The Golem of Hollywood

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Yes, no.”

  “Uh. Yes, this is Homicide, or no, it’s not?”

  “Who is calling, please.”

  “Detective Jacob Lev. Los Angeles Police Department. In America.”

  “Ah,” the man said. “Rodney King!”

  —

  THE GUY’S NAME WAS RADEK. A junior lieutenant, he didn’t know who’d gone to New York last year, but cheerily offered to make inquiries.

  “Thanks. I have to ask, of all things, how is it you know about Rodney King?”

  “Okay. Snowproblem. After Revolution I am watch American television programs. A-Team. Silver Spoons. Sometimes news. So I see videotape. Pah, pah, pah! Black guy down.”

  “We’ve improved our customer relations since then.”

  “Yes? Good!” Radek laughed heartily. “Is okay for me to visit? Don’t kick my ass?”

  “Not if you behave.”

  “I have a cousin, he’s go to Dallas. Marek. You know him, I think?”

  “I live in California,” Jacob said. “It’s kind of far.”

  “Ah, yes?”

  “It’s a big country,” Jacob said.

  “Snowproblem. Marek, he marries American lady. Wanda. They have a restaurant for Czech food.”

  “Sounds good,” Jacob said.

  “You know this food? Knedlíky? My favorite, you should try.”

  “Next time I’m in Dallas I’ll be sure to check it out.”

  “Okay, snowproblem, I call you soon.”

  He did, early the following morning, his voice tight and low.

  “Yes, Jacob, hello.”

  “Radek? Why are you whispering?”

  “Jacob, this is not good thing for talking about.”

  “What? Did you find out whose case it is?”

  “One moment, please.”

  A hand over the receiver, muffled voices, then Radek blurted a string of numbers that Jacob hastily scribbled on his arm.

  “Who am I calling?”

  “Jan.”

  “Is he the detective?”

  “Jacob, thank you, good luck to you, I must go.”

  Dial tone. Jacob stood puzzling, then punched in the number.

  The phone rang eleven times before a tired-sounding woman answered.

  “Ahoy,” Jacob said. “Can I please speak to Jan?”

  Kids fighting in the background, bright commercial jingles. The woman shouted for Jan, and a phlegmy cough drew near.

  “Ahoj.”

  “Jan.”

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Jacob Lev. I’m a detective with the Los Angeles Police Department. Do you understand me? English?”

  Screaming silence.

  “A little,” Jan said.

  “Okay. Okay, great. I got your number from a colleague of yours, Radek—”

  “Radek who.”

  “I don’t know his name. His last name.”

  “Hn.”

  “I understand you were in New York last year, and a police officer who met you told me about a homicide where you found a head, the neck sealed up, and as it happens—”

  “Who told you this? Radek?”

  “No, an NYPD cop. Dougie. He—or, his colleague, actually—”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m working a similar case. I was hoping to compare notes.”

  “Notes?”

  “To see if there’s anything worth exploring.”

  The chaos in the background had reached a fever pitch, and Jan turned away to bark in Czech. There was a very brief reprieve, then the battle resumed. He came back on, coughing and swallowing audibly. “I apologize. I cannot talk about this.”

  “Is there like a gag order, cause—”

  “Yes,” Jan said. “I am sorry.”

  “Okay, but look. Maybe you can send me some crime scene photos, or—”

  “No, no, no photos.”

  “At least let me send you mine, so you can have a look, and if you—”

  “No, I apologize, there is nothing to discuss.”

  “There is to me,” Jacob said. “I’ve got thirteen dead women.”

  A pause.

  Jan said, “If you come here, we can talk.”

  “We can’t just talk on the phone? Is there a better number?”

  Jan said, “Call when you are here.”

  And he hung up, too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  No such tag,” Marcia said. “Anthony reran it three times to make sure.”

  “What about the 911 tape?”

  “They haven’t gotten back to him.”

  Figures. “Special Projects?”

  “Nothing. What kind of top secret stuff are you into these days, Lev?”

  “I’d tell you if I knew.”

  “Keep safe.”

  “I’ll try.”

  The soonest affordable flight to Prague was a Wednesday-night red-eye on Swiss, connecting through Zurich and costing eleven hundred dollars. While leaving Mallick a voicemail explaining his intentions, he fiddled with the white credit card, then tossed it aside disgustedly, girding himself to cough up a grand of his own money with no hope of reimbursement. Maybe the interest on the $97,000 advance on his salary would bring him back up to even in due time.

  The sat phone rang before he could finish typing in his own credit card number.

  “Lev, Mike Mallick.”

  “Commander. Nice to finally hear from you.”

  “We need to talk. Face-to-face.”

  “You want me to swing by the garage?”

  “That location’s no longer active,” Mallick said. “Stay there. I’ll come to you.”

  —

  HE CAME ALONE, pressed and slender, towering and tidy.

  Standard eight-foot ceilings emphasized his height: he ducked his head as he entered, remained warily hunched, the habitual stance of a man living in a world not designed for him.

