The Golem of Paris (28 page)

“I do love her,” she said. “But I love you more.”

A queasy smile. “Thanks?”

She laughed softly.

They were quiet together awhile.

“Schott’s here,” he said. “In Paris.”

She nodded.

“You’re not worried?”

“Not at the moment. I’m safe. Any house of worship, really. It frightens them.”

“I didn’t realize they got frightened.”

“Everybody’s got something they’re afraid of. I’m afraid of them. They’re afraid of you. You’re afraid of me.”

“I’m not—”

She shut her eyes. “Please don’t lie. I can’t stand that.”

He wondered what it looked like to her—the texture and hue of his fear.

“He’s not the only one,” she said. “The man who followed you tonight. He’s one of them, too.”

“That can’t be right,” he said. “He works for Tremsin.”

“I know what I saw.”

“His colors.”

She said, “He doesn’t have any.”

A beat.

“That’s why he never entered the synagogue,” Jacob said.

“Yes.”

“Why you couldn’t help me.”

She grimaced. “I’m sorry.”

He pulled her closer.

“I want to be there for you,” she said. “I’ll be there, as much as I can.”

He said, “So, just to be clear, that’s your interpretation of ‘forever.’”

She smacked him on the arm. “Stop.”

“I’m just pointing it out,” he said. “I’m not the only one who picks and chooses.”

“You don’t understand. I can’t go back in the jar.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

But she was drawn and trembling. “I can’t stand it in there. Not one day more.”

She was right to be afraid, wrong about the reason.

Subach and Schott had ransacked his apartment. They could’ve taken the jar. They took the potter’s knife.

So that’s your strategy for dealing with her. Containment.

Ask yourself what you’d do in my position.

An immense sadness gripped Jacob.

“They’re not going to give up,” he said.

“You want me to turn myself in?”

“Of course not.”

“Convenient for you. Sleep with anyone you want, get your old job back—”

“Cut it out.”

She said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know how this is supposed to work. You and I.”

It can’t
.

“The woman who set you free,” he said. “What was her name?”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember. I’ve always had trouble with names.”

“Perel,” he said. “Perel Loew. Is that right?”

A smile broke open on Mai’s face, and she burrowed deep in his chest, and they laughed and cried and rocked together, sheltering each other from the morning chill.

The tower bells began to toll.

She said, “You should go.”

“Not yet.”

“He’s going to wonder where you are.”

“Let him,” he said.

She raised her mouth to his, and he remembered the taste of her, the way it coated his tongue like earth.

He staggered forward, hungry for more.

But the flesh was gone, and he felt himself embraced, rising, warmth at his back, as she floated him down to the garden behind the cathedral and set him gently on his feet.

Shrunk to a point, she hovered briefly before him, then flew off, a scribble in his visual field, an error corrected by the higher functions of his brain.

B
ack at the hostel, Schott’s bed was empty and unmade, his roll-aboard pulled open. Jacob stripped off his wet clothes. His hair was a wind-driven pile, his eyes garish with broken capillaries.

The man who followed you tonight.

He’s one of them, too.

Until now he’d thought of Special Projects as Mallick, Schott, Subach, Divya, the rotating cast of characters who manned the surveillance vans. The reality—if you wanted to call it that—now seemed obvious.

Schott had said as much: there were others.

The folks who’d shown up to bully Jan, for instance.

Not all of them knew what they were.

Maybe Tremsin’s guy fell into that category.

Maybe Mallick was pulling strings.

Assigning Jacob to the archives in the first place?

Planting the file to snag his interest?

But Marquessa—she was real. TJ was real. They were a mother and a child, tossed away like garbage. In the end, he didn’t care if he
was playing into the Commander’s hands. He could do only this, the only thing that gave him meaning.

•   •   •

I
T WAS THE MIDDLE
of the night in California. Jacob e-mailed out a picture of Knob Neck to all potential witnesses. He predicted Zinaida Moskvina would be the first to reply. A baker. She’d be up early.

