"Did Moria know him?"
He cocked his head, slitted his eyes. "Why are you asking this question?"
"Did she?"
He huffed in irritation. "Yes. Years ago, when Arye and I partnered on some ventures, I'd invite him home for dinner every now and then. And Moria would sometimes visit me at my office and run into him. I hope that answers your question. Now"—he made an impatient give-me motion with his right hand—"it's high time you answer mine."
So I did. I told him about talking to the neighbor who'd witnessed Moria and Harpaz's explosive argument on Moria's street. "It happened about a week before the suicide. Did you know they were in contact so recently?"
Gafni shook his head. His face was set, his dark eyes like lumps of coal ready to be put to flame.
"That's not all," I said, and I told him about finding the condoms in Moria's bedroom and then talking with Lillian Shukrun, though I didn't name her, and learning that Moria had a lover who would visit her apartment late at night. "She saw him once from the back, but I still managed to glean a description of him. Five ten or eleven. Lean. Dark hair. Rings a bell?"
Color started rising in Gafni's cheeks. He clutched the ends of his armrests so hard I thought his knuckles might split the skin.
"He was Moria's lover," I said. "Why they kept it secret, I'm not sure."
"Because Arye is married," Gafni said through clenched teeth, his voice rising with every word, his face turning blood red. "And because Arye knew I'd ruin him if I found out. The dirty bastard!" The expletive came out in a guttural shout that echoed around the office along with the wooden bang of the two fists he slammed onto his desk.
I flinched at his explosive reaction. I figured he might get mad, but I hadn't expected this erupted fury. Spittle dotted his lips and chin, and his eyes bounced around the room. His fists were still clenched. As hard as he'd hit the desk, they had to hurt, but he didn't seem to notice.
Finally, his gaze settled on me. "It's him, isn't it? He's the one who drove her to it."
I didn't need to ask whom he was talking about. I could have told him no, that Arye Harpaz did not cause Moria to end her life, but I knew that if I did, I'd have to explain why I was sure, that Gafni would not allow me to evade answering again.
"I don't know," I ended up saying. "Like I said, I need to do more work."
Gafni nodded, wiping his chin dry with the back of one hand. "You do that, Mr. Lapid. And finish the job fast."
32
I rested for six more days before I felt it was time to return to Jerusalem. By then, the bruises on my face had disappeared, and my forehead had shed its scabs. The large bruise on my ribs, where Kulaski had punched me, had shrunk like a pond in a drought. And like said pond, it was greenish and roughly circular in shape.
My ribs still hurt, but I'd gotten used to the pain and no longer took any pills. Still, I was in no shape to run or fight. If Dr. Aboulker knew what I planned, he would have thrown a fit.
Greta didn't. She took in my declaration that I would be returning to Jerusalem that evening in silence. Then she went to cook me a bountiful meal and stood over my shoulder until I ate it all.
I wondered if this was the equivalent of a condemned man's last meal but kept the question to myself.
I packed some clothes and put an empty bottle, a can opener, a spoon, and half a dozen cans of food inside my bag.
"Why are you taking all this?" Greta asked.
I told her, and she shook her head.
"You don't approve?"
"It's morbid."
"Do you see any other option?"
"No. I suppose you have no choice."
That left the question of Moria's gun. Should I take it with me? On the one hand, it was a murder weapon, and getting caught with it would be bad. On the other hand, if the police arrested me in Jerusalem, I'd probably be too dead to notice a murder charge.
Besides, the gun might come in handy, and not just for shooting.
So I slipped it inside my right coat pocket, putting the extra magazines in my left.
I left my apartment at nine, was on the bus to Jerusalem at nine thirty. The bus was nearly empty, which suited me fine. I huddled in my seat, leaned against the window, but I couldn't sleep. The closer I got to Jerusalem, the greater my foreboding became. Something terrible was going to happen. I just hoped it wasn't going to happen to me.
I pulled my new hat low over my face as I got off the bus in Jerusalem. I sneaked glances under its brim but saw no cops in the station. For the first time since this case started, I wished it would rain; it would make me harder to recognize. Still, night offered some cover, which was partly why I chose to return to Jerusalem this late.
The air smelled of exhaust fumes and the faint odor of someone's pipe. My skin crawled as though I were being watched, but I spotted no watchers. It was as though Kulaski was an evil spirit roving about Jerusalem, seeing everything that went on in the capital.
It was after eleven, the streets dark and cold and nearly empty, but it was still too early for what I had in mind. Most cafés and restaurants had already closed for the night, but I finally found a small bar that was still open. I chose the rearmost table, ordered a glass of wine I had no intention of drinking, and tried to read the latest paperback Greta had brought me. I couldn't concentrate on the story; I kept raising my eyes from the text to look at the front door, sure I'd see Kulaski grinning at me.
It was well after midnight when I picked up my bag and got out. It was time to go to sleep.
There was a chance Kulaski had given my name and description to all Jerusalem hotels. And if not, he might periodically check with them. I couldn't risk it. I needed someplace else to lay my head, where no one would know I was there, and I could think of just one option.
I made my way north and entered the now familiar streets of Kerem Avraham. On the corner of Malkei Israel and Amos, I paused and took a long stare into the street where Moria Gafni had made her home.
Both sidewalks were empty. Nearly all the windows I could see were dark. I counted just three lights, none of them in Moria's building. The street was quiet apart from the whisper of the wind and the pattering of small animal feet in the impenetrable shadows between buildings.
I turned onto Amos Street, scanning the windows on either side, but saw no curious faces peering out at me. At the entrance to Moria's building, I paused and listened. No sound. No baby crying, no muffled speech, no sense of movement anywhere.
I removed my shoes and padded inside, crossed the lobby, and started up the stairs. If anyone opened their door and saw me in my stockinged feet, I'd have some difficult explaining to do.
A shaft of moonlight from a rectangular aperture set into the wall bathed the second-floor landing a tarnished silver. I held my breath as I tiptoed past the Shukrun apartment. Lillian was probably asleep, but I wanted to take as few chances as possible.
I still had the key to Moria's apartment. I slid it into the lock as quietly as I could and turned it, cringing at the clicking sound the bolt made as it retracted. I went inside and closed the door gently. I waited with my ear pressed to the door for two full minutes, but it seemed no one was coming to check on the apartment. Gritting my teeth, I relocked the door. More noise, but it was worth it. I did not wish to be surprised in my sleep.
The air in the apartment was breathless and dead; the windows were shut against the cold and wind. It was gloomy, Moria's furniture nothing but obscure black humps, and I did not dare to switch on the lights. Leaving my shoes by the door, I soft-footed to the bedroom and set my bag by the closet. My gaze landed on the unmade bed where Moria Gafni had taken her own life. Greta had been right: this was morbid. But I had slept in places far more ghoulish.