The Golem of Hollywood (17 page)

S
herri Levesque's former residence was closest, a decaying ranch house west of the freeway and south of Washington Boulevard. Several of the homes on the block had been upgraded during the real estate boom. The eroded stucco and splintering porch rail of this one seemed more honest, making no promises.

Nobody answered, so Jacob ducked back under a low-hanging American flag baked to translucency and circled the property, attempting to extrapolate from the crime scene photos which of the windows belonged to her bedroom. Best guess was one overlooking the backyard. He flattened himself against the siding and waited for the scene to speak to him.

Clover and bluegrass and dew-jeweled dandelions.

Sprinkler heads.

A fence.

Beyond it, the rear neighbor, a dented play structure.

Above, electrical lines sagged under the weight of crows, black as the wires they sat on.

He waited and waited for inspiration to strike.

Wrong time of day?

Something once there, now missing?

As the thrill of revelation faded, he felt a pang for the prophets of old, their loneliness and disorientation when, touched by God or imagining
they were, they ended up stumbling in the turbulence left by a deity's receding hand.

All at once, the crows raised up, shrieking and flapping and vanishing east.

Jacob took some photos, walked back to the Honda, and drove to Christa Knox's old place in Marina del Rey.

The unshaven man who came to the door refused to admit him without a warrant, loudly turning the deadbolt.

Quarter after ten a.m. He texted Divya.

She failed to answer and he sent her another text, immediately regretted it.

Katherine Ann Clayton's El Segundo studio apartment had been demolished to make way for a strip mall. On the corner where she'd lived and died, a Starbucks dispensed its wares. Jacob used the camera's panorama mode to stitch together a 270-degree view, bought a 470-calorie bran muffin and a decaf that tasted of charred cardboard, hopped back on the freeway to Santa Monica.

His luck improved: Cathy Wanzer's old condo was vacant, for sale. He phoned the listing agent and made an appointment to see it later that day.

As he was getting off the phone with her, call-waiting beeped: his father.

“Hey, Abba. What's up?”

“I wanted to see how you are,” Sam said.

“Me? I'm okay.”

“Good,” Sam said. “Good. I'm glad to hear it.”

“Yeah. Okay. Everything okay with you?”

“Oh, I'm fine.”

“Well, good.”

“Yes,” Sam said. “Just terrific.”

“That's great, Abba. You know what, though, I'm right in the middle of something, so—”

“What's that.”

“What?”

“What are you in the middle of?”

“I'm working,” Jacob said.

“Yes. Of course. On the case.”

“Yeah.”

“How's it coming?”

“Not bad. Slowly but surely. Look, can I call you back later?”

“Yes, of course . . . But—Jacob? I'm out of milk. Do you think you'd have time to pick some up for me?”

“Milk,” Jacob said.

“I need it for breakfast,” Sam said.

“Nigel can't do it?”

“I haven't asked him.”

“Well. Can you ask him, then?”

“I could, but I don't know if he'll have time.”

“Abba. It's noon.”

“Tomorrow,” Sam said. “Breakfast tomorrow.”

“I'm sure he can get it to you before then. And if he doesn't I'll bring some by tonight, okay? I need to go.”

“Yes. All right. Take care.”

He hung up.

Bewildered, Jacob stared at the phone. His father had never been a nudge. He was an even more hopeless liar.

Milk? Really?

Why he would be pestering Jacob about the case was unclear, unless Sam truly was concerned about Jacob's stress level. It unsettled Jacob to realize that perhaps there
was
something to be concerned about. The nightmares; the boundless, electric zaps powering him through the day.

He wrote them off. Occupational hazard. He had a right to nightmares. He was staring down wickedness. He had a right to be excited. He was making progress.

He opened up the phone's settings and assigned his father a unique ringtone so he'd know which calls to ignore.

Laura Lesser, R.N., had lived in a Tudor-style cottage. The present owner, a middle-aged woman, listened to Jacob's pitch, wrote down his badge number, and asked him to wait on the porch.

He stood shifting his weight from foot to foot, thought about the last few days, and decided a three-day marathon work session, a crash, a smaller spike, and a gentler ebb was simply doing the job well. Mania didn't follow that pattern or cycle that rapidly. Right? Right.

The owner returned looking wary. LAPD had confirmed that Jacob was a cop, but not what department he was with or why he might want access to her house. Before allowing him in, she pelted him with questions, which he answered as evasively as possible. Even after she'd relented and let him in, she persisted.

“What sort of crime did you say it was again?”

He hadn't. “A break-in.”

“Oh my God. Should I be worried?”

“Not at all,” he said, coming to the end of the hall.

“How can you be sure?”

“It occurred several years ago.”

“Then why are you here now?”

“It relates to some newer crimes, but nothing that'll ever connect to you.” Smiling as he made a beeline through her house. “Promise.”

He found what he was looking for: Laura Lesser's former walk-in closet.

It had been restored to a bedroom, a preteen girl's. Tufted fabric letters above the bed spelled
ISABELLA.

