The Golem of Paris

Chapter fourteen

For the next few days, Jacob went back to the archive to resume his routine of reading and typing and forcibly liberating bugs. Marquessa and TJ were never far from his mind. He took the file with him when he left the hangar. Not to read; he’d been over it enough. Just to have. To remind himself that he was still a detective.

On a chilly Wednesday, he heard footsteps coming up the aisle, and a familiar, dancing voice called out his name.

“Over here,” he said.

Six-plus spectacular feet of Divya Das materialized from the shadows like a struck match. She was dressed in white linen slacks — gutsy choice for a pathologist — and a silk blouse in her preferred orange. Black hair buried one shoulder. Her eyes were huge and glittering, her mouth amused as she took in his sad little fiefdom. “So this is where they’ve got you.”

“I’ve always considered exile romantic.”

“It’s bloody freezing in here. How do you stand it?”

He indicated the space heater.

“Those things are terrible fire hazards,” she said.

“Let’s hope so.” Waving at the acres of paper. “Save me a shitload of work.”

Divya laughed. “Have you taken your lunch?”

“Nope.”

“Want company?”

“You buying?”

“Cheek. Well, fine, I’m in a benevolent mood.”

“Good deal,” Jacob said. “I’ll drive.”

“No,” she said, switching off the space heater. “I believe I’d rather.”

He remembered her old car, a silver Toyota sedan dating to the turn of the millennium. The upgrade shocked him.

Orange Corvette, chrome rims, a discreet little spoiler.

She laid a loving hand on the hood. “It improves the commute.”

Jacob just managed to buckle his seat belt before she peeled out, spitting gravel.

The howl of the engine made conversation a nonstarter, so he settled back. It was hard not to see Mallick’s hand in her drop-in. The voicemail Jacob had left her mentioned nothing about his assignment, yet she’d tracked him down easily enough.

As excited as he felt to see her, he could not lose focus on the fact that, in the end, she was still one of them.

Taking city streets at dangerous speeds, she arrived at a strip mall on Rosemead.

“Your bonus,” he said, after she’d cut the motor.

“Pardon?”

“After the Pernath case, I got a check for ten grand.” He tapped the dash. “Not that that would cover the down payment on this.”

Divya shrugged. “I heard you didn’t cash yours.”

“It costs more than that to buy me off.”

“So cynical. Why not just see it as a reward for a job well done?”

“I understand why they’d bribe me,” he said. “I’m supposed to pretend what happened didn’t happen. But why you?”

They had pulled up in front of a restaurant called Flavors of Bombay. Divya continued to grip the steering wheel, stacks of glass bangles tinkling on slender, cinnamon-colored wrists.

“I’ve told you before,” she said. “We’re not all the same.”

“No?”

“No. And frankly I’m insulted that you continue to act as if we are.”

“You take orders from Mallick.”

“As do you,” she said.

He said nothing.

“You need to learn who your friends are,” she said.

Jacob glanced at the restaurant. “This place any good?”

“Yelp seems to think so.”

“You don’t have to take me for Indian food. I wouldn’t take you for gefilte fish.”

She drew the key from the ignition. “Thank God for that.”

The dining room was packed. A waiter handed them menus, but halfheartedly, knowing full well they were going to opt for the $8.95 buffet.

“You go first,” Divya said. “I’ll watch our things.”

Jacob joined the line, piling a plate with rice, dal, saag paneer, lamb tikka masala.

In his absence, a basket of naan had appeared on the table, along with two plastic tumblers of water. He spread his napkin on his lap, waiting for Divya to take her turn at the buffet. She didn’t budge.

“Start,” she said. “It’ll get cold.”

“Don’t make me eat alone,” he said.

She got up to join the line, came back with a basically bare plate.

“I’m sorry I missed your call the other day,” she said. “I was out.”

“It’s not like I gave you any notice.”

“What brought you to my neck of the woods?”

He grinned, spooning spinach onto a triangle of flatbread. “That didn’t take long.”

“I’m making conversation, Jacob.”

“Perhaps the mysteries of Culver City entranced me.”

“Might I point out that you called me? I’m exhibiting normal curiosity.”

It was true. She’d never done anything to cause him to distrust or resent her.

Still: one of them.

She said, “I know you’ve had a damned hard time of it. How could you not? What you saw that night — there’s not a person on earth capable of holding it in their head. Even you.”

He snorted.

“Don’t undersell yourself,” she said.

“Oh, but that’s part of my charm.”

She smiled. She reached across the table and took his hand. He was too surprised to move away, and once they were touching he saw no reason to let go.

He said, “I’ve got a case I’m looking into.”

She nodded as though she already knew.

Maybe she did.

But her skin felt warm and comforting, embers at the end of a long night, and right then, he didn’t care if she was manipulating him. Right then, he didn’t give a shit about anything but a dead woman and her son.

Divya said, “Do you want to talk about it?”

He did.

“That’s all I’ve got so far.”

The restaurant had emptied out. Jacob had finished his food, gone up for seconds.

Divya had yet to unwrap her silverware, was staring over woven hands at her untouched plate. She said, “Kids always get to me.”

He nodded. “Any thoughts?”

She seemed reluctant to speak. Shook it off. “The mutilation,” she said. “Your description put me in mind of someone with surgical experience.”

“I had the same thought. Doctor, dentist, nurse, vet. The file doesn’t mention anyone who meets the criteria, but it’s far from complete. Have you ever heard of anything like that? Just the eyelids gone?”

“Thankfully not.”

He said, “When I was at the scene, I had this weird idea. Kids, you know how they’ll set up their stuffed animals?”

“As an audience,” she said.

“Exactly. I’m not sure what it means. Marquessa was a model, so she had experience with being looked at. Posing.”

“Your bad guy was reversing the process?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve been calling the modeling agency, but they keep putting me off. I’m going to go over there in person as soon as I get a chance.”

He stirred his cup of rice pudding. “I’d appreciate if you told Mallick that I’m diligently applying myself to my day job and nothing else.”

“Will do.”

He said, “I want so badly to believe you.”

“Then believe.”

Jacob smiled sadly. He chinned at her tray. “Don’t you ever eat?”

“Your case ruined my appetite.”

That he most assuredly did not believe. Generally speaking, crypt doctors had the strongest stomachs around. You saw bags of Doritos lying open on autopsy tables.

“Not just now,” he said. “Not just you. All of you. Mallick. Schott. I bought Mel Subach a piece of baklava last year and he made a huge deal about how he couldn’t touch it cause he’s on a diet.”

“And so he should be,” she said. “He’s a tub.”

“Apparently not from excess calories,” he said.

She snatched a shred of naan from the basket and stuffed it in her mouth, chewing with effort, her long neck convulsing, her eyes watering as she worked to get it down. He began to worry she would choke. “Hey,” he said. “Take it easy.”

She gagged, pounded her chest.

“Are you okay?”

She reached for her water glass, took a spiteful sip, and showed him an empty mouth.

“Happy?” she said.

She sounded hoarse and close to tears.

Taken aback, he said, “I didn’t mean you had to—”

“Leave off,” she said. “Please.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She took out a twenty. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I earned this myself.”