  Jacob pulled out two kitchen chairs and offered coffee.

  “No, thanks. But help yourself.” Mallick sat, smoothing down the white tufts of hair above his ears. “Getting along here?”

  “That’s one of the things I was hoping to talk to you about, sir. I’ve been having a few technical issues.”

  “Is that so.”

  “I keep trying to run a tag and my system crashes.”

  “Mm.”

  “I asked a friend in Traffic to run it for me, and she said it doesn’t come up.”

  “Then I’d assume it’s bogus.”

  “Yeah, maybe. But I also encounter the same problem when I look for the division address.”

  “Special Projects?”

  Jacob nodded.

  “That’s because there is none. This isn’t an official detail. You want to know the address,” Mallick said, tapping his chest, “you’re looking at it.”

  “I sent you an e-mail,” Jacob said. “You never wrote back.”

  “When was that?”

  “A few days ago. I’ve sent several, actually. About a 911 recording, too.”

  “Did you, now? I must have missed it.”

  “All of them?”

  Mallick smiled. “I’m bad with technology.”

  “I asked Subach and Schott to tell you.”

  Mallick didn’t answer.

  Jacob said, “You came here when I told you I was going to Prague.”

  “Well, that’s a significant expense.”

  “No kidding,” Jacob said. “I’m the one paying.”

  “You have a card for operational expenses.”

  “It doesn’t work.”

  “Have you tried it?”

  “Several times. It won’t go through.”

  “It’l
l go through,” Mallick said placidly. “At any rate, given the expanding scope of this investigation, I thought it would be best to discuss it.”

  “Face-to-face.”

  “I’m a people person, Lev.”

  Jacob said nothing.

  Mallick said, “You’re making progress on the case.”

  “I’d be doing better if I had the 911 tape or even the slightest sense why you’re stonewalling me.”

  “Don’t be melodramatic.”

  “You have a better word, sir?”

  “I told you. It’s sensitive.”

  “Then I don’t get the point of working from home. Or having a secure line. The idea was to avoid attracting attention. Not to put me in a box so small I can’t function.”

  Mallick didn’t respond.

  “Pardon my language, sir,” Jacob said, “but what the fuck is going on?”

  “I’ve given you a very important task and I need you to carry it out.”

  “What task is that, sir?”

  “Exactly what you’re doing,” Mallick said. “That’s what I need you to do.”

  “Tread water?”

  “From what you’ve told me, you’ve done a good deal more than that.”

  “So you did read my e-mails.”

  “I read them.”

  “Then you know there’s crucial information that I’m not getting access to.”

  “We’re on top of it.”

  “Who’s we? On top of what?”

  “That’s all you need to know at the moment.”

  “With respect, sir, fuck that.”

  Mallick chuckled. “Everything they said about you is true.”

  “Who said? Mendoza?”

  “Are you asking me to take you off the case?”

  “I’m asking to not feel like everybody’s running around behind my back.”

  “Everybody being?”

  “Subach. Schott. Divya Das. Even the guy I talked to in Prague sounded spooked.”

  “What’s in Prague?”

  “Another head.”

  Mallick’s brow creased, and his eyes grew unfocused. He remained that way for some time, nodding slowly.

  At last he said, “I think you should go to Prague.”

  “So that’s a yes, sir?”

  “That’s a yes.”

  The bout of permissiveness bewildered Jacob. “Thank you, sir. But can I ask why you’re okay with me leaving the country but you won’t help me obtain a simple 911 recording?”

  Mallick rubbed his forehead and contemplated for another long stretch. He seemed to consider several alternatives before settling on taking out his phone, placing it on the coffee table, tapping the screen a few times.

  Recording hiss.

  Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?

  Hello. A woman’s voice. I’d like to report a death.

  Sorry, ma’am, can you repeat that? A death?

  The woman recited the address of the house on Castle Court.

  Are you—ma’am, are you in danger? Can you tell me if you—do you need assistance?

  Thank you.

  Ma’am? Hello? Ma’am? Are you there?

  The hiss cut off as Mallick leaned over and touched the screen.

  “Did that help?” he asked softly.

  Jacob looked at him.

  “Do you want to hear it again?”

  Jacob nodded.

  Mallick touched PLAY.

  Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?

  By the end of the second listen-through, Jacob’s mouth was dry and he was gripping the edge of the table hard enough to feel his pulse.

  Thank you.

  Mallick reached over and pressed PAUSE. “Do you understand now?”

  Jacob looked at him. “No.”

  “I can e-mail you a copy, if you’d like.”

  Jacob nodded.

  “Regardless of whether you understand,” Mallick said, “it’s vital that you keep doing what you’re doing. Vital.”

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Lev?”

  “Are you sure I should go to Prague?”

  “Why not?”

  “I should probably stay here to try and . . . chase that down.”

  The Commander gazed at him with strange tenderness.

  “Go,” he said. “I think you’ll find it educational.”

  Long after he’d left, Jacob was sitting, motionless. The apartment got dark. He rose to shut and bolt the front door.

  His computer seemed to be working fine now. As promised, Mike Mallick had e-mailed him the audio file. Jacob listened to it five, six, seven times, many more times than he needed to be absolutely certain that he’d heard right, that the voice on the recording belonged to Mai.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  He called his father to tell him about the trip.

  Sam said, “No.”

  Jacob stuttered laughter. “Excuse me?”

  “You can’t go. I can’t allow it. I, I—forbid it.”

  Jacob had never heard his father like this before. “Abba. Seriously.”

  “I am serious,” Sam said. “Do I not sound serious?”

  “I’ve got a job to do.”

  “In Prague.”

  “What, you think I’m lying to you?”

  “I think there’s no reason for you to have to travel halfway around the world.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s my call to make, not yours.”

  “Wrong,” Sam said. “Wrong. Wrong.”

  “I’m not asking for permission.”

  “That’s good,” Sam said, “because I’m not giving it to you.”

  “What’s gotten into you?”

  “You can’t do this to me.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m not doing any—”

  “You’re leaving me.”

  “You’ll be fine. I spoke to Nigel. He’ll be by every day.”

  “I don’t need him,” Sam said. “I need you, here.”

  “What aren’t you telling me? Are you sick?”

  “I’m speaking, as your father—”

  “And I’m telling you, as a grown man, that this is not a negotiation.”

  A wounded silence.

  “I thought you’d be excited,” Jacob said. “Home of the Maharal.”

  Sam did not reply.

  “Look,” Jacob said, “I’ll drop by later, all right? Right now I’ve got to go.”

  “Jacob—”

  “I have a ton of stuff I need to do. I’ll see you later.”

  He hung up before Sam could object.

  —

  HIS PASSPORT WAS a few months shy of expiration and bore two stamps from the previous decade: a winter jaunt to Baja, a last-ditch attempt to repair things with Renee; another to Paris, same deal with Stacy, more expensive, equally unsuccessful.

  Per Mallick’s instructions, he used the white credit card to book his flight and hostel.

  It went through.

  Maybe they had a list of preapproved purchase categories—travel, for instance, but not food. Long as he wasn’t paying.

  He went off to pack, delaying going to Sam’s until the late afternoon. He wasn’t in the mood for an argument, and the abrupt shift in his father’s personality had him worrying about the possibility that Sam might be losing it, too.

  He found a spot on the street behind Nigel’s red Taurus, a broken-down bundle of nonmoving violations.

  “Consider yourself warned,” he said, stepping onto the patio, where Nigel stood holding a full trash bag. “Again.”

  Nigel grinned. “The Lord is my shepherd.”

  “Fine if you drive a sheep.”

  Nigel’s smile widened until nothing remained of hi
s cheeks; he began to laugh, a gold cross bouncing on the trampoline of T-shirt stretched between massive pectoral muscles.

  “I’m not kidding,” Jacob said. “Each of those infractions is like a two-hundred-dollar ticket.”

  “Which one should I handle first?”

  “The taillight, and the windshield, and the bumper, and—”

  Nigel clucked his tongue.

  Jacob said, “The taillight. That’s what’s going to get you pulled over.”

  “Yakov,” Nigel said, enunciating the Hebrew name with his usual glee, “I don’t need anything extra to get pulled over.”

  Driving while black. End of debate. Jacob glanced at the trash bag. “You need a hand?”

  “Taking this out and I’ll be on my way.”

  “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  As soon as they were out of earshot of the apartment, Jacob said, “How’s he doing?”

  Nigel seemed confused by the question. “Could use a haircut.”

  “You haven’t noticed anything weird, though.”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything. Mood changes.”

  Nigel shook his head.

  “And you’d let me know if you did.”

  “Most definitely.”

  “I’ll be back in a week, tops,” Jacob said. “Promise me you’ll keep a close eye on him. I know you will, but I need to say it again so I can feel better about leaving.”

  “Don’t you worry. He’s a strong one.”

  Jacob felt it unnecessary to point out that Sam didn’t buy his own groceries; Nigel did, as well as take in Sam’s laundry and shuttle him to any destination beyond a half-mile radius of the apartment. A deeply religious Evangelical, Nigel held Sam in awe, and he took his assignments seriously, although how they had come to be his remained a trifle unclear. For a man who worked at a lumberyard, he had extremely soft hands. That made a great deal more sense when you learned the lumberyard was owned by none other than Abe Teitelbaum.

  Nigel put the trash bag in the curbside can. “He has that light within him.”

  “Too bad I didn’t get any.”

  Nigel smiled. “Take care of yourself, Yakov.”

  “Thanks. Since we’re on the subject of light?”

  “Yes?”

  “Taillight.”

  —

  SAM HAD HIS MAGNIFYING SPECTACLES ON, the ones that made him look like a mad scientist. Books smothered the dining room table.