The Golem of Hollywood (41 page)

J
acob'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 grateful 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
.

—

T
HE
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.

A
n 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.

“Back?” Abe said.

“From Prague,” Jacob said.

“Prague?” Abe asked. “What's going on? Why does nobody tell me nothing?”

Questions would have to wait: the retired-dentist-turned-
gabbai
banged the dais three times, the retired-lawyer-turned-cantor chanted the opening blessings, and Sam turned aside to put on his
tefillin
.

Blessed are You, Our God, King of the Universe, Who has given my heart the understanding to discern between day and night . . .

Jacob found his own seat and slung down his backpack. In it he'd packed a camera, junk food, sunglasses, flashlight; flex-cuffs and a Taser; his Glock, full mag plus one extra. To top it all off, the blue velvet bag, fished from his sweater drawer, containing his own
tefillin
.

How many years had it been? At least a dozen. He was afraid he'd forgotten how to put them on, but muscle memory guided him: he placed a black box containing the sacred writings on his upper arm, binding it there with black leather straps, mumbling the blessings as he went. He set a second black box at his hairline, centering it between his eyes, and finished by wrapping the arm-strap around his palm and fingers in the shape of one of the Divine names.

He glanced at his father and a chill came over him: Sam had settled into his seat, stock-still, in meditative silence, a life-sized version of the clay model. Then the cantor recited the
kaddish
, and Sam stood up, and the illusion dissolved.

—

P
RAYERS
PROCEEDED
ROUTINELY
: hymns of praise; declarations of faith; pleas for health, prosperity, and peace. During the recitation of the
Shema
, Jacob texted Mallick.

hear o israel the lord is our god the lord is one

After the song of the angels, the
gabbai
came around, rattling a tin charity box. Jacob fished out the hundred-dollar bill Sam had given him, folded it several times to conceal the denomination, and stuffed it into the slot.

During the final psalm, Abe excused himself, saying something about a breakfast meeting. Within a few minutes, the rest of the men had departed, leaving father and son alone.

“You didn't tell me you were coming,” Sam said.

“Didn't realize I had to.”

“Of course not.” Sam smiled wearily. “You're back safely. That's what counts.”

“What I said over the phone,” Jacob said. “I didn't mean it.”

“It's all right.”

“No, it's not. I'm sorry.”

“Don't give it a thought. You needed to speak your mind.”

“That's the problem. My mind is a bad place right now.”

A beat. Sam reached over and clasped Jacob's hand. Squeezed once and let him go.

“Abe said you missed learning with him. You okay?”

Sam shrugged. “Everyone deserves a day off.”

Jacob had his doubts, but decided not to press. “I have something I want you to see,” he said, unfolding his transcription of the Prague letter and his makeshift translation, placing them side by side on the table.

Sam picked up the Hebrew text and held it close. His failing eyes shuttled busily behind his sunglasses. “It's accurate?”

“I was going fast. But I think so.”

Sam felt for the translation and compared the documents.

“I found a website with the Loew family tree,” Jacob said. “There were several daughters and one son named Bezalel, but no Isaac. I'm guessing Isaac was Isaac Katz, who apparently was married to two of the Maharal's daughters.”

Silence.

Jacob said, “‘Joy and gladness' refers to a wedding, obviously.” He leaned over to read. “‘I say to you now, what man is there that has married a woman but not yet taken her? Let him go and return to his wife. But let your heart not grow weak; do not fear, do not tremble.' That's the priest's speech before the Jewish army goes to war.”

Sam sat motionless.

“This business about clay and pottery, I found the source in Isaiah, but it doesn't make much sense to me. The last line, about disgrace, I couldn't find anywhere.” Jacob paused. “Bottom line, Abba, I'm lost.”

Sam adjusted his glasses, his chest cycling shallowly.

“On the contrary,” he said. “I think you did fine.”

He put the pages down. “The case is going well?”

“Pretty well. Can we talk about this for a minute, though?”

“I really have nothing to contribute,” Sam said.

He picked up his
tefillin
bag and started for the exit. “Focus on your work.”

“Wait a second.”

“Don't get distracted,” Sam said, and disappeared around the corner.

“Abba
.
” Jacob grabbed the letters and his backpack and followed his father out to the pavement. Nigel had the Taurus curbside, the motor running. He got out to help Sam in.

“Abba. Hang on.”

“I'm tired, Jacob. I had a hard night.”

“Why? What's wrong?”

“I need to go home. Let me think it over.” Sam climbed into the passenger seat. “I'll let you know if I come up with anything.”

Nigel shut Sam's door, ran around to the driver's side.

“Where are you going?” Jacob said to him. “Hey. Man. Seriously. Come on.
Hey
.”

The Taurus pulled away from the curb, headed north on Robertson.

Half a block on, though, brake lights flared and Nigel jumped out and hustled back up the sidewalk, waving something.

“He wants you to have this,” he said, handing Jacob another hundred-dollar bill.