The Golem of Paris

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Duvall residence.”

  “This is Detective Jacob Lev, LAPD. I’m trying to reach Mrs. Dolly Duvall.”

  “Hold, please.”

  An older, sharper voice came on. “This is Mrs. Duvall.”

  Jacob reintroduced himself, saying he’d come across Marquessa and Thomas’s file and was hoping to ask a few questions.

  “I’ve answered all the questions,” Dolly said. “Too many times.”

  “I’m sure you have, ma’am. I hate to bother you.”

  “It’s my daughter and my grandson,” Dolly said. “It wouldn’t be a bother, if I believed you had something new to offer me. What does that mean, you ‘came across’ their file? That sounds like it happened by accident.”

  Aware that he was talking to a woman with an exquisitely tuned BS detector, he took care with his words. “I’ve been reviewing open cases, and theirs hit me square in the chest. I can’t promise I’ll solve it, ma’am, but I’ll give it my best.”

  Silence.

  Dolly Duvall said, “It’s not a good time. We just got back from church and I have to start on dinner.”

  “Is there a day that works for you this week?”

  “You can come tomorrow at noon.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Another thing.” Dolly exhaled. “The previous detectives brought photographs. Please don’t do that.”

  • • •

  BEFORE LEAVING THE STATION, he ran the tag of the green Mazda near the 7-Eleven. It came back stolen, taken from the owner’s driveway in La Mirada.

  He called the mini-mart. Someone other than Henry answered.

  “Tell him Jacob said if he sees the car again, he should phone it in right away.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  “You’ll make sure he gets the message.”

  “Yeah, boss.”

  “Jacob Lev.”

  “Yeah.”

  • • •

  MARQUESSA DUVALL’S LAST KNOWN address was a pink stucco cottage on Berryman Avenue, in Culver City. Like the rest of the houses on the block, it’d had some money pumped into it during the most recent boom. The roof looked new. Geometric topiaries flanked a short front walk. It might have been a nice place to live, save the fact that it backed up to an eighteen-foot cinder-block wall, behind which roared the 405 South.

  The noise would make it easy to miss a couple of shots.

  Forensics of the residence had come up blank. No blood. No forced entry. No sign of struggle. No foreign DNA, or none that could be linked to anyone on the suspect list.

  As a crime scene, it was arid.

  What Jacob wanted was a launching point for sympathy.

  If he was totally honest, he had nowhere else to turn.

  The house’s current occupants, a young couple with a kinetic Shetland sheepdog, had never heard of Marquessa. Jacob’s presence alarmed them, so after a walk-through, he left them in peace.

  The next-door neighbor was a mid-sixties man named Jorge Alvarez.

  “I remember her,” he said.

  He invited Jacob in and settled himself in a melon-green La-Z-Boy. The living room smelled like cat.

  “She wasn’t here long,” Alvarez said. “Year, year and a half. Nice gal, great smile. The boy, TJ, he was cute, too. Very bright.”

  Jacob mentally cataloged it: she called him TJ. A simple fact that made both mother and child that much realer.

  That was good, and that was awful.

  Alvarez said, “I used to throw the ball around with him. I felt bad knowing his father was out of the picture.”

  “Were there other men around?”

  “Oh, sure. She was a good-looking woman. A knockout, truth be told.”

  “Anyone who stands out?”

  “It’s not like I was keeping records,” Alvarez said. “For a while there was a limo coming to pick her up. They used to block my driveway.”

  Not in the file. “Did you mention that to the police?”

  “I really can’t remember,” Alvarez said. “Probably I did. I’ll tell you, Detective, I didn’t appreciate the way you guys handled it, storming in here, crawling all over the place. I’m not sure what I was asked and what I wasn’t. A few times I offered my help and got the feeling I was being a nuisance.”

  “A limo,” Jacob said, writing it in his pad, wanting this talkative man to know he was being taken seriously.

  “Whale of a car,” Alvarez said. “She’d go out in a tight dress. The dress I remember because it was shiny. Shiny little gold thing.”

  “Did you see who was driving or riding?”

  Alvarez shook his head.

  “Any idea where they went?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  Jacob said, “Who took care of TJ while she was out?”

  “She took him with her.”

  “In the limo?”

  Alvarez nodded.

  “What did you make of that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s not necessarily what I would expect.”

  “Did you grow up with a single mother?” Alvarez said.

  Jacob nearly replied single father. He shook his head.

  “I did,” Alvarez said. “I know the sacrifices they make. So, no, I didn’t think it was strange. I figured she was doing what she needed to do. It wasn’t that often. Couple times a month, maybe.”

  “What time of day did they leave?”

  Alvarez skimmed a hand over his pate. “Now you’re making me think. Evening, I guess. And don’t ask me when they came back because I never saw that. I go to sleep early. I’m retired.”

  “From what?”

  “I was a teacher over at Stoner Avenue Elementary.” Alvarez smiled at the memory. “Math and science, fifth and sixth grade.”

  Jacob hesitated. “I need to ask this, sir: did you ever get the impression Marquessa was charging for her services?”

  Alvarez said, “I couldn’t say.”

