The Golem of Hollywood

Chapter twenty-seven

Tyler Volpe said, “How awesome am I?”

Any detective coped with a certain amount of tedium; just the same, after spinning his wheels for several days, Jacob felt especially grateful for the interruption. Grandmaison from New Orleans had neglected to get back to him, Flores’s file from Vegas hadn’t yet arrived, and the Miami PD kept putting him on hold, subjecting him to a thousand different pop songs rendered in cheesy saxophone and synth bass.

Meanwhile, Subach and Schott had gone dark, Divya Das was buried in bodies, and Mallick continued to ignore him. Jacob didn’t know who they were shielding by giving him the runaround, but it pissed him off, in part because it implied that they expected him to give up at the first sign of pushback.

Let’s not kid ourselves, okay?

I talked to your superiors.

I know who you are.

No, you don’t.

Fed up, he’d dialed Marcia, his old pal from Valley Traffic.

“The prodigal son returns,” she said.

“I need you to have someone run a plate for me, please.”

“What’s the matter, you’re stationed on the moon? Thought you left us for bigger and better things.”

“Smaller and worse,” he said. “I also need a recording of a 911 call.”

She took down the information. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Last thing: check an address for me?”

She sighed.

“Pretty please,” he said. “I need a physical location for a division called Special Projects. Mailing address, PO box, anything.”

“Special Projects? What is that?”

“My new home.”

“You don’t know where you are?”

“I’m not there. I’m here.”

“Where’s here?”

“My apartment.”

Marcia said, “This is getting a wee bit abstract for a simple Valley girl like me.”

He returned to tracking down the people on Ludwig’s interview list, eliminating those Ludwig had starred because they turned out to be deceased. He’d covered around a quarter of the list, no one warranting further investigation, when Volpe phoned back, sounding revved up.

“How awesome am I?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” Jacob said.

“Okay. First thing, you were right on about the body. Her head was definitely facing the east, toward the bathroom window.”

“Killed there or moved?”

“Originally, I thought she was trying to climb out the window when he took her down. But now I’m thinking he — or they, if it was two guys — jumped her while she was sleeping. The bedroom was a fuckin mess, so she probably struggled there. Whatever, she faced east. I went back to the apartment and checked it myself.”

“Excellent,” Jacob said.

“So?”

“You’re awesome.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You said the first thing,” Jacob said. “What’s the second?”

“I showed your head around,” Volpe said. “You were right about that, too: nasty shit.”

“Tell me someone recognized him.”

“Not him. The MO.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Head, no body, sealed neck, puke.” Volpe paused. “Stop me if I’m getting it wrong.”

“No, that’s it. That’s it, exactly. Who’s the D? What’s his number?”

“Well, here’s the kicker,” Volpe said. “I have this buddy, Dougie Freeman, I was telling him about your thing, and he’s like, ‘Holy shit, that sounds like this other thing that guy told me about.’ And I’m like, ‘What guy?’ And he tells me back in May last year, he goes upstate for a seminar on human trafficking, and they got this group of cops flown in from around the globe, some sort of DOJ initiative, establish goodwill, mutual trust, cooperation, blah blah... Anyhow, one night they’re hanging out, getting shitfaced — universal language — and this one guy starts going on about this crazy case he’s caught, head but no body. So when I mentioned to Dougie about your guy, he’s like, ‘Show me the picture.’ I showed it to him. He’s like, ‘That’s what the guy described to me, with the neck and the puke and everything.’ And so I’m like, ‘Great, I’ll tell Lev, what’s the guy’s name?’ And Dougie’s like, ‘I don’t know, I don’t remember.’ And I’m like, ‘You remember the case but you can’t remember his name?’ And he’s like, ‘Course I remember, it was a fuckin cut-off head.’ And I’m like, ‘Well, think, motherfucker.’ And he’s like, ‘I dunno, it had a lot of consonants.’” Volpe made a sad noise. “I love Dougie, but for the betterment of the species I oughta disengage his nutsack.”

“He say where the guy’s from?”

“Prague,” Volpe said. “Anyway, he and Dougie swapped badges. I got the guy’s right here. You want me read it to you?”

Jacob didn’t answer him. He was thinking: Prague.

Eastern Europe.

East.

“Lev? You there?”

“Yeah,” Jacob said, picking up a pen. “Go ahead.”

“Policy... che — cesk... Fuck me. I’m gonna spell it out.”

Jacob copied down Policie Ceske Republiky.

“The c in ceske’s got a thing on it, like a upside-down hat. And the second e’s got an accent mark.”

“Number, department?”

“That’s what I have. Badge isn’t his, just a souvenir he brought to swap. You want to talk to Dougie, I can give you his cell.” Volpe read it to him. “Talk slow. No big words.”

“Thanks, man. I really appreciate it.”

“Yeah, sure thing. You know, since I talked to you, I’m thinkin about having another crack at Shevchuk, see if I missed something else.”

“Good luck. I’ll let you know what I come up with.”

“Same here. Take it easy, Lev.”

Clicking on the link for the Policie České Republiky home page brought up an imposing wall of Czech. Jacob pasted the URL into Google Translate and it rebooted in pseudo-English, allowing him to locate the main switchboard number.

As soon as the operator grasped that he was American, she transferred him to another woman, who began by asking where Jacob had been walking when his wallet was stolen.

“No,” Jacob said, “I’m looking for a homicide detective. Can you please—”

A series of beeps; a blast of Czech.

“Hello?” Jacob said. “English?”

“Emergency?”

“No emergency. Homicide department. Murder.”

“Where, please?”

“No, not — I need—”

“Ambulance?”

“No. No. No. I—”

More beeps.

“Ahoj,” a man said.

Jacob’s mind instantly conjured a sea captain on the other end of the line. “Ahoy. Is this Homicide?” He nearly added matey.

“Yes, no.”

“Uh. Yes, this is Homicide, or no, it’s not?”

“Who is calling, please.”

“Detective Jacob Lev. Los Angeles Police Department. In America.”

“Ah,” the man said. “Rodney King!”

The guy’s name was Radek. A junior lieutenant, he didn’t know who’d gone to New York last year, but cheerily offered to make inquiries.

“Thanks. I have to ask, of all things, how is it you know about Rodney King?”

“Okay. Snowproblem. After Revolution I am watch American television programs. A-Team. Silver Spoons. Sometimes news. So I see videotape. Pah, pah, pah! Black guy down.”

“We’ve improved our customer relations since then.”

“Yes? Good!” Radek laughed heartily. “Is okay for me to visit? Don’t kick my ass?”

“Not if you behave.”

“I have a cousin, he’s go to Dallas. Marek. You know him, I think?”

“I live in California,” Jacob said. “It’s kind of far.”

“Ah, yes?”

“It’s a big country,” Jacob said.

“Snowproblem. Marek, he marries American lady. Wanda. They have a restaurant for Czech food.”

“Sounds good,” Jacob said.

“You know this food? Knedlíky? My favorite, you should try.”

“Next time I’m in Dallas I’ll be sure to check it out.”

“Okay, snowproblem, I call you soon.”

He did, early the following morning, his voice tight and low.

“Yes, Jacob, hello.”

“Radek? Why are you whispering?”

“Jacob, this is not good thing for talking about.”

“What? Did you find out whose case it is?”

“One moment, please.”

A hand over the receiver, muffled voices, then Radek blurted a string of numbers that Jacob hastily scribbled on his arm.

“Who am I calling?”

“Jan.”

“Is he the detective?”

“Jacob, thank you, good luck to you, I must go.”

Dial tone. Jacob stood puzzling, then punched in the number.

The phone rang eleven times before a tired-sounding woman answered.

“Ahoy,” Jacob said. “Can I please speak to Jan?”

Kids fighting in the background, bright commercial jingles. The woman shouted for Jan, and a phlegmy cough drew near.

“Ahoj.”

“Jan.”

“Yes?”

“My name is Jacob Lev. I’m a detective with the Los Angeles Police Department. Do you understand me? English?”

Screaming silence.

“A little,” Jan said.

“Okay. Okay, great. I got your number from a colleague of yours, Radek—”

“Radek who.”

“I don’t know his name. His last name.”

“Hn.”

“I understand you were in New York last year, and a police officer who met you told me about a homicide where you found a head, the neck sealed up, and as it happens—”

“Who told you this? Radek?”

“No, an NYPD cop. Dougie. He — or, his colleague, actually—”

“What do you want?”

“I’m working a similar case. I was hoping to compare notes.”

“Notes?”

“To see if there’s anything worth exploring.”

The chaos in the background had reached a fever pitch, and Jan turned away to bark in Czech. There was a very brief reprieve, then the battle resumed. He came back on, coughing and swallowing audibly. “I apologize. I cannot talk about this.”

“Is there like a gag order, cause—”

“Yes,” Jan said. “I am sorry.”

“Okay, but look. Maybe you can send me some crime scene photos, or—”

“No, no, no photos.”

“At least let me send you mine, so you can have a look, and if you—”

“No, I apologize, there is nothing to discuss.”

“There is to me,” Jacob said. “I’ve got thirteen dead women.”

A pause.

Jan said, “If you come here, we can talk.”

“We can’t just talk on the phone? Is there a better number?”

Jan said, “Call when you are here.”

And he hung up, too.