The Golem of Paris

Chapter twenty-one

Leaving his father’s apartment, Jacob felt as though he had been poured full of poison, then punctured all over and drained hollow.

At home he turned on the television, staying in front of it through Sunday and most of Monday, arising only to get a new bottle or to pee. Finally, to answer the doorbell.

A courier handed him a binder stamped with the logo of the A2 agency.

You can’t grapple with it every waking moment.

You block it out, because you need to buy groceries.

Jacob tossed the binder on the couch and went to take a shower.

Maybe Alon Artzi felt guilty, or maybe he was just a decent guy. Either way, he’d overdelivered: Jacob had asked for info on the half year before Marquessa’s death and gotten her entire booking history, along with a portfolio and several sets of headshots.

He began laying the material out on his living room carpet.

The first headshots were blurry and amateurish, probably homemade. Marquessa perched on the edge of a park fountain in jeans, platform shoes, and a white tube top that contrasted brilliantly with her glowing brown shoulders.

She’d attached a résumé listing work experience at Burger King. Cashier.

Her pluck impressed Jacob, as did the conviction shown by the agency in taking a chance on her. While she was a nice-looking girl, L.A. was full unto sickness with physical beauty.

Her first pro gig was a shoot for Ventura Blvd magazine. It paid two hundred dollars, of which the agency took a twenty percent cut.

A hundred sixty take-home.

Better than seven bucks an hour for flipping burgers. And how validating, to get paid for being pretty — for being herself.

For a while, jobs came in dribs and drabs, never paying more than five hundred, typically far less. Then her luck changed. She landed a swimwear catalog, and more lucrative offers began rolling in. At her peak she’d been netting around a grand a week.

Good enough to move out of the house.

Some of the income stream came from photo shoots, but an increasingly sizable chunk came from what A2’s filing system referred to as “personal appearances”: charity galas, red carpets. She had served as ring card girl at a boxing match.

Mostly she worked trade show booths, repping ceiling fans, industrial lubricants, network servers, skin cream, high-efficiency washer-dryers. For interacting with attendees “in a friendly and informed manner,” she earned between thirty and fifty dollars an hour.

“Mood modeling” for VIP parties paid three times as much.

The dry language of the contracts was mute on what she did once the party ended.

Her final six months were comparatively jam-packed. It took Jacob several days to winnow the leads down. Remembering Farrah Duvall’s words — all of a sudden, she’s got bank — he homed in on elite jobs, ending up with four strong candidates.

Annual conference for financial managers.

Launch party for a “new-generation” fragrance.

Luxury car premiere.

Movie producer’s seventieth-birthday party.

He began with the perfume, finding plenty of PR-firm flackery archived on the Web. The brand name was SPF, which stood for “So Phreakin Fun.” The celebutard who had allegedly cooked it up claimed to be inspired by “corn dogs and suntan lotion — you know, everything that makes summer awesome.”

Jacob scrolled through images. A platoon of models in cleavagey orange satin cocktail dresses used oversized atomizers to spritz partygoers.

Marquessa stood near the end of the bar, the only black girl.

She seemed to be having the time of her life.

He poured himself a drink in her honor, then e-mailed the distributor, asking for the guest list. He doubted it would bear fruit, but it was a start.

The producer’s birthday party had warranted a smattering of gossip mag reportage. On a blog Jacob found mention of the A-listers in attendance: an actor couple, a rap star.

Caught canoodling! Hannah Hollowskull and Trent Numbnuts!

Referring back to the contracts, he saw that both gigs had been booked by Chiq Party Design and Catering.

He looked them up.

Defunct: your basic L.A. story.

Searching the state business directory, he came up with an expired LLC registered to a Marlee Watchorn, phone number and an address in Silver Lake.

Jacob called her. She was cheerful enough at first but turned bitter when he asked if she still had the guest list.

“I don’t have anything,” she said. “Roberto took it all.”

“Roberto being...”

“My ex-husband. Ex — business partner. Ex-you-name-it.”

“Do you think he might have held on to it?”

“I don’t think about him,” she said, “ever.”

“Can I get a current phone number for him?”

“Is he in trouble?”

“I wouldn’t assume that,” Jacob said.

“I’m not assuming,” she said. “I’m hoping.”

Roberto now ran a party planning business of his own. He confirmed that the feeling was mutual.

“Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t release a guest list. To you or anyone. We cater to clients who cherish their privacy. However. Seeing as it’s Marlee who made the deal, and she’s the one responsible and who would suffer if that information should happen to get out, I would love to give it to you, and in fact I’m going to encourage you to share it with every single person you meet on the street. I’m out of the office for the rest of the week but I’ll e-mail it to you first thing Monday.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s my complete pleasure.”

Gathering intel on the other two events proved trickier. The financial managers’ conference was a massive, four-day affair attended by representatives from scores of banks. He wrote to the organizer, hoping for a response while praying he wouldn’t need it.

That left the luxury car premiere, where he ran smack into the opposite problem.

No photos. No press releases. No blogs.

No coverage whatsoever.

The name on the contract, Seta Event Management, maintained a far slicker profile than the flaming mess that had been Marlee and Roberto. The home page drew itself in black and magenta curlicues, framing a rotating gallery of glittering stills. Lusty electronica slithered through the miniature speakers on Jacob’s computer.

He muted it, moused over the menu bar, clicked CLIENT LIST.

As Southern California’s leading event management and luxury lifestyle firm...

He scrolled down.

Rarefied company for a girl from Watts.

According to the contract, Marquessa had worked an event for Gerhardt Technologie AG. They made high-performance sports cars, more akin to low-flying rocket ships than anything earthbound. A video clip on their home page showed a blood-red blur screaming around a racetrack; Jacob had to watch it three times before he managed to spot the car. The company motto was Geschwindigkeit — ohne Kompromisse, which Google translated as Speed — without compromise.

Anyone who could afford a Gerhardt probably didn’t have to do a lot of compromising. The base price was $1,345,000. “Options” kicked that up rapidly.

He called Seta Event Management. Predictably, they stonewalled him.

“All I’m asking for is an idea of who was invited,” he said. “You don’t have to give me names, just a general sense.”

“I can’t give that information out.”

“This is for a murder investigation.”

The woman sighed. “Like I’ve never heard that before.”

Click.

With little to lose, he wrote directly to Gerhardt. Then he had another idea. He went to the website for the LA Times.

The automotive columnist was named Neil Adler. Jacob e-mailed him asking for a phone interview and got up to take a leak. Thirty seconds later he ran out with his pants unbuckled, snatching his cell phone before it buzzed off the edge of his coffee table.

“Hello?”

“This is Neil.” Boyish, excitable voice.

“Hey. Thanks. Wow. That was fast.”

“You’re a cop.”

“Yeah. I—”

“Buy me dinner.”

“Pardon?”

“Kings Road Café, twenty minutes. What do you drive?”

“An Accord,” Jacob said.

“What year?”

“Two thousand two.”

“Make it thirty minutes, then,” Adler said, and hung up.