  “But not a definite no.”

  “Look, I was her neighbor. That was it. I don’t judge people. What she did with her free time wasn’t my affair. The limo? Maybe she took her son because she had a rich boyfriend who was okay with that. In that case, more strength to her.”

  “Anything else you’d like to tell me?”

  “Only what I told the detectives a few years ago,” Alvarez said. “I can’t imagine anyone who’d want to hurt that woman.”

  • • •

  JACOB WORKED THE REST of the block without success, finishing as the sun sawed into the horizon. Avoiding a freeway dense with red lights, he navigated Venice Boulevard, slowing as he came up on the apartment complex where Dr. Divya Das lived.

  He couldn’t blame her for the long stretch of silence between them—longer, in fact, than the freeze between him and his father. There had been no official reason for her to get in touch. She worked at the Coroner’s, and he no longer worked murders.

  She belonged to Special Projects, and to Mallick.

  Still, she could have called. She could have checked up on him during those early months when he nightly thrashed himself awake; could’ve sent the occasional e-mail. Her withdrawal felt personal, and while his attraction to her had largely faded, her rejection continued to sting.

  I’m not like you, Jacob.

  Understatement. She was tall and smart and charming and beautiful, and ultimately untrustworthy. He’d made the mistake of allowing himself to think of her as a friend, probably because she was the best actor in the troupe.

  He hadn’t contacted her, either.

  Vanity and bullshit.

  Tonight, he pulled over outside her building. He thought about buzzing up, called instead and got her voicemail.

  “Hey,” he said. “I’m in your neighborhood, w
ondering if I could drop by. No worries, though. Hope you’re well.”

  • • •

  HE ARRIVED AT THE CARE FACILITY after seven, stopping to retrieve the packet of Plasticine from his mother’s nightstand. Out on the patio, Bina sat beneath the fig tree, gazing up at the branches, her tray of food finished and awaiting removal.

  “Hey, Ima.”

  An extraordinary thing happened: her hands stopped fiddling.

  She turned to face him.

  He stood still, his heart shouting with wild hope.

  Because damn if she didn’t look surprised.

  It wasn’t his regular day.

  Surprise implied expectation. Expectation implied awareness.

  Awareness implied more than anyone had given her credit for.

  “Ima,” he said.

  She looked back up at the tree.

  Desperate not to lose her, he hurried over to the bench, dropping his backpack on the ground. “Hey there, hey. How are you? I wanted to see you. See how you’re feeling.”

  She was slipping away, cheeks slackening, eyes going hazy.

  “It’s cold out here. Do you want another blanket? Ima? I can get you one. Ima. A nice warm blanket . . .”

  He kept yammering. He wanted to shake her, to scream in her ear: come back.

  Limp. Mute. Gone.

  Gutted, he slumped on the bench, and for a few moments the two of them were equally vegetative. Then her hands resumed their hollow march.

  A passage of Talmud, memento of a previous life, leaked into his mind.

  Since the destruction of the Holy Temple, prophecy was taken from the prophets and given to children and fools.

  “Marquessa,” he said.

  No reaction.

  “Marquessa Duvall,” he said. A click in his throat. “Ring a bell?”

  Bina knitted air.

  “Thomas White? TJ? He was Marquessa’s—”

  Why was he doing this?

  “He was her son.”

  Nothing.

  He pressed on: “You saw their pictures.”

  Silence, broken by the distant blare of a car horn.

  “You saw the pictures. Ima, are you hearing me?”

  He ripped off a chunk of Plasticine and began softening it between his palms. It had dried out, colors mashed together to produce a dirty brownish swirl.

  “You made a bird.”

  He pressed the ball of clay into her jittery right hand.

  “Do it again. Please. Make me another beautiful bird?”

  He let go of her fingers. They fell open and the wad plopped to the ground.

  He tried again. She wouldn’t hold on.

  He had the file in his backpack, the crime scene photos.

  He asked himself a brutal question: did he want to help her or use her?

  Use her to what end, though? The more he thought about her outburst, the more convinced he felt that it had been nonspecific. Showing her the photos would be pointless.

  Pointless, and cruel.

  He needed to get out of there before he did or said something he’d regret.

  “I’ve gotta go,” he said, standing. “I’ll see you Friday.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  BOIS DE BOULOGNE

  16EME ARRONDISSEMENT, PARIS, FRANCE

  The police scientifique had begun to pack up, affording Capitaine Théo Breton his first opportunity to think without distraction. He crouched at the center of the clearing, unwarmed by his anorak and scarf, covering the cough that kept insisting up his throat, reading the trees and tasting the emotional nature of the scene, the hole in the canopy like the roof of a pagan temple.

  From his left, from his right, the obscene stare of woman and child fell relentlessly upon him.

  They were markedly underdressed, she in a ruffled white shirt and a black miniskirt, the opaque tops of her pantyhose peeking out. Oily black hair draped the left half of her face. A gunshot wound marred the center of her forehead. The boy wore jeans and a Hugo Lloris jersey, and he had the same wound, as though it was an inherited trait, a black cavity standing out against the rest of his skin, which had gone a violent, chemical blue.

