember to practice your bows. For they'll be shouting your name loud enough to make the walls of the theater hall shudder."
"Who told you?" I asked.
"My dear husband, of course. The police had paid him a visit earlier today and informed him of recent developments. He pretended to be shocked and sad, but I could tell it was just a facade. In his mind, he was already making plans of exploiting this tragedy to its fullest potential. He was picturing packed theater halls, grander venues, and being bombarded with applause and cheers.
"It was a stark difference to how he had been yesterday. Upon returning home in the afternoon, he had raved and ranted about you for two hours straight. He would not tell me why he was so infuriated. I admit I took great pleasure in watching him pace back and forth like a caged animal."
I related to her my recent conversation with her husband, culminating in his errant swing at my head and my well-placed punch in his midsection.
She let out a short laugh the temperature of an ice cube. "I would have liked to have seen that. Small consolation, but better than what I have now. I must tell you, Mr. Lapid, that I am very disappointed."