Jacob superimposed Laura Lesser's savaged body on the purple rug.

Knelt on her back and gazed out the window at a stop sign.

He snapped a picture.

“What are you looking at?” the woman asked.

“Thanks, finished, sorry for the inconvenience.” He made his way
back to the front door. He was beginning to take grim satisfaction in finding nothing of interest. A negative pattern could be useful, in its own way.

The woman said, “We picked this neighborhood because it's safe.”

“It is.”

“My husband's been talking about getting a gun.”

Thinking of the girlish accoutrements, Jacob said, “Tell him to keep it locked up.”

—

A
T
C
ATHY
W
ANZER
'
S
CONDO
, the real estate agent said, “It's been completely redone. Fabulous open-concept living-eating space.”

“What about the master bedroom?”

“Also brand new,” she said, striding off. “Right this way.”

Quick-stepping up a corridor lit by shabby-chic sconces, the agent began to extol the virtues of wallpaper.

“. . . really in right now . . .”

Jacob followed her into the master.

“Don't you adore these floors?” she said.

“They're nice,” he said.

“Reclaimed teak. The previous owners got inspired by a trip to India and they found a school in Mumbai that was going to be knocked down, so they were able to—”

“Did they move any walls or windows?”

“In here? I don't think so. You can see they deepened the closet, perfect for a young . . . couple, or if you . . .” She watched him kneel and snap pictures. “We have a website, you know.”

“Mm,” he said.

“Do you want to see the master bath?”

He ignored her and walked to the window.

Across the street, a preschool.

“What can you tell me about that place?” he asked.

“The school? Oh, it's
fabulous
. It's less than four years old and the facilities are top-notch. There's a gifted track. Do you have children?”

“No.”

“Oh . . . Well, from what I gather, they're very considerate neighbors. They confine the pickup to the opposite side, so you won't have traffic, and as far as noise goes . . . eh . . .”

He was taking more photos and could hear her brain screaming
pedophile alert!

She endeavored to draw his attention to a different window by praising its lovely northern exposures.

He looked at her. “What was that?”

“I said, I know there's not much to look at on that side, but over here the light is
just fabulous
.”

He turned back and stared at the school.

“Sir?”

He started to walk out.

“Did you—sir, did you want to take a brochure?”

He took one, to be polite.

—

H
E
SAID
, “They all face east.”

Phil Ludwig was silent.

“I still have no clue what it means,” Jacob said. “And Katherine Ann's building is gone, so I can't be a hundred percent sure. But we're eight for eight on the others.”

No clue
was a white lie. He had a theory. Not one he felt happy with.

East was significant in the Jewish tradition. Praying to the twice-demolished Temple in Jerusalem.

Justice.

Why complicate matters, though, before he knew more?

For his part, Ludwig sounded content. “You did good.”

“Thanks.”

“I know I shouldn't be, but I'm kicking myself right now.”

“You're right. You shouldn't be.”

“Well, whatever. Not that it's worth a damned thing, but you have my blessing.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I e-mailed my scientist pal about your bug. He's gonna get back to me tonight or tomorrow.”

“There's no rush.”

“Screw you, no rush,” Ludwig said. “Lemme solve something
.
”

O
n the TV above the sushi bar, the Los Angeles Lakers were employing their go-to strategy of blowing a double-digit lead late in the fourth quarter. Lawyers in open-necked shirts thumped their tables and shook their Rolexes at the screen.

Jacob had intended to celebrate his discovery by treating himself to a halfway decent dinner, consumed alone and in peace. That intention lasted as long as his miso soup, at which point the implications of his discovery began to sift down through his consciousness.

That he was, apparently, the first person to notice the east-west pattern was no knock on the previous Ds, regardless of what Ludwig said. Mystery novels were fun, sometimes even for cops, but real-life whodunits provoked dread and anxiety. In most homicides, you assembled facts, filtered out noise, pursued leads that were usually obvious because criminals were for the most part stupid. Case closed.

On whodunits, blind spots and biases were inevitable.

It was, in fact, just such a bias that had enabled Jacob to recognize the pattern. And even now, he couldn't help seeing everything through a Jewish lens.

Member-of-the-tribe Creepers?

His silent
God forbid
made him smile with self-derision.

You could forbid if I believed in You.

One Jewish Creeper taken out by another didn't make him feel any better.

The most palatable possibility was a new actor somehow rooting out the Creepers and engaging in felony cleansing. Better, but still repellent, because Jacob's gut response to freelance revenge was the old collective-guilt atavism born of pogroms and inquisitions and blood libels.

You did what?
Oy vey, what will the gentiles think of us?

An uncomfortable relic of Judaism's tribal roots popped into his head: the
goel hadam
, the “redeemer of blood,” partially entitled by biblical law to hunt down and slay anyone who'd ended the life of a kinsman. Partial, because of a strange restriction: the
goel hadam
retained his right of vigilantism only in cases of manslaughter or accidental death. Willful murderers were to be tried and executed by a court of twenty-three judges.

He raised his finger for another carafe of warm sake.

A Harvard sophomore who considered himself an expert on Japan had once informed Jacob that heating sake was a trick to mask the imperfections of a low-quality brew. Cold and expensive was the way to go. Jacob liked imperfections. Like the failing exterior of Sherri Levesque's house, crappy liquor was honest, reminding him he wasn't drinking for the taste.

He poured, swirled the lacquered box. In any other context he found sake cloying, but you couldn't beat it for chasing
tekka maki
. The fact that every culture had its own form of alcohol, tailored to pair with its cuisine, pointed to an obvious truth: eating was merely an excuse to get blitzed.

Banzai!

Groans rose as the Enforcer Formerly Known as Ron Artest clanged a three-pointer.

The day's breakthrough had earned him the right to dinner, at least. He handed the waitress his white Discover credit card. A minute later she came back shaking her head.

“Declined,” she said.

Big surprise. Jacob tossed down four twenties and left.

—

T
HE
SCENE
AT
187 was the usual lukewarm mess, walls of sweaty bodies, what was probably music but sounded like a rhino stampede.

“Yo,” Victor said, pouring him a bourbon. “I was just thinking about you.”

“Do I owe you money?”

“Your friend's here.”

Jacob looked around for his bug-bit mattress pal. Wouldn't be the first time he'd encountered a one-night partner here. If he was lucky, this one might not remember him.

It felt like you were stabbing me.

Don't count on it.

He didn't see her, mimed the universal sign for big breasts to Victor.

“Nuh-uh, bro, the chick you was asking about. The supermodel.”

Jacob's chest tightened. “Where?”

“She came in like literally two minutes before you.” Victor squinted. “I don't know where she went. Bathroom?”

Jacob left his bourbon untouched and shouldered his way through the crowd, overturning drinks and jostling pool cues and disrupting make-out sessions.

Watch it, asshole.

The line for the ladies' was four strong. Jacob cut to the front and, figuring he'd already seen everything she could conceivably care to hide, barged in.

A woman he didn't know squatted over the toilet with her jeans around her ankles. She was so busy texting that at first she didn't notice him. Then she looked up and shrieked, dropping her phone in the bowl.

“Sorry,” Jacob said.

He left her scrambling for modesty and plunged back into the melee. He didn't find her there, either, and he headed for the exit.

Halfway across the dance floor, a meaty hand clamped around his biceps. He said, “Fuck off, pal,” but the hand dragged him back and he felt a rush of frustration and a surge of adrenaline, his limbic system telegraphing
bar fight
as a meaty arm put him in a meaty embrace that morphed into a decidedly nonmeaty noogie.

“Lev, you skinny-ass son of a bitch.”

Mel Subach grinned. “Didn't know you came here, Jake.”

Jacob tried to free himself. It was like gator wrestling. Subach, still smiling, let go. “Let's have a drink. I'm buying.”

“No, thanks.”

“Come on, live a little.”

Jacob pushed past him, toward the door.

“I thought we were friends,” Subach yelled.

Outside in the alley, a shape hurried away into the night.

A woman—that much he could tell—but he couldn't fix her; she was fifty feet gone and walking fast, and as he began jogging after her, she seemed to come in and out of being, like a faint star, detectable at the periphery of his vision, winking out when he turned his gaze directly on her.

Behind him, music blared; the door opening. “Jake. Where you going, man?”

“Mai!” Jacob yelled.

She glanced back.

Saw him.

Started to run.

“Wait!” Jacob yelled, feet slipping drunkenly on gravel. The tread caught and he sprinted, Subach's lumbering steps close on his heels. The big guy could move.

So could Mai. The distance between them rapidly stretched.

“Mai. It's me, Ja . . .”—he was huffing—“Jacob. The—
wait.
”

“Wait!” Subach yelled.

The alley was roughly the length of a football field. Jacob put on the jets, and he seemed to be gaining on her, and for a moment he thought he might get to her, but they reached the mouth of the alley and Mai streaked into the street toward a vacant lot surrounded by chain-link and filled with dark weeds and he stumbled after without pausing for traffic and from his left came an onrushing air pressure and the heat of headlights and a gnashing aluminum grille and his collar tightened and he flew backward like a hooked vaudevillian so that the side of a van passed inches in front of him, close enough for him to count paint scratches.

He landed hard, on his tailbone, on the concrete.

The van fishtailed, coming to a halt thirty feet up the road.

Panting, Jacob rose to his elbows.

Mai had vanished.

Subach knelt by his side. “You okay?”

Jacob stared.

In front of him: the vacant lot.

To the right: a plumbing supplier.

To the left: an unmarked warehouse.

“Where'd she go?” Jacob said.

He tried to stand but Subach restrained him gently. “Buddy. You got to relax.”

The van gunned its engine and roared off, due south down La Cienega. Through the noxious orange of sodium vapor lamps, the weathered lettering was barely legible.

CURTAINS AND BEYOND—DISCOUNT WINDOW TREATMENTS