He got cleaned up, texting Schott that he was back before heading down to the lobby for the stale display that passed for a continental breakfast. He sank into a bean bag chair, sipping black coffee, debating how best to act, going forward.

Confront Schott?

Pretend like everything was normal?

Without trust, there’s nothing.

He’d have some choice words for Divya when he got back.

He hadn’t yet decided on a strategy when the big man came charging in from the street.

Jacob rose. “Hey. We need to ta—”

The slap sent him sprawling, coffee raining down in a lukewarm arc.

A girl standing at the buffet table sputtered crumbs.

Jacob rolled over, his head buzzing.

Schott bent to him. “You’re a sack of shit.”

The girl hurried out; the desk clerk began reaching for the phone.

Schott turned, snapping his fingers.
“Posez ça. Ne bougez pas.”

The clerk replaced the receiver.

“Vos mains.”

The clerk laid his palms passively on the counter.

“Asshole,” Jacob said. It came out as
ath-hole.

“I was right about you,” Schott said. “I should have gone with my gut.”

“Asshole. Listen. You were sleeping. I got restless. I took a walk. I was followed.”

Schott wavered. “What?”

“The guy from Tremsin’s house. Knob Neck. See for yourself.”

He thumbed to the first image on his phone and handed it over.

“He knew my name,” Jacob said.

SAG card notwithstanding, Schott reacted with convincing astonishment. “How’s that possible?”

“I don’t know,” Jacob said. “Theories?”

Schott looked at him.

“He’s not one of yours?” Jacob asked.

“One of—are you outta your mind?”

“He’s awfully tall,” Jacob said.

“Tell me you’re kidding. What’s gotten into you?”

“
Me?
He chased me for half an hour. I had to duck into a building to get away. He knew my
name
, you prick.”

“Don’t look at me. I saw him for the first time yesterday, same as you. Call Mallick, you don’t believe me.”

Jacob laughed. “Okay, right.”

“Christ, but you’re paranoid.”

“Says the pot to the kettle.”

Schott lobbed the phone at Jacob, hitting him square in the chest.

“Look me in the eye,” he said, “and tell me you didn’t see her.”

Jacob reached for a napkin and began dabbing at coffee stains. “I didn’t.”

“Look me in the eye.”

“I am.”

“You’re looking at the floor.”

“You fucking hit me. My head is spinning.”

“I barely touched you,” Schott said. Grumbling:
“Trouvez-moi des glaçons
.
”

With the possibility of further excitement ruled out, the desk clerk appeared both relieved and disappointed. He ducked through a back door.

Schott paced. “You can’t run off like that.”

“Next time I’ll leave a note.”

“I don’t want a note. I want you not to run off. Why didn’t you call me?”

“I was more focused on not getting shot.”

“Were you drunk?”

“I had a drink.”

“How many?”

“Leave it alone.”

The clerk came back with a baggie of ice. He handed it to Schott, who handed it to Jacob, who pressed it to his face.

Schott lowered his bulk into a plastic chair. He looked haggard. “You should have called,” he muttered.

“Duly noted.”

“How’d the guy find you, anyway?”

“For all I know, he was following us all day.”

“I didn’t notice anyone.”

“Neither did I.”

“What’d he want?”

“You know,” Jacob said, “I completely neglected to ask.”

“I’m thinking out loud, all right? What’s he think he’s going to accomplish?”

“He said he wanted to talk. Maybe it’s true. I suppose if he really wanted to nail me, he had plenty of time. Or he didn’t want to risk
shooting in public. Either way, I’m taking it as a good sign. Tremsin blinked.”

He held out his coffee cup for a refill.

Schott scoffed. “Yeah, okay.”

“You were an actor, weren’t you?”

Schott snatched the cup and lumbered over to the buffet.

“I wouldn’t say no to a pastry,” Jacob called.

“Eat me.”

•   •   •

T
HEY ARRIVED AT TH
E HOSPITAL
minutes after visiting hours began. The hallway outside Breton’s room was clogged with bodies, men clumped in protective twos and threes, talking in low tones, a few openly crying.

