A Possibility of Violence by D. A. Mishani

she was not. He saw her hands gather up her hair and her gaze turn away from him as she answered.
    â€œTell me again your name,” he said, and she answered, “Chava.”
    â€œChava what?”
    â€œChava Cohen.”
    â€œDo you know if there were any complaints from tenants in the building who might not like the fact that you’re running a daycare here?”
    â€œWhat are you talking about, complaints? The daycare has been here for ten years. And everything’s licensed.”
    â€œAgain, you’re not answering my question, and I’m losing patience. I didn’t ask if you have a license but rather if any of the tenants in the building don’t like the fact that a daycare operates here.” She didn’t interrupt again, because she saw that something in him had hardened. “I tried to answer. As far as I know, no. Actually, I’m certain there aren’t any.”
    â€œDo you or have you ever had any disputes with the parents of the children in the daycare?”
    â€œNot at all. I’m not in a dispute with a single one of my parents. There are no disputes at our daycare. You can go back ten years and check with all the parents in the neighborhood. Parents bring me their children, they beg me to keep spots open for their children who haven’t even been born yet.”
    From a cardboard folder Avraham removed the pictures of the suitcase and asked if she was familiar with it. Afterward he presented her with a picture of Uzan, again without results. “I’m asking you to take a good look at this picture,” he persisted. “You’re certain that you don’t know this man? That you haven’t seen him around the daycare? He’s not the father of a child in the daycare?”
    Once more the answer was no.
    â€œDid you receive any threats recently? Letters, perhaps? Phone messages?”
    He looked at her and knew that she was lying.
    On the wall across from him was a large drawing of a bouquet of flowers that had captured his attention since the beginning of the conversation. At the center of each flower was a picture of a child, around which colorful crepe-paper petals were glued. He couldn’t see the faces of the children from where he sat. “What I’m asking you right now won’t leave the confines of this room. I want to know if, to the best of your knowledge, the parents of one of the children in the daycare might be involved in any criminal activities.”
    Chava Cohen looked at him, surprised. “You think they tried to threaten one of the parents?”
    â€œI’m asking.”
    She was less impatient when his questions didn’t deal with her. “I don’t have children from the slums, and as far as I know, all the parents here are totally fine.”
    â€œIf I were to ask you to tell me what each does for a living, would you know?”
    She turned and looked at the picture that drew his attention. “Don’t think so. I don’t see many fathers, mostly moms. Some work and some don’t work. And this is just the beginning of the year, I don’t know everyone. I can tell you that Arkadi’s father is an electrician, because he helped us with an electrical problem last week.”
    Avraham got up from his place when he asked her who else works at the daycare, and she answered, “No one. Just me and an assistant.” And when he asked for the phone number of the assistant he noticed that she grew tense again. Despite her resistance at the start of their conversation, she invited him to return to the daycare tomorrow in order to talk with the assistant, because there was no hope of getting her on the phone. “But what can she tell you that I haven’t said? She’s barely been here two weeks. I brought her in a day before the start of the year, and she doesn’t know a thing about the parents or the building,” she said.
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    HE DIDN’T SPEAK WITH ILANA