The Golem of Hollywood

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Must be a nervous flier.

  Now he stepped from the elevator, and they crossed oil-slickened concrete toward a bank of livery cars. Schott raised a remote, popping the locks on an extra-long white Crown Vic with unmarked plates and mirrored windows.

  Jacob flinched at his own reflection: a wild-eyed prophet with a five-day beard.

  He reached for the door but it swung open on its own, and he saw Commander Mike Mallick, his bamboo body stretched across the bench seat.

  Mallick patted the leather. “Hop in, Detective.”

  —

  IT WAS CHILLY AND DARK inside, the air-conditioning cranked to the max. Schott rammed the car into four p.m. traffic.

  “What happened to your lip?”

  “Sir?”

  “Did you burn yourself?”

  Reflexively, Jacob ran his tongue over the spot in the middle of his lip. It no longer tingled, but a coin of dead, dry skin remained.

  “Pizza,” he said. “Fools rush in, sir.”

  “Mm. Heck of a trip you took.”

  “I tried to be frugal, sir.”

  Mallick waved. “I’m not concerned with that.”

  “Duly noted,” Jacob said. “Next time I’ll stay at the Ritz.”

  “Next time?”

  “Should the need arise, sir.”

  In the front seat, Subach snickered.

  Mallick said, “You found it fruitful, though.”

  “You were right on, sir. Highly educational.”

  “Good. Good. Tell me what you learned.”

  The sanitized-for-sanity version omitted any mention of Jacob’s experience in the garret; his hour and a half in the basement of Radcliffe Science Library; the botched coupling with Norton; his new six-legged friend.

  She was beautiful.

  She looked angry.

  She looked jealous.

  When the recital was over, the Commander looked vaguely disappointed, although that might’ve simply been his default world-weariness.

  “You’ve done a fine job, Lev.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Anything else you want to share?”

  “Sir?”

  “I recall that when we last saw each other I played a tape for you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mallick weighed his words. “What’s your thinking on her.”

  “How so?”

  “Have you made any headway, figuring out who she is?”

  “My plan, sir, was to gather intel on Pernath, seeing as he’s a strong suspect. If the woman’s involved, and I’m not sure she is, she may very well show up with him.”

  “And if she doesn’t?”

  “I’ll continue to focus on Pernath, hope he screws up and I can grab him, swab him, and squeeze him for info.”

  “And if he turns out to be a law-abiding citizen?”

  “He is. He’s gone twenty-five years without getting caught. But he’s also a psychopath.”

  “So you leave him running around but keep an eye on him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A psychopath.”

  “I don’t see what choice I have, sir. Everything I’ve got on him is circumstantial. Move too soon and I guarantee you he’ll never so much as make a rolling stop for the rest of his life.”

  “Meantime she’s also running around out there.”

  “For now, yes.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Me neither, sir. But I don’t see how else to locate her.”

  Mallick didn’t reply.

  “Sir? Is there something I need to know?”

  “Such as?”

  “Do you have an idea who she might be?”

  The mood in the car shifted as Mallick drew up, smiling thinly. “Is that a joke, Detective?”

  “You seem more concerned about her than Pernath, is what I mean.”

  “Certainly I’m focused on her. She calls in Florack and disappears? Far as I’m concerned, that’s probative.”

  “True, sir, but even if she did do Florack, I think Pernath’s running the show, just as he was with Florack and Heap. Get him, kill the cancer.”

  “This investigation is about the murder at Castle Court,” Mallick said. He leaned forward, his head grazing the felt of the ceiling, and Jacob could feel his breath, cold and odorless. “That was your assignment. That makes her the priority. I appreciate your creative thinking, and I’m willing to adopt your strategy and wait it out. Lest there be any confusion, though, let me reiterate: she is our primary target. Not Pernath. Do you understand?”

  Jacob said, “Ten-four, sir.”

  “Another thing. I want updates.”

  “A hundred percent, sir. I’m giving you one right now.”

  Mallick shook his head. “I want more. And I want it more often. From this point on, you’re going to inform me on an hourly basis where you are and what you’re doing.”

  Jacob chuffed. “Come on.”

  “You’re really that close?”

  “I think I am, but—”

  “Then loop me in.”

  “Sir. It’s tough to operate like that.”

  “You’ll figure it out. Text me. E-mail me. Call. Set an alarm, if you need to. I don’t care. I certainly don’t want you moving on either of them, Pernath or the woman, without us there to support you. Understood?”

  Jacob turned to look out the window at nudie bars and off-site airport parking. They’d gone no more than a mile down Century. He felt angry and jumpy; eager to throw open the door and walk.

  Mallick said, “You haven’t told me about Prague.”

  “I thought I covered everything, sir.”

  “Not the case,” Mallick said. “The city.”

  “What about it, sir?”

  “Anything. General impressions.”

  Jacob said, “It was pretty good, I guess, sir.”

  “We send you on an all-expense-paid European vacation and that’s it? ‘Pretty good’?”

  “I’m very grateful for the opportunity, sir.”

  “I hope you had a chance to do some sightseeing.”

  “Some,” Jacob said.

  “How did you find that?”

  “Pretty good, sir. Thank you, once again.”

  A silence.

  “I haven’t been to Prague in years,” Mallick said.

  Jacob looked at him. “I wasn’t aware that you’d been at all, sir.”

  Mallick nodded.

  The rest of the trip dragged on in tight silence. Finally, Schott pulled over outside Jacob’s building, leaving the motor running.

  “Keep me apprised,” Mallick said.

  Subach carried Jacob’s bag, setting it down outside the door to the apartment.

  “Do I tip you now, or when the case is closed?” Jacob asked.

  Subach smiled. “Don’t worry about the Commander. Times like these, he gets nervous.”

  “Times like what,” Jacob said.

  “You need help with this Pernath guy, let us know. We’ll get you what you need.”

  “Mel? Can I ask you something? You ever been to Prague?”

  Subach chuckled. “As it so happens, I have.”

  “What about Schott?”

  “I think he might’ve said something about that once or twice.”

  “I never knew cops to be such a well-traveled bunch,” Jacob said. “We should start a club. Get together. Do slide shows.”

  Subach patted him on the shoulder and lumbered back down to the idling car.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Jacob’s apartment was dusty but otherwise exactly as he’d left it. He’d entertained the foolish thought that his physical world would reflect the changes in him, and now he didn’t know whether to be gratefu
l or disappointed.

  He dumped his bag and showered and shaved. It was clear why Mallick had commented on his lip: the affected area was one shade darker than the surrounding flesh. It looked like a strong vein, or a faint tattoo, a tiny part of him that wasn’t him. The impulse to peel the offending strip away was strong. He tried to work loose a tag and ended up bleeding.

  Pressing a tissue to his mouth, he rummaged in his nightstand and came up with a mostly new ChapStick left by a long-ago one-night stand. Balmed, his lips felt bland and greasy, a sensation that turned his stomach.

  He had a bourbon to steady his nerves, then called Divya Das, getting her voicemail.

  “Hey. I’m back and I’ve got a present for you. It’s not a commemorative shot glass. Drop by?”

  He sent Mallick a one-word text—unpacking—and spent an hour organizing his findings and updating the murder book. At eight p.m., with no word from Divya, he left her another message, and texted Mallick that he was headed out for dinner.

  Henry the convenience store clerk saw him and made hallelujah hands. “I was starting to get worried. I was gonna call the cops.”

  “I am the cops.”

  Updates the Commander wanted? Updates he’d get. Jacob sent step-by-step texts.

  two premium quality all-beef frankfurters

  relish

  onions

  jalapenos

  ketchup

  mustard

  Henry rang him up. “Don’t ask me to kiss you.”

  “Dream on.”

  The white credit card didn’t work.

  Walking home, Jacob answered a call from Detective Aaron Flores, who proudly announced that he had persuaded the events manager at the Venetian to dig into the old Outlook calendar. Bingo: the week of Dani Forrester’s death, the North American Architectural Design and Drafting Society had occupied the Delfino Ballroom, on level four.

  “I asked about the names you gave me,” Flores said. “I didn’t find anything, and I can’t tell from the file if she met with any of them.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “What’d the other Ds say?”

  Jacob recapped Maria Band’s report. “New York and New Orleans I haven’t heard from yet. Doesn’t matter. Between her and you, it’s enough for me to feel confident closing the noose.”

  “Excellent,” Flores said. “Make it tight.”

  “Appreciate the help,” Jacob said. He turned onto his block. “I’ll be sure you get the credit you deserve.”

  “I’m not worried about credit. I’m worried about nailing the motherfucker.”

  A county Coroner’s van was parked outside his building.

  “Same here,” Jacob said. “Listen, I gotta go. I’ll keep you posted.”

  A young woman with red hair out of a box sat at the wheel, deep into her smartphone. Jacob rapped the glass and she jumped in her seat.

  She buzzed the window down. “Damn,” she said. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Detective Lev,” he said. “Can I help you?”

  She stared at his glossy lips. He folded them in. “Can I help you,” he said again.

  She snapped to. “You have something for me.”

  “I do?”

  “That’s what they told me.” She handed him her ID: Molly Naismith, coroner investigator trainee.

  “I called Dr. Das,” he said.

  “Well, you got me.”

  “Is she unavailable?”

  “Not my wheelhouse,” she said. “You got a problem, call the main line.”

  He glanced at the van. “A little overkill.”

  “They didn’t specify what I was going to need.” Leaving off asshole, but barely.

  Kit in hand, she followed him upstairs. She transferred Reggie Heap’s bloody loafers to an evidence bag and sat at his kitchen table to fill out paperwork.

  “Do you know Dr. Das?” he asked.

  “Not personally.” She handed him the chain-of-custody form. “Sign, please.”

  “Is she going to process these personally?”

  “No clue.” Bite me.

  He felt bad. He hadn’t meant to antagonize her. “Sorry if I’m being a pain. I’ve been traveling for twenty-four hours and my head’s a pipe bomb.”

  She softened somewhat. “I’ll get this through as quickly as I can. Scout’s honor.”

  “Were you a scout?”

  She smiled and left, the evidence bag swinging at her side.

  Jacob sat and composed an e-mail.

  Hey Divya. Don’t know if you’re on vacation, wanted to give you a heads-up. Sent some shoes for DNA. There’s blood on them I think might be from one of my suspects. The tech who picked up is named Molly Naismith, maybe you can touch base with her, make sure it’s being handled properly.

  He paused, gnawing his thumbnail.

  I’m guessing you’re busy, which is why I haven’t heard back from you. If that’s the case, just ignore the rest of this. I wanted to clear the air in case I’ve made you uncomfortable in some way. You’re a pro and I like working with you, and I’d hate to feel I’ve done or said anything that could change that. I’m probably making too big a deal about it. Either way I’ll lay it to rest.

  He hammered DELETE until the entire second paragraph was gone. Mulling over what to replace it with, he settled on casual and brief and vague.

  Like I said, don’t know if you’re around, but if you are taking off, and you haven’t left yet, I’d love to

  DELETE

  it’d be nice to

  DELETE

  fun to get a chance to see you. Buy you dinner.

  He reread it a couple of times, changed buy you dinner to grab a bite, and hit SEND.

  —

  THE MOST RECENT ONLINE PHOTO of Richard Pernath was a candid taken at a gala charity dinner. He’d aged well, the shelf of hair starting higher up on his forehead, elongating his face and counteracting a mild fleshing out of his features. The photographer had caught him among a group of tuxedoed men and gowned women chortling in various directions—except for Pernath, who had locked on the lens.

  Jacob printed the photo and set it facedown on the desk. He needed it for reference, but he didn’t want the SOB ogling him.

  Additional clicking revealed that Pernath had taken a page from his father on how to conceal wealth. There were no cars registered in his name, no properties deeded to him. His office at 1491 Ocean Ave. listed business hours of ten a.m. to five p.m.

  Tomorrow was another day.

  He sent Mallick an e-mail summary and went off to bed, hoping for a few restful hours.

  It wasn’t to be. Caught between time zones, he got up at three-thirty and sat at his computer with the Prague letter spread on the desk, his chest prickling. He worked until the bruised sky began to heal, then went to his bedroom and yanked open his sweater drawer.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  An airless basement room with mismatched bookshelves and a warping plywood Ark, the synagogue where Sam Lev prayed daily seemed anemic compared to the Alt-Neu’s stony grandeur. A quorum and a half of codgers—Sam not among them—snoozed in metal folding chairs, waiting for the dawn service to begin. No one paid Jacob any attention until a voice behind him boomed, “My eyes deceive me.”

  Abe Teitelbaum had gotten his start as a deli counterman, heaving untrimmed briskets and thirty-pound crates of lox. Half a century later, he retained the physique of a circus strongman, chesty, thickset, low to the ground. Grinding the bones in Jacob’s proffered hand, he said, “Bienvenido, stranger, to the land of the alter cockers.”

  “Great to see you.”

  Abe peered closer. “You’re wearing lipstick now?” His chuck on the shoulder caused Jacob’s rib cage to vibrate like a tuning fork. “Tell the truth: some girl hit you.”

 
“They always do,” Jacob said. “Thanks again for the help.”

  “What help? I helped?”

  Jacob reminded him about the country club.

  “Oh, that. That was my pleasure. Love to make em squirm. Only reason I keep my dues current.”

  “Do you know a member named Eddie Stein?”

  “Nope.”

  “You should meet him,” Jacob said. “You’d get along.”

  “I don’t need any more friends. Fact, I’d prefer fewer.” Abe thumbed at the white-haired men, lowered his voice. “That’s why I hang out here. They’re all gonna kick it soon. Very convenient.” He grinned. “Speaking of people I like, how’s your dad? I missed him yesterday.”

  Jacob frowned. “He wasn’t here?”

  “Not for davening and not later when we were supposed to learn together. Whatever, I’m not mad. Even a lamed-vavnik gets a sniffle every once in a while. A call would’ve been nice, though.”

  Jacob speed-dialed Sam. “Abba. It’s me. Are you there? Can you pick up? Hello? Pick up the phone, Abba.”

  Abe looked distressed. “Nothing’s wrong, I hope.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” Jacob said, dialing Nigel instead.

  “I should’ve followed up,” Abe said.

  “Don’t worry about it, really.”

  “You want, I can go over there.”

  Jacob held up a finger. “Hey, Nigel, listen, sorry to call so early, but is everything all right with my dad? I’m at shul and—”

  Abe poked him in the arm and pointed: Sam had walked in.

  “Never mind,” Jacob said. “Disregard this message. Thanks.”

  Abe placed his hand lightly on Sam’s bony shoulder. “The Messiah arrives. The kid and I were on the verge of bringing in the bloodhounds.”

  Sam stared at Jacob. “You’re here?”

  “That’s the way you greet your son?” Abe said.

  “I got back last night,” Jacob said.