“Shit,” Jacob said.

A waspish Odette Pelletier pushed from the crowd to intercept them. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“We came to talk to Breton.”

“Yes, well, as you can see, it’s a bit late for that.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s not your place to be sorry,” she said. “This is a family matter.”

A man crouched against the wall looked up sharply. Jacob recognized the blond goatee, the expression of dislocation.

“My colleague is dead,” Pelletier said. “I’ve been here all night. You’re abusing professional courtesy, Detective. I’m going to ask you, one last time, to leave.”

Jacob put up peace hands. “Okay. Just so you know: I was followed last night.”

A beat. “By whom?”

“One of Tremsin’s goons.”

He showed her the photo on his phone. She didn’t react.

“Did he do anything?” she asked. “Threaten you?”

“Nothing overt. Didn’t feel too good, though.”

The goateed man was watching them intently.

Pelletier said, “You can file a formal complaint at the station.”

“You don’t think it’s a little strange?” Jacob said. “I’m minding my own business and I get tailed?”

“I think you acted provocatively by going to Mr. Tremsin’s house. I will say it again, and I ask that this time you please pay attention. He is a private citizen, entitled to live free of harassment. Now excuse me. I have my men to take care of.”

She turned on her heel.

•   •   •

O
UT IN TH
E LOBBY
, Jacob punched the elevator button. “We never told her we went to the house.”

“You said he was Tremsin’s goon. It’s a reasonable assumption on her part.”

“Or she’s in contact with them. That’s the easiest way for the guy to know where to find me. I gave her my card with the hostel’s address. She tipped them off.”

They stepped into the elevator.

“Une seconde, merci.”

The man with the blond goatee was running toward them.

Jacob stuck a foot out to block the closing doors.

“Merci.”
The man tucked himself into a corner and they rode down in silence to the ground floor.

The doors opened.

The man said,
“Suivez-moi.”

H
e led them down the street to a
bar-tabac
whose interior smelled of radiator steam and shoe leather. Off-duty medical staff warmed hands over coffees.

They took a booth and the blond man introduced himself as Dédé Vallot.

In broken English, he explained that he worked for Théo Breton—or had, until the higher-ups forced Breton out. Ever since then, he’d been passing along progress reports, monitoring Odette Pelletier, logging her calls.

Jacob said, “You were the one who gave Breton my number.”

Vallot nodded, accepting his beer from the waiter. It was not yet ten a.m.

“Why did he ask you to keep tabs on Pelletier?” Schott asked.

“She’s come from the sky, eh? We thought, who she is, l’IGPN?”

“What is that?” Jacob asked.

“La police des polices.”

“Internal affairs,” Schott said.

“
Ouais.
So I make a check.
Pas l’IGPN. Pas la Crim.
Les RG.
”

Schott sought clarification before translating: “Intelligence.”

“How’d you find this out?” Jacob asked.

“My friend,” Vallot said.

“And he’s reliable.”

“The most.”

“What’s an intelligence officer doing on a murder squad?” Schott asked.

“Her file is . . . Eh.
Expurgé.
” Vallot made striking-out motions. “But he told me her university, in Lyon. So I make another check.
Et voilà
: two years, she was study literature in Moscow.”

“You’re shitting me,” Jacob said.

“No shitting.”

“Is there a connection to Tremsin?”

“Impossible to say. But . . .” A shrug.

“She told us Tremsin was out of the country the week of the murders,” Schott said.

“The plane,” Vallot said. “It’s belong to him.”

Of course it did. “Private jet,” Jacob said.

“It goes to Cyprus. Okay. But who is on it?”

“He could have been in Paris after all.”

“What about customs records?” Schott said. “A manifest.”

“Tremsin pays to the airport. He pays to the pilots. No one cares.”

“Pelletier didn’t want to follow up?” Jacob asked.

“She sayed it’s not important.”

“It sounds pretty important to me.”

“
Ouais.
Too important.”

Jacob sat back. “Did you take this to anyone?”

“Who?”

“Your boss.”

“He’s listen to Odette. She is above me.”

Jacob said, “Have a look at these.”

Vallot shuffled through the stack of L.A. crime scene photos, lips curling in revulsion.
“Putain.”
He drained his beer, waved on a second.

“You saw the same thing,” Jacob said.

Vallot moved the salt shaker to one side of the table. “The mother.”

He placed the pepper opposite. “The son.”

Jacob said, “I looked for crimes with a similar setup. Other than yours, I couldn’t find anything.”

“Us not nothing, either.”

“There’s a ten-year gap. I’m having a hard time believing a guy this fucked up goes on vacation that entire time.”

“Théo wants to look in Russia.”

“Did he get anywhere?”

“He was lost his job.”

“And Pelletier took over.”

“Yes.”

Jacob said, “I’d like to see the scene. You think you can show me around?”

Vallot hesitated. “It’s a bad day.”

“I know. I’m sorry about Breton. I take it you two were close.”

Vallot nodded. Then he said, “She was in the hospital. Odette. She never visit Théo before. But last night, she’s going.”

He swirled his glass, looked up at them. “Why?”

“Someone called and told her the news, I assume.”

“Who’s calling? She’s not friends.”

Vallot drank a third of his beer, wiped his mouth.

“I sawed him yesterday,” he said. “He was look better. Then . . .
Pof
. The doctor sayed he’s having a heart attack. I want to know, how? Théo has cancer. His heart, there is no problem.”

Schott said, “What’re you getting at?”

Vallot tugged listlessly at loose neck skin.

Schott said, “You don’t actually think she could’ve done something to him.”

“I sawed him yesterday. He was look better.”

Jacob said, “He seemed like a fine guy.”

Vallot threw back his beer. “I message you. Today, later, maybe.”

He started to uncrumple a twenty-euro bill.

Jacob said, “Let me get it.”

Vallot didn’t argue, but put his money away.

“I appreciate the help,” Jacob said. “One other thing.” He showed Vallot the phone image of the man who had tailed him through the Marais.

Vallot shook his head.

Jacob said, “He’s one of Tremsin’s bodyguards.”

Vallot accepted the information with mute resignation and left.

When he’d disappeared from view, Jacob turned to Schott. “The hell are you giving him a hard time for?”

“He resents Pelletier because she upstaged his buddy. So now she’s snuffing a fellow cop with end-stage cancer? The guy’s talking shit.”

“The guy,” Jacob said, “is
grieving
.”

“Emotions fuck you up,” Schott said.

Jacob shook his head, raising a finger to a passing waiter. “
Une bière
.”

Schott made a face.

“What?” Jacob said. “You want one, too?
Deux.
”

“Oui, monsieur.”

•   •   •

P
ORTE
D
AUPHINE STOOD
at the center of a honking roundabout, encircled by an archipelago of brown lawns and concrete. Outside the Métro entrance, Jacob twisted his hands in his pockets, trying
not to let on to Schott how antsy he felt. Vallot had texted the location and a meet time of one-thirty, and it was nearing two.

“Maybe he got drunk,” Schott said. “Lost track of time.”

At five after, Vallot came up from the subway, apologizing for his tardiness.

They entered the park via the Route des Suresnes. The transition from urban to wooded was rapid but incomplete: half a mile in, they were still seeing parked cars, dog walkers, the occasional hard-core jogger in tights. Ranks of trees fanned across lawns peeled to dirt and dotted with frost. Rowboats stacked up for the season crowded the banks of Lac Inférieur. A woman at the mercy of a Saint Bernard hurtled by, and Vallot left the pavement, trotting along a gravel path, away from the lake.

Jacob checked the time. Five-twenty a.m. in Los Angeles. Still no response to his e-mails. He put his phone away and said, “When’s the funeral?”

“A week, two.”

“He has a family?”

Vallot clucked his tongue. “Girlfriend. Ex. She’s arrange.”

