The Golem of Hollywood

Chapter fifty-one

Jacob’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.

The 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.