He texted Divya from the parking lot.
anything yet
Her reply came back quickly.
no prints
damn he wrote. 2nd offender?
patience
not my strong suit
She responded with a smiley.
He dithered a moment, then typed dinner?
Her reply to that was far slower in coming.
busy
He rubbed his eyes, started the car, began to back out. The phone rattled in the cup holder.
sorry she had written. maybe another time
Something to work with. He started to type hope springs eternal; told himself not to be an idiot. He erased that and wrote asking her to be in touch.
—
THERE WAS STILL NO REPLY from 911 dispatch, not even an acknowledgement of his first two requests. He wrote directly to Mike Mallick, outlining the new developments at length and imploring him to intercede. Let Special Projects do some of the heavy lifting.
He ate his dinner, dogs and bourbon, sitting on the floor, a file open on his lap.
By eleven-thirty he had a tension headache and could no longer see straight. Trudging to his bedroom, he collapsed without brushing his teeth. To feel himself finally running out of steam brought palpable relief. For the present, at least, he was sane.
—
HE ITCHED.
Arm and back, neck and genitals.
It was a maddening sensation and he rubbed at himself and the itch regrouped elsewhere on his body, newly doubled in strength.
He looked down.
They were on him.
They were everywhere.
Beetles.
Swarming his body like a black coat of armor; twisting in his navel, the cracks of his toes, tiny feather feet whispering against him. He slapped at himself and they scattered in concentric circles, seeking refuge in his pubic hair, his armpits and buttocks, clogging his ears, tunneling up his nostrils then tumbling, wriggling, down to the back of his throat. The more he struggled, the worse it got. They were too fast, too numerous, sprung from an infinite source, burrowing into him, millions of tiny undulant bulges bubbling in the nonexistent space between skin and raw flesh.
He raked his fingers across his scalp, scraped in the crevices where they hid, screamed and screamed and screamed.
Then a sharp stone was in his hand, and he used it to flay himself, shins and elbows, the tops of his feet, peeling his stomach off in an unbroken sheet and still he itched, he would do anything to stop it and he turned the point of the stone on himself to stab and gouge; soon he wept from a hundred puckered mouths while the beetles continued to penetrate deep into his brain. He beat his forehead against a stony wall, yearning to crack his skull open.
He slit his own throat.
Reached his hand up between the ends of cleanly severed pipes, pushed his fingers through custardy matter to the very center of their squirming legions and closed his fist around them, knowing all the while that he was destroying himself in the process.
At four-thirty a.m. he lurched awake streaked red from clawing at himself in his sleep. Running down the hall, he plunged into a scalding shower until the nightmare burnt off, slumping cross-legged on the bath mat, heaving, slick, jittery with terrible epiphany.
He had missed something.
—
CRIME SCENE PHOTOGRAPHERS in the digital age could snap away without limit; their 1988 counterparts had the cost of film and development to contend with. There was no standard set of angles, and those in the Creeper file didn’t correspond between cases.
Jacob did the best he could, ripping off his rank bedsheets, layering the mattress with 8×10s, lining them up in a grid, comparing, blood punching through his brain.
He swapped out some of the photos, juggled others around.
What was bothering him was Inez Delgado.
Why drag her back to the bedroom to cut her throat?
Why not leave her where she fell, like with the other women?
Now he suspected that was wrong. Now he suspected they’d wanted Inez in her bedroom, just as they’d wanted Helen and Cathy and Janet and Sherri in theirs, just as they’d wanted Christa in her living room and Patty in her kitchen and Laura in her walk-in closet and Katherine Ann centered in her studio.
In some instances, they’d moved furniture.
In other instances not.
The constants: the legs were always spread, typical sexual assault positioning.
The backs were always bruised.
He projected himself into the killer’s script, knelt, grabbed hair, yanked, reached around.
What did he see?
He ransacked the photos for mid-range shots oriented along the victim’s body in the direction of the head. He found five that were perfect and four close enough.
Nine times, he looked at what the killer saw while drawing the knife.
Nine times, he was looking at a window.
—
BY SEVEN A.M. he could no longer contain himself. He picked up the phone.
Phil Ludwig said, “We need to establish some ground rules. I get to sleep in now.”