They crossed a wooden bridge over a slushy stream, which Jacob identified on his map as the Ruisseau de Longchamp. From there he lost track, as Vallot turned down one footpath, then another, the trail steadily degrading until they were tramping in slop. A layer of mist seethed through the tree trunks, damp quiet broken irregularly by chittering or panicked movement in the underbrush.

Vallot paused in front of a gnarled stump sealed with tar. He shifted his backpack to the other shoulder and stepped off the path, motioning for them to follow.

They slogged over dense terrain, the silence folding over itself. They had stopped speaking, Vallot gesturing to indicate a crashed
log, a knurl of rock hidden beneath vegetation. Only twigs, exploding like buckshot; Schott’s chesty panting; the mournful suck of mud, ankle-deep, piling up along the sides of Jacob’s shoes, soaking into his socks, numbing the skin up to midcalf. His hands had gone numb.

Nothing to see now, except mud and trees.

Fifty paces off the trail and the woods had closed in like a coffin, thatching off sightlines, blunting perspective. The other men were feet away, but Jacob felt the choking solitude that Lidiya and Valko must have felt, even side by side, the devastating awareness that despite laws and totems and covenants, you were always, finally, alone.

The place, when they arrived, was self-evident: an oblong patch of earth, a roof of iron sky.

The three of them stood shoulder to shoulder.

Schott said, “I’m amazed they were discovered as quickly as they were.”

“The guy who’s find, he was hunt for mushrooms. It’s for him a big secret place.” Vallot paused. “I don’t think he’s come no more.”

He tugged open his backpack and handed Jacob a corresponding bundle of crime scene photos. “For you. Odette was in the office. I waiting for her to leave, so I’m late.”

“Thanks.”

Vallot rubbed his hands on his corduroys, chinned at the top photo, which showed Lidiya’s body at one o’clock, Valko’s at seven, a grotesque nativity. “You can see, this the same tree. It has this, eh, a face, yes?”

Jacob saw what he meant: a rough leer in the bark.

He stepped into the clearing, mentally overlaying past atop present, feeling waves pass through his chest, horror continuing to reverberate. Left undisturbed, the mushrooms had run riot: evil-looking
things, phallic caps grayish yellow and thick with slime, penetrating up through the humus. In the photographs, ice covered the ground.

“She said you had a lot of snow before the discovery of the bodies.”

“It was the most cold winter for a long time. This winter, it’s much better.”

“Feels pretty cold to me,” Schott said.

“It’s the reason I should go to California,” Vallot said.

Jacob knelt before the spot where Lidiya had been left, holding up her photo.

“What’s she wearing?”

“It uniform for the embassy. Théo thought maybe the guy’s like her for this.”

“A fetish.”

“Ouais.”

“There was no sexual assault, though.”

“Maybe someone’s coming, he gets scared to run away.”

Jacob didn’t think so. The scene in the stills didn’t look interrupted; if anything, it was more symmetrical and orderly than the one in the Hollywood alley. Certainly Lidiya was better balanced than Marquessa had been. Maybe the killer remembered the problems presented by a disobedient corpse.

Ten years to perfect his craft.

He crossed to Valko’s tree. In the photos, the boy had the same submissive expression as TJ White. The same care had been taken to fold his hands.

The physical similarities ended there. Where TJ was round and innocent, Valko had begun to develop the contours of manhood, hard ridges risen below gaping eye sockets. Life had grown him up, fast.

“What’s the number on his chest?”

Vallot had a look. “Hugo Lloris. He’s a very big football player.”

“It was dead of winter,” Jacob said. “Where’s his jacket?” He cycled back to the picture of Lidiya. “Where’s hers?”

Schott said, “Maybe the killer took souvenirs.”

Jacob turned to ask Vallot where the embassy was, what was the most direct route. His eye caught on a clump of mushrooms.

“What,” Schott said. “What is it?”

Jacob found a twig, poked it between the stalks to extract an object far the worse for wear, its red paint mostly gone, a corroded chain dangling.

A key fob.

The insignia stamped into its center had fared better. It was cast in relief and gold plated.

A tiny image of the Gerhardt Falke S.