The Complete Matt Jacob Series

by Klein, Zachary;

  Praise for

  STILL AMONG THE LIVING

  “Matt Jacob, a private eye from Boston, makes his debut in a novel that offers rich characterizations…if he can resist the impulse to turn Matt Jacob too straight too soon, the author can keep his singular detective on good cases for a long time.”

  —The New York Times

  “I’d call it one of the best and certainly the most off-center detective novels I’ve read…Klein’s is a terrific idea—have Jacob work on two very different mysteries at once, the deep human disorders disturbing him and the case he’s called upon to solve…Klein’s private eye and his prickly prose are original. Savor ‘Still Among the Living’ and pray this is not the last we will read of Matt Jacob.”

  —Boston Globe

  “Matt Jacob is a terrific character with a lot of life in him beyond this book.”

  —Globe and Mail

  TWO WAY TOLL

  “Entertaining…Matt Jacob comes across as a heartfelt creation…A refreshing character in a genre rife with male posturing and two dimensional psychology.”

  –The New York Times

  “[A] real payoff…The return of Matt’s whole entourage guarantees pleasure for fans of Klein’s first.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Klein returns with another compelling tale featuring private detective Matt Jacob.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  NO SAVING GRACE

  “Like Phillip Marlowe, Matt seems to take every case as an invitation to look deeper inside himself.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Jacob is a man in search of himself as much as he is in search of solutions. When the perpetrators are revealed, the surprise is real and discomfiting; as the title states, the truth offers No Saving Grace.”

  –Hadassah Magazine

  Still Among The Living

  Two Way Toll

  No Saving Grace

  Ties That Blind

  For Sue

  Who is, happily, very much alive. And who has been, in no small measure, the reason I’m still among the living.

  My eyes opened half an hour before the alarm was supposed to sound. Something had sliced through my sweaty tossing. I reached for the glass on the floor and swallowed through a dry mouth, hot with leftover grass and tobacco. The harsh, grating blare of the back-door buzzer eliminated the remnants of my indeterminate dreams and dragged at my dread tight stomach. I almost spilled the water. It wouldn’t have mattered; only the plants liked the lead taste. I forced my eyes closed and wrapped a pillow around my head. The buzzer kept insisting and I finally stood up. I could outwait the telephone, but lost every time to the doorbell. I held onto the dresser but avoided looking into the mirror on the way to the kitchen. I wobbled across the room, fumbled with the chain, yanked the door open, and stood gridlocked in my underwear in front of my shrink.

  I stole a glance down the front of my shorts to see if my fly was open, then worried about whether Dr. James had to pick her way through sleeping drunks in the alley. My apartment was in a mixed area of the city—ranging from students and musicians to the rich and famous. I lived closer to the musicians. When I lived here years ago the alley housed a solid percentage of the city’s alkies. Since this was a neighborhood the pols used to broaden the tax base, most, but not all, of my old neighbors were gone by the time I returned.

  After the accident my father-in-law, Lou, bought the building and put me in charge. He assured me his cash flow dictated a real-estate investment and his banker had gold-starred my city. We both knew this was bullshit since Lou didn’t like the building, and hated the neighborhood the moment he saw a couple of men kissing under a streetlight. Also, Lou lived twelve hundred miles away and I had a hunch there were other hot towns closer by.

  But Lou wouldn’t listen and I didn’t care enough to argue. I needed a cave to hibernate in and he felt guilty that he still had some family and I didn’t. There was no reason for him to feel that way. He didn’t lose much less in the accident than I.

  The building was one of two six-flats set back like garages from the large, absentee-landlord apartment buildings that dominated the block. Between the money I got for selling the suburban house, and the salary I’d get for caretaking, I didn’t have to get a job. Truth be told I wanted to be a janitor. Cleaning made me feel productive.

  Lou was indirectly responsible for Dr. James as well. I had stared at the bronze dedication silhouettes in the hospital’s private, plasticpaneled waiting room for so long they had begun to resemble my long-lost parents. It must have been the eighth or ninth day of the wait, when we were sitting there alone, that he said, “Boychik, you haven’t said a word for two days.”

  I looked at him.

  “I’m not exaggerating. I’ve been watching. Your friends come into the waiting room and you disappear into the wall. Nobody wants to bother you right now, but people are worried. I’m worried. Even if they come out of it okay”—he jerked his head toward the closed green sliding doors as his eyes fixed firmly down on his own feet—“You gotta get help. They are going to need you.”

  “They’re not coming out of this okay.” I looked away. “I appreciate your concern.”

  “This isn’t just concern.”

  “Lou, let it alone. I’m experienced at watching my life disintegrate.”

  Well, experience is no substitute for smarts and right then I wasn’t very smart. But Lou’s words pulled at my skin six months later when Simon, my lawyer friend, sat impatiently explaining, “Look, I can get you a year suspended if you see a shrink. Not a bad deal for assault and battery on a bartender. All he did was say no. Shit, Matt, the witnesses said you lost your fucking mind.”

  He tried unsuccessfully to flatten his upturned jacket collar. “Jesus, I suppose it was lucky that you did go off. Otherwise it would have been suicide. He was twice your size.”

  “What kind of time do I get if I don’t take the deal?”

  Simon sat there furiously inhaling his cigar. “You are crazy. Listen to yourself. It’s one thing to drink yourself to death, or even leave a bartender in a puddle, but jail? You know what happens to soft Jews? Prison doesn’t give the kind of help that you need.”

  “I don’t feel soft right now.”

  “By the time you’re out you won’t feel anything.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  He kept tugging on his coat, “Well it shouldn’t. I’ve been watching you crawl deeper and deeper into a hole and I don’t much blame you. But bottom is bottom. Going to jail rather than seeing a psychologist just doesn’t cut it. Damn, how afraid can you be of them? You’re a fucking social worker.”

  “I’m not a social worker anymore, Simon.”

  “Whatever the hell you are isn’t going to be helped by the can, Matt. Take the deal.”

  “Will this stick to my record?”

  “I think we can do something about that.”

  “Simon, is there anything ‘we’ can’t do something about?”

  A small grin softened the irritability in his face. “You’ll take the deal?”

  I thought about the interminable hours under the stark fluorescent light of the waiting room. “Get it off my record and I’ll take the deal. Hell, Lou doesn’t have anyone else to look after his damn investment.”

  It was four years later, and every Thursday I still fought with myself about showing up at her office. I often didn’t make it, and hadn’t last week, but standing humiliated in my skivvies seemed like a tough cure.

  I peered over Dr. James’ shoulder for Brown Shirts but all I saw was the vaguely familiar face of the grocery store checkout girl. She was staring queerly at me from behind the chain-link fence of the store’s p
arking lot. I quickly looked back to Dr. James and felt a tingle of satisfaction when I saw her pawing at the dirt with her feet.

  Her words came in a rush. “I’m sorry to have caught you so offguard. Perhaps we could move inside?”

  Still unwilling to trust my voice, I nodded and backed through the open door. I closed my eyes for a second to make her disappear, but she just followed me inside. The morning chill had finally cracked my numbness and I felt like reaching for a robe, only I didn’t have one. I tried talking around the lump in my throat. “Look, I have to get dressed. I haven’t made coffee yet either. I’ll get it in a minute.”

  She was looking around the kitchen with a quick nervous intensity. “Please don’t go to any trouble on my account.”

  Although lack of use kept this room the neatest of any in the apartment, everything out of place crowded into my sight. I waved toward the kitchen table. “Look, why don’t you sit down? Make yourself comfortable. Don’t worry, I won’t slip out the back window.” I walked into the bedroom and caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror. She looked confused, as if she didn’t understand what I was talking about.

  I fumbled through my dresser trying to find something clean or unwrinkled. I gave up and grabbed yesterday’s clothes off the chair by the bed. When I returned to the kitchen she was sitting at the table eyeing the black deco design baked into its brown enamel top.

  She pointed to the table. “Why is it signed, Mr. Jacob?”

  “It was a way for artists to work during the thirties.” I paused behind a chair. “Listen, Dr. James, you can call me Mr. Jacob in your office but here I don’t like to be called ‘Mister.’ There was no reason for you to come and get me. I was going to turn up.” I aimed my finger at the clock. “Probably on time.”

  She looked startled, then jerked her hand up over her open mouth. I had trouble watching her. In her office she always seemed so implacable.

  I threw up my hands. “Dr. James, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  She gasped for air, then suddenly burst out laughing. Her shoulders trembled and her eyes filled. She was laughing out loud, while I felt like a fool. I grasped the back of the chair and felt my legs grow weak.

  She rummaged through her oversized pocketbook and pulled out a man’s blue handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “You thought I came to get you for our appointment. I’m sorry, Mr. . . .” She stopped and caught her breath. “What would you like me to call you?”

  “I don’t care. Matt, Matthew. It doesn’t matter.”

  She placed her purse down by her feet. “Matthew seems best.”

  The way she said “Matthew” reminded me of my mother. I tried to hold my annoyance in check. “And you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What am I supposed to call you?”

  My tone drove the laughter from her voice. “I don’t mind Dr. James.” She was staring at me and pressing her lips together in a tight line.

  I turned away and walked over to the stove and shook the espresso pot. I thought about making fresh, but just turned on the flame under last night’s leftover. I could hear her twist in the chair behind me. “This is really a wonderful kitchen. It feels so comfortable. Like my . . .

  “Grandmother’s.” I turned and faced her. “Dr. James, it’s too early in the morning to feel like a fool. If you’re not here to harass me about attendance, what the hell are you doing here? A survey of client artifacts?”

  Her eyes narrowed and she spoke without a hint of amusement. “I’m not used to your sharp tongue.”

  “And I’m not used to having my shrink laugh at me in the middle of my kitchen.”

  The standoff gave us both a moment to regroup. She ran her hand through her short brown hair. “I’m sorry for this intrusion, especially if my laughter disturbed you. I’ve been so anxious that it was a relief to be misunderstood.” She shook her head. “The days have been such a blur that I even forgot that we meet today.”

  I imagined myself banging on the door to her empty office—an image that left an unwelcome taste of my own medicine in my mouth. I took two cups from the cabinet, poured some black sludge, and returned to the table. I didn’t ask if she took cream or sugar.

  From where I sat I could see her entire body. Her legs were crossed and her skirt pulled tight across her thighs. I grew anxious as I felt a slight movement between my legs. When we regularly met she was behind a desk, so all I usually saw was a jacket or sweater. I kept my eyes on her face. “Dr. James, what exactly are you doing here?”

  She lifted the cup to her lips and drank warily. I was surprised by the maroon color of her nail polish. I was seeing things I’d never before noticed. Someone once said that paranoia was just a form of heightened awareness. I think it was Charlie Manson.

  Her face was cloudy and her finger ran a trace around her eyes. “Mostly I’m here on instinct.” She smiled automatically but her face continued to droop. “I’m not in the habit of visiting unannounced, and never a client’s home, but I’ve tried to call you for two days and thought you might be keeping the phone off the hook. I took the chance of dropping by. Now that I’m here,” her hand swept over the apartment like a benediction, “I keep wondering if I made a mistake?”

  “Something you find disturbing about the decor?”

  She spoke earnestly. “No, not at all. I like your taste. When you’ve talked about junk stores you made it sound like Goodwill.”

  “Some of this stuff is from Goodwill.”

  She took another tentative sip of coffee, grimaced, and ignored my remark. My anger was disappearing and in its place something like curiosity started to nibble. I guess I’m a softie when it comes to my shrink in distress.

  “Look, I guessed wrong about why you came. You were right about the phone. Something seems to be bothering you, so why don’t you tell me what it is.” It was disconcerting to be the one doing the reassuring. I took out my cigarettes, lit one, and threw the pack on the table. What I really wanted was a joint.

  She started to reach for the pack, hesitated, then pulled one out with her fingertips and looked at me. I nodded, surprised. Smoking during our hour had been an early point of contention that I had lost. I handed her my lighter and watched as she lit the cigarette, inhaled, and kept the smoke in her cheeks. It might have been funny but I felt impatient. Despite the wrestling match with the cigarette, worry never left her face.

  “Dr. James, I think it would make it easier for both of us if you told me why you’re here.”

  She tilted her head. “That’s what I’m wondering about. Seeing you this angry makes me realize how complicated talking to you really is.” She looked off into the living room. “Of course Eban would laugh at my discomfort. Tell me that I was acting like an uptight, traditional psychologist. Maybe he’s right. Or perhaps that’s just my personality.” She turned back toward me and took a few rapid puffs on her cigarette. I pushed the ashtray toward her and noticed a roach half hidden among the stubbed-out butts. “Of course if Eban knew I was here because of him, he would be the one who was uptight.”

  Her musings only added to my hazy discomfort. “Dr. James, what are you talking about? Who is Eban? And why is anyone other than me uptight?”

  She met my eyes. “For days I’ve thought about nothing except hiring you and now that I’m here I think it will destroy our therapeutic relationship.”

  At that moment I could guarantee it. “What do you want to hire me to do? I don’t want to manage another building.”

  She shook her head impatiently. “No, not janitorial. Detective work.”

  I looked at her and felt helplessness sit on the neck of my frustration.

  “Dr. James, I’ve never done any psychological research. Just legal. You know that. Graduate students are a dime a dozen around here. What do you want with me?”

  She looked up from the table. “I wasn’t thinking of research. I need a detective, a private investigator.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
I felt like I was chasing the White Rabbit. “What are you trying to pull? I don’t do detective work, you know that. I take care of this building and do occasional legal research for a friend. All I do with the license is hang it on the wall when I clean my gun.”

  “Well, I thought this might be an opportunity for you to do something else with it.”

  I recognized the look and tone and didn’t like either. Never had. “Goddamnit, lady, it’s one thing to sit in your office and push me to get more active with my life, another to create work therapy. I appreciate your good intentions, but isn’t this a little much?”

  Dr. James pushed her cigarette into the ashtray and pulled out the roach. “I didn’t think you were still using drugs.”

  I shrugged and lied. “Just sometimes.”

  She pulled up her bag, rose to her feet, and began to stuff the handkerchief back in. “This was a terrible idea. I don’t know what got into me.” She finished tugging the bag closed and looked at her watch. “Believe it or not, I came here for me, not you. Please, let’s meet next week at our regular time, so we can discuss all of this. I’m sorry I’ve upset you, but believe me there was no sub rosa therapeutic agenda for my visit. None.”

  Her choice of words broke through my anger. I began to laugh, and some of the tension eased. “Sub rosa agenda? Does that mean you’re inviting me out for Italian subs?”

  She looked flustered but I didn’t care. “I’ll tell you the truth; it’s hard to make promises about next week. If this isn’t about therapy, I can’t fathom why you’re here. I’ve never detected anything that moved on its own accord, and you know that. How will we be able to discuss anything if all I keep asking is why were you here?”

  She began to fiddle with the clasp on the bag but didn’t move. I stayed seated. After a moment she sat back down. She put the purse back down on the floor and placed her hands in her usual prayer position. She looked familiar and my kitchen looked familiar, but the combination of the two seemed awfully strange.