The Golem of Paris

Chapter three

LAPD CHIEF AUGUST M. VOLLMER MEMORIAL ARCHIVE

EL MONTE, CALIFORNIA

PRESENT DAY

Detective Jacob Lev tracked the insect as it descended from the darkness between the rafters. The closer it came, the faster it circled, the buzz of its wings rising above the ambient rumble until it ducked down a row of steel shelves, out of sight.

Absently he scratched at the scar on his upper lip, then groped in his backpack for a flashlight, a clear plastic cup, and a fuzz-edged index card.

The Vollmer archive occupied one corner of a World War II — era hangar due east of Los Angeles, a vast sad wart on the back of crumbling El Monte Airport. For years the owner had been petitioning the county to rezone it for condos, a request never to be granted, because the place fit the bill exactly for local government agencies seeking to cheaply store their crap.

Regional Planning, Public Health, law enforcement from Long Beach to Simi Valley: the layout screamed territoriality, cubic miles of yellowing paper providing refuge for squirrels, rodents, snakes, not to mention an impressively varied insect menagerie. Jacob had personally evicted three generations of raccoons.

The vaulted, ribbed aluminum roof thwarted cell reception and created a microclimate prone to extremes, amplifying the summer heat and dripping in winter. Mushrooms fruited through the concrete. Bulbous metal halide lamps took half an hour to come to full strength, creating an unforgiving haze that reduced him to a specimen on a slide. He usually left them off and worked by the light of his computer screen.

Restocking was on the honor system. You needed a keycard for access, but otherwise nothing prevented you from carting off crates of supposedly sensitive material.

There was nobody to shoot the shit with. Nobody to make a coffee run. No roach coach outside trumpeting “La Cucaracha.” In eleven months, Jacob had encountered nine other human beings — data hounds, lost souls.

His ideal work environment.

It hadn’t always been this way.

More than two years had passed since the events that derailed him — events that he still did not understand, because understanding them meant agreeing to take them at face value, which he refused to do, because they were manifestly batshit.

More than two years since he woke up and found a naked woman in his apartment. She called herself Mai. She smiled at him and told him she had come down looking for a good time. Then she vanished into the morning.

More than two years since his first visit from Special Projects, an LAPD division he’d never heard of.

No one had heard of it. Officially, it didn’t exist.

But it was real, or real enough, made up of strange, towering men and women who obeyed a code of their own; spoke their own, private truth; used Jacob for their own purposes. Real enough to reassign him. The division commander was a guy named Mike Mallick, an emaciated pedant who sent Jacob to Prague and England and back in search of a serial killer named Richard Pernath.

Jacob had caught him. Tracked down his accomplices, too. He’d done as well as you could ask of any cop, learning a lot of surprising things along the way.

He learned that his father, Sam, was descended from a sixteenth-century Jewish mystic.

He learned that his mother, Bina, wasn’t dead, as Sam had led him to believe, but alive — if not well — in an Alhambra nursing home.

He learned that well enough for any cop was not good enough for Special Projects.

What they wanted, more than any criminal of flesh and blood, was Mai.

And Jacob learned that the naked woman from his apartment was no ordinary woman, but a creature of no fixed shape, capricious and alluring and terrifying, capable of breathtaking violence and breathtaking tenderness in the same gesture. No ordinary woman: she was drawn to him, over centuries, like a star spiraling toward a black hole.

Making him, in the view of Special Projects, bait.

It had come down to a bloody night in a greenhouse, Jacob gripping her by the hands amid a glittering lake of glass while the tall men drew near for the kill. Stay right where you are they warned Jacob.

He didn’t.

He released her, and she looked at him and said Forever and flew away, sending Mallick and company into an unearthly fit of rage.

You have done a great wrong.

In the aftermath, Special Projects seemed divided on how to deal with him. Their initial response was swift and brutal, a short punt to a desk job in Valley Traffic.

But they still needed him, for the next time Mai turned up. They seemed convinced that she would, putting round-the-clock surveillance on his apartment.

And outwardly, they made a show of appreciation. Jacob had nearly died at Pernath’s hands, and six months after his release from the hospital, he got a visit from Mallick’s mammoth, dyspeptic deputy, Paul Schott, come to deliver a citation for outstanding work, along with a check for ten grand.

A “performance bonus.”

LAPD didn’t give bonuses.

It was hush money.

Jacob tore it up.

For the next year, he went back to what was left of his life.

He drank. He ignored his father’s pleading calls.

He hunched at his skimpy desk in Valley Traffic, typing up accident reports.

Then, on a dull December morning, a shadow stretched across his keyboard.

Without looking up, Jacob discerned the soaring point of the chin, the spindly frame. He anticipated the weary voice, eternally on the verge of losing patience.

Commander Mike Mallick said, “Afternoon, Detective. What’re we busy with?”

A midday drop-in was a far cry from the cloak-and-dagger of their first encounter, in a vacant Hollywood warehouse with a bogus address.

Jacob supposed they were past the point of theatrics.

“Hit-and-run,” he said.

“Who’s the vic?”

“Brand-new parking meter.”

“High priority.”

“You said it, sir.”

“Not too busy for lunch, I hope.”

At that, Jacob raised his head.

Mallick had on aviator sunglasses and a lightweight suit, yards of gray crêpe in the legs alone. The silver tufts above his ears had thinned, like shed plumage. The necktie was interesting: no ten-dollar dry-cleaner special but a wispy charcoal snippet more befitting a wannabe screenwriter.

“New look, sir?”

Mallick smiled wanly. “Adapt or die.”

They climbed into the backseat of a white Town Car. The air-conditioning was going full-bore. Jacob felt his eyebrows crackling as he leaned forward to clap the driver on the shoulder. “Looking good, man. Svelte.”

“Trying.” Detective Mel Subach patted his abundant gut. “Where to, sir?”

Mallick said to Jacob, “What’s your pleasure, Detective?”

“Is Special Projects paying?” Jacob asked.

“We always do.”

Jacob named a place on Ventura, a former greasy spoon refurbished by a pair of homesick Israelis. They’d kept the décor and overhauled the menu, serving up aromatic Middle Eastern fare to dark-skinned businessmen wearing large watches, and bewildered matrons who’d come in seeking a Cobb salad.

Subach stayed behind in the car while Jacob followed Mallick inside. The Commander strode past the WAIT TO BE SEATED sign, folding himself into a purple pleather booth and asking for recommendations. But after Jacob had ordered shakshuka, extra hot, Mallick closed his menu. “Nothing for me, thanks.”

The waitress rolled her eyes and departed.

“You’re missing out,” Jacob said.

“I had a big breakfast.”

“I thought you’d like this place, sir. It’s kosher.”

“How thoughtful of you. You do know I’m Methodist.”

“I didn’t, sir.”

Mallick smiled. “You’ve started keeping kosher, then?”

“Not even close.”

“Well. To each his own.”

“I’m pretty sure you know my eating habits, sir. You have eyes on me twenty-four/seven.”

“They don’t search your fridge.”

“They don’t have to. I come home every night with hot dogs.”

Mallick shrugged. “Those could be kosher hot dogs.”

“From 7-Eleven?”

Mallick touched one silver temple. “The reports aren’t that detailed.”

Jacob laughed. “I appreciate the candor, sir. Nice change of pace.”

The waitress brought Jacob’s Diet Coke and a cup of ice water for Mallick.

She was pretty, with a no-nonsense ponytail and slender, muscular forearms that stretched to set out a small dish of pickled vegetables.

Jacob watched her disappear into the kitchen. “May I ask a question, sir? What are you hoping to accomplish? Your guys use the same unmarkeds over and over. It’s the same cast of characters. I know you’re there,” he said. “And if I know, Mai knows.”

“That may very well be.”

“So who do you think you’re fooling?”

Mallick raised his eyebrows. “I’m not trying to fool anyone.”

“It’s a waste of resources.”

“I’ll make that call, Detective.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I meant no disrespect.”

“Sooner or later,” Mallick said, “she’ll be back.”

“And you’ll be ready to grab her.”

“You sound skeptical.”

Jacob shrugged.

The Commander hinged forward at the waist. “I shouldn’t have to convince you. You witnessed it yourself.”

Jacob stifled a giddy laugh, remembering a horse-sized beetle exploding through a greenhouse roof.

Convulsions in the glittering dark.

A monstrous block of dirt.

Then: a sculpted female form, perfect.

The taste of mud flowing down his throat.

A bleeding gash on his arm cauterizing itself.

A black speck vanishing in the night sky.

Forever.

He said, “I’m still trying to figure out what I saw.”

“I’m not asking you to take anything on faith,” Mallick said. “I’m asking you to trust yourself.”

“With respect, sir, that’s the last thing I’m inclined to do.”

Silence.

Mallick said, “How long since you went to a meeting? Talked to your sponsor?”

“Is this an intervention, sir?”

“It’s me asking if you’re okay.”

Jacob stirred his soda. They could seem so sincere. Mallick, Subach. Even Schott.

What disturbed him wasn’t that they seemed sincere.

It was that they were sincere, utterly convinced of their own righteousness.

Fighting the urge to bolt, he smiled at the waitress as she put out two sunny-side-up eggs wallowing in tomato sauce, a stack of warm pita bread for sopping. Shakshuka had been a favorite since his year in Israel as a seminary student. Normally, he’d have been salivating. His stomach had contracted to a hard sour walnut. “Todah,” he said.

“B’teyavon,” the waitress said, and she left.

Mallick adjusted his sunglasses. “I’d much prefer if we could trust each other. We both want the same things.”

“No kidding,” Jacob said. “You want a pony, too?”

