"Suicide rarely makes sense, Yitzhak. And we barely knew the man. Who knows what sort of things he had going on in his life?"
"Yes, I know. Everyone has secrets. You can never know another man's mind. But this! And the guy is the last one I would have thought would do this. The man's a psychiatrist, for Heaven's sake. It's like a fireman setting his house on fire. Did you see anything to indicate that he was unstable? Because I sure didn't."
I shook my head. "Nothing at all. I'm as stunned as you are."
"Well, at least I'm not blind," he said, somewhat mollified. "Or crazy. Or both."
He crumpled the paper in disgust. He looked around, making sure none of the neighboring tables were occupied. He leaned forward and said in a low voice, "You realize that this means our mission is dead before it even started? He hadn't given us the money yet. Now we're stuck."
"So it seems," I said.
He frowned. "You don't seem too bothered about it."
"I am disappointed," I said. "But I'm not bothered. It's out of my hands—our hands—now. Feinstein is dead, and that's all there is to it."
He chewed on his lip, frustrated like a child informed that an anticipated trip to the zoo had been canceled due to bad weather. I felt a strange need to comfort him.
"There will be other opportunities," I said.
"Not for me," Yitzhak said. "I'm getting married in January."
Now I was truly stunned.
"You? Married?"
"You look more shocked by that piece of news than by Feinstein's suicide. Should I be insulted?"
Then his face softened, and the familiar grin crept back to his lips.
"Her name is Shulamit. She's three years younger than me and three times as beautiful. Forgive me if I don't speculate on how much smarter she is than I am. My self-esteem might never recover."
His smile had become self-conscious, and I must have been imagining the slight color in his cheeks. I had never seen him this way.
"You're engaged to be married and were planning on going to Germany?" I asked.
"One last adventure. One final grand undertaking. Something to tell the children about when they get older."
I shook my head in bemusement.
"Even if I do stumble across some other rich guy with a penchant for vengeance, it will be too late for me," Yitzhak said.
"Don't worry about it. Just living is vengeance enough."
He arched an eyebrow. "Getting philosophical in your old age, Adam?"
"No. Just a tiny bit wiser."
"So why did you say yes to the mission in the first place?"
I shrugged. "It seemed like the right thing to do. I think it always will. There's a futility in that, if you think about it."
We sat in contemplative silence for a moment.
"Well," he said, "I didn't think I could get more depressed than I was when I read that Feinstein was dead. Congratulations: you've managed to surprise me."
I smiled thinly. "I do what I can."
Suddenly he noticed my arm. "What happened to you?"
I glanced at my bandage. "It's nothing. Just a little accident. How did Shimon take the cancellation of our mission?"
"I haven't told him yet. Knowing him, he'll just shrug and go find a new car to borrow for a day or two. The man doesn't seem to be moved by anything. You know, I sometimes think he's the sanest one of the three of us."
"I guess he is."
He ordered a coffee for himself and one for me. We talked a little about the old days, but the conversation soon veered to his upcoming nuptials, his bride-to-be, and their future life together. His optimism seemed boundless. I found myself envying him.
"Where are you planning to live?" I asked.
"Up in the Galilee. Shulamit's family has some farmland up there that's currently uncultivated."
"Somehow I can't picture you toiling in the fields under the hot sun."
"Well, that's how it's going to be."
"What will you grow?"
"Who knows. Whatever the land will give."
He went on to talk about how he would employ the most advanced agricultural methods on his farm, introduce new strands of seeds, and double or even triple the yield of the land. It seemed that he had entirely forgotten Feinstein's death.
We had some more coffee together, ate some of Greta's chicken soup, smoked some cigarettes—I found his too weak; he found mine too strong. Before he left, he promised to send me an invitation to his wedding. I thanked him but didn't promise to attend.
18
I gave Milosh Dobrash a false version of what happened. I told him of Meir Abramo, explained how he and Yosef Kaplon were friends, and said that Abramo had killed himself. I suggested that Kaplon had been shattered by his friend's death and chosen to copy him. Lying to my client did not feel right, but I had no idea how he would react to the truth.
I offered to return his retainer, saying I felt I had failed to uncover the real cause of Kaplon's suicide. "All I have is conjecture," I said.
At first, Milosh wouldn't hear of it. But I insisted, and finally he took the money back.
He said, "To tell you the truth, Adam, I'm not sure why I hired you in the first place. I was so distraught by Yosef's death, I had to do something. But why he died ultimately does not matter. He was a friend of mine and a friend of my café. I miss him. And I miss his music." He told me he had visited Kaplon's grave twice since the funeral. "It's the least I can do. He doesn't have anyone else."
That's not true, I told myself. He has me.
After my meeting with Milosh, I went to the cemetery and stood a silent moment before Yosef Kaplon's grave. The small marker was still stuck in the mound of earth that covered him—a gravestone would be placed there at the one-month anniversary of his death. Since he had no next of kin, the state would pay for it, so the stone would be simple and cheap. At the edge of the cemetery, in a small workshop thick with the smell of stone dust and granite, worked a stone sculptor. I handed him three hundred dollars. "Make him a proper stone," I said.
Three days after I shot Feinstein, Reuben Tzanani asked me how my case was going.
I dreaded this talk, because I knew I would have to lie to him. Reuben would not accept vigilantism. He believed in the lawful process of justice.
"It's not going anywhere, really," I told him. "I doubt I'll find anything more."
"Sometimes there's just nothing to find, Adam. Maybe it's time to let it go."
"Maybe it is," I said. "Maybe it is."
Greta was the only person to get the full story. We sat in her café after closing hours, drinking coffee, and I related the entire investigation, from being hired by Milosh to faking Feinstein's suicide.
When I finished, she gave me that deep frown of hers that made her forehead look like a field after plowing.
"When you handed him the gun, did you think he would try to shoot you with it?"
"I was almost certain," I said.
"Then why did you offer it in the first place?"
"As a courtesy. It was his last chance to redeem some part of himself."
She sipped her coffee. We said nothing for a while.
Then she said, "Do you think he would have gotten away with it if you'd gone to the police?"
"Yes. He was very careful. And he was rich. He would have had a good lawyer."
"Is that why you didn't call the police once you knocked him out?"
"Yes," I said. "I couldn't allow him to get away with three murders."
After a moment she said, "You're right. He deserved to be punished."
And I only kill those who deserve it, I thought.
Then I said, "I should thank you."
"Me? What for?"
"For getting me to take a proper look at this case."
She gave me a cautious look, considering whether to utter the words on her mind.