  It disturbed Breton to realize that he had already begun to conceive of them as mother and son.

  A whistle: Dédé Vallot, waving to warn him: the prosecutor had arrived.

  Breton stood, knees popping. He had a backache, an auger boring into his kidney. He coughed into his elbow, smiling at the dapper man waddling over to offer a soft hand.

  The prosecutor said, “Bonjour, Théo.”

  “Bonjour, monsieur le procureur.”

  Breton did his duty, walking him around the crime scene. Animals had mucked the area up, and the ground had since refrozen, leaving a veneer of ice and no footprints. The man who had discovered the bodies, a pensioner hunting winter mushrooms, was hospitalized with a panic attack, unable to remember if he had touched anything.

  The prosecutor’s name was Lambert. He was bundled up in a cashmere coat, like a spoiled child, his cheeks bright red. He said, “I must tell you, Théo, I’ve had complaints that your boys are not helping the situation. ‘Tramping around like a Mongol horde’ was how the criminalist put it.”

  Breton said nothing. He had gotten adept at concealing displeasure. Smart procureurs knew their rightful place: behind a desk. They knew what they were and more importantly what they were not. Not cops, not psychologists, not television stars.

  Lambert said, “You ought to keep them on a tighter leash.”

  “I’ll bear it in mind.”

  The procureur breathed on his hands. “Press been by?”

  “Not yet.”

  “This sort of thing, they can be helpful for identifying the victim.”

  And for getting your fat face in the paper. “Of course.”

  “You’ve begun your canvass.”

  “Martinez and Berline are out as we speak.”

  “I suggest that they focus their efforts on the Allée de Longchamp.”

  “Most of the prostitutes scattered before we could talk to them.”

  “Then come back tonight, when they’ve returned,” Lambert said. “Someone will recognize her.”

  “No one has so far,” Breton said.

  “You said yourself: they ran off. Keep at it.”

  “I’ve never known a prostitute to bring her son to work,” Breton said.

  “Maybe she couldn’t find a babysitter. Ballistics?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  “The bullet might be embedded in the ground. Or in a tree.”

  “Mm.”

  “He must have picked up the casings.”

  “Or it was a revolver,” Breton said.

  “Yes, as I was going to say. You know, Théo, you might consider the possibility that they were killed elsewhere.”

  Breton was getting tired of this guy. He was getting tired of everything. His insides churned, his mouth felt cottony, his skin raged with itches and areas of needlepoint sensitivity.

  “They were definitely shot elsewhere,” he said. “There’s no spatter.”

  “And,” Lambert said, warming to his theme, “there was more than one killer. You can’t move two bodies a great distance on your own.”

  You couldn’t, you slob.

  Then again, Breton had to admit that neither could he, these days.

  Lambert squinted through the trees in the direction of the road. “They drove up, dragged them here, drove off. Twenty minutes, maximum.”

  “Longer than that,” Breton said.

  The prosecutor frowned at being contradicted. “What makes you say that.”

  “It’s a hundred twenty meters over rough ground. The bodies were staged carefully.”

  Lambert spiked a lawyer’s finger.
“Which proves my earlier point. That amount of commotion, the whores must have noticed something. It’s inevitable.”

  He bent, putting his face level with the woman’s. “Any sense of how long they’ve been here?”

  Breton shook his head.

  “They’re very well preserved.”

  “It’s been cold.”

  “No nibbling, I mean,” Lambert said, straightening. “Well. You may continue to investigate it en flagrance, for the moment, anyway. We’ll revisit the question once we’ve heard what the pathologist has to say.”

  Breton nodded. That, at least, was decent news. Once the case became an official inquiry, he would lose control.

  Lambert had turned to stare at the boy. “What is he? Five?”

  Breton shook his head. He lacked a point of reference, but Pierrot Martinez, who had two boys of his own, had guessed six or seven. Registering the anxiety in his voice, Breton had taken pity and sent him out to canvass.

  Lambert sighed. “Monstrous,” he said.

  Inwardly, Breton agreed, but he found the proc’s stage-bound tone distasteful.

  “Don’t you find it uncomfortable? Why doesn’t someone shut their eyes?”

  Breton said, “You’re welcome to try.”

  Lambert glanced at him uncertainly.

  “He sliced their eyelids off,” Breton said.

  With grim satisfaction, he observed the Prosecutor’s jowls twitch.

  “Is that—really . . .” Lambert fumbled for a cigarette, fired up, sucked in a breath, offering the pack to Breton as an afterthought.

  “No, thanks.”

  “You quit? Since when?”

  Breton did not answer.

  Lambert took another deep drag. His fingers still shook a bit. “Anyway. It’s . . . But—you’re well, otherwise?”

  “Superb,” Breton said.

  “Busy.”

  “Always.”

  “I understand. There’s no need to be a hero.”

  Breton looked at him.

  Lambert said, “We can agree that the Crim is better equipped to handle this.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, monsieur le procureur.”

  “Don’t be so sensitive, Théo.”

  Breton said, “They’re busy at the Crim, too.”

  “Yes, of course. Big cases. Media. I wouldn’t want you to feel overwhelmed.”