“I’m trying to make amends, Detective. How do you like life in Traffic?”

“It’s dandy.”

“I recall you saying that once before. I didn’t believe you then, either.”

Here it comes Jacob thought.

Returning to active duty raised issues he didn’t want to begin to think about. The booze weight he’d shed during his convalescence was creeping back. He slept badly, waking with skull-splitting headaches from recurrent nightmares about tall men wielding knives, dust-choked attics.

A garden, lush, impenetrable.

He didn’t feel stable enough to tackle any crime more daunting than assault with intent to inflict grievous harm on a parking meter.

Mallick said, “What I’ve got lined up for you—”

“Let’s say, hypothetically, I don’t want to take what you’ve got lined up.”

“Mind your tone, Detective. I’m still your superior.” Mallick reset his patience. “Here’s a question for you. How many murders did we have last year?”

“About three hundred.”

“How many in 1992?”

Crack, gang wars, race riots, an era of acute dividedness in a city where the disparity between the haves and the have-nots was a kind of perverse civic centerpiece.

In 1992, Jacob had been twelve. He said, “More than three hundred.”

“Two thousand five hundred eighty-nine.”

Jacob whistled.

“Of those, how many remain unsolved?” Mallick asked.

“A lot.”

“Correct.”

“All right,” Jacob said. “Which one do I get?”

“All of them,” Mallick said.

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, sir.”

“You’re not going to solve them. They’re hopeless.”

Jacob rubbed one eye, chuckled. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, sir.”

“As of January first, we’re required to begin converting our archives from hard copy to digital. Everything after ’85 needs to be scanned. State-mandated.”

This was how Special Projects sought to make amends? Glorified secretarial duty? He was already a desk jockey, had his cubicle organized just the way he liked it, no photos, no cartoons, no funny mugs. Bourbon in the bottom right drawer.

“Hire a grad student, sir. They’re cheap.”

“Can’t. Technically, these cases are still open. It needs to be a cop.”

“It doesn’t need to be me.”

“I thought you’d enjoy it.”

“Why would you think that?”

“You’re a Harvard man,” Mallick said. “Consider it learning for learning’s sake.”

Jacob laughed and shook his head, picked up his utensils and cut cleanly through one of the eggs. Thick golden yolk oozed out.

Mallick said, “We’ll set you up with everything you need.”

“First I want you to do something for me.”

“This isn’t a negotiation, Detective.”

“Call off your guys, please.”

Mallick remained impassive.

Jacob said, “We both know Mai won’t show herself as long as they’re in place.”

“They’re not disturbing you,” Mallick said.

“You want me to trust you? Trust me.”

Mallick fooled with his skinny tie. “I’ll think about it.”

“I appreciate it, sir.”

“In the meantime, if she does come back, you know what to do.”

Statement, not a question. It saved Jacob from having to lie. He tore off a piece of pita and swiped it through sauce. “I had a knife,” he said.

Mallick said nothing.

“A potter’s knife. It belonged to my mother. It disappeared after Schott and Subach came to redecorate my place.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Mallick said.

“I’d like it back.”

Mallick said, “You’ll start after the New Year.” He tossed down a hundred-dollar bill. “Take your time. I’ll be outside.”

Alone, Jacob finished his lunch at a leisurely pace. When the waitress came to collect his plate, he smelled za’atar and perspiration.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

He tamped down the impulse to ask for her number.

It had been a long, long time.

More than two years.

But he remembered another night in his apartment, with an extremely ordinary woman whose name he never learned. They hadn’t even made it to the bedroom. They were drunk, and naked on the kitchen floor, and the instant he went inside her, she seized to stone, her eyes rolling back in her head, not from pleasure but agony.

It felt like you were stabbing me.

And he remembered another night shortly thereafter, in England, a woman whose name he still thought about, because she had a nice soft face and a laugh to match. He remembered her body, welcoming his, and then the same poison. He remembered her huddled on her bed, shaking, fearing for her own sanity as she described what she’d seen.

She was beautiful.

She looked angry.

She looked jealous.

She was describing Mai.

The best he could do for any ordinary woman was to leave her alone.

“Coffee?” the waitress asked. “Dessert?”

“Piece of baklava to go,” he said. “For my friend on a diet.”

She brought it in a foam container, along with a bill for nineteen dollars. Jacob left the entire hundred and went out to the car.

When he got home that afternoon, the surveillance van was gone from his block.

The thrill of liberation was tempered by the realization that he was once again working for Mike Mallick. One way or another, Special Projects owned him.

He climbed the stairs to his apartment, where his answering machine blinked.

Jacob, it’s me—

He hit DELETE, snapping his father’s voice clean off.

Outside, dusk was gathering, streetlights glowing, moths and mayflies congregating, a pulsing vortex that raised in him an unsettling tide of nausea and arousal.

He yanked the curtains shut.