“It’s important. Listen,” Jacob said.
The detective listened.
Then: “Huh.”
“I reread the files,” Jacob said. “I wondered if anyone else had noticed it.”
A beat. “Obviously nobody did,” Ludwig said.
“Nobody.” Realizing how arrogant that must sound, Jacob added, “It’s not obvious.”
“Don’t patronize me, Lev.”
In the background, Grete Ludwig said Take it outside.
“So?” Ludwig said. “What’s it mean?”
“I have no—”
Phil. I’m asleep.
“Hang on,” Ludwig said.
Thwap of slippers, a door gently shut.
“I have no idea what it means,” Jacob said. “But it had to be deliberate. Inez isn’t running back into the bedroom. She’s trying to get out of the apartment, they’re trying to stop her. And something went wrong. For them. They stabbed her in the stomach—I’m thinking she managed to punch one of them, or kick him in the balls, and he just lost it and went off on her and gutted her. But that wasn’t the plan, all along they meant to put her in front of the window—that’s what they did with the rest of them, I can’t tell you why they did it but they did. So with Inez, she’s not dead yet, she’s dying, they go, ‘Fuck, let’s get her in front of the window before she goes.’ And it makes me wonder if some of the others were moved. I’ve been assuming any movement was due to an escape attempt but maybe that’s why they tied them up, to get them into position while they were alive, at which point they sliced the bindings. As to why windows, I don’t know. But Inez wasn’t tied up, so it’s worth thinking about.”
Silence.
“Phil? You there?”
Barely audible reply: “I’m here.”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’ve had too much coffee.”
“I haven’t had any coffee,” Jacob said, annoyed.
“You’re talking a hundred miles an hour.”
“I feel like I might really have something here.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“You don’t agree.”
“It’s not—look: good job, at least you’re working it.” Ludwig yawned, puncturing Jacob’s enthusiasm. “What’s your next step?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to process.”
“Okay, well, you do that. I’m going back to bed. Give a call if you need anything. After ten, preferably.”
Jacob said, “Detective? You were right about Denise Stein.”
A pause.
“Oh yeah?”
“She’s
definitely not the offender.”
“Glad to hear it,” Ludwig said. “Before I forget: I’m still working on that bug you showed me. Nothing yet.”
“Thanks.”
“Take care, Lev.”
Jacob hung up, deflated. Ludwig’s reaction was justifiably cautious.
The victims had been positioned toward the window. So what?
Jacob resolved to calm down, couldn’t, resumed pacing his bedroom, rubbing the tips of his fingers together. He trotted to the kitchen, dumped out cold coffee, brewed a new pot, raised it to pour, noticed his hands vibrating, dumped out the new pot, too.
When in doubt, the computer. Nothing from 911, nothing from Mike Mallick.
His leg hopped and jigged as he typed out a lengthy e-mail to the Commander, detailing the conversation with Ludwig and restating his request.
A surfeit of nervous energy remained. He futzed around on the web for a while, then googled Mai.
Got a slew of hits about anime characters and recipes for mai tais.
Did you mean May?
He glanced out the window.
The white van was back.
He googled Curtains and Beyond.
Got an Australian company, its UK sub-branch.
Nothing Stateside.
He sat back, chewing his lower lip.
Glanced out his own window again.
Perhaps what mattered wasn’t the victims’ windows, but the view they gave.
He got dressed and wrote down the information he needed; grabbed the digital camera and went outside.
—
AS BEFORE, the van was empty.
He took pictures of the interior, the license plate, the logo, noticing now that although the company name and motto were painted on the side, there was no contact information.
He fished out his card and scribbled on the back.
Hello, I would like to install some new curtains.
He trapped the note under the wiper blade.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Sherri Levesque’s former residence was closest, a decaying ranch house west of the freeway and south of Washington Boulevard. Several of the homes on the block had been upgraded during the real estate boom. The eroded stucco and splintering porch rail of this one seemed more honest, making no promises.
Nobody answered, so Jacob ducked back under a low-hanging American flag baked to translucency and circled the property, attempting to extrapolate from the crime scene photos which of the windows belonged to her bedroom. Best guess was one overlooking the backyard. He flattened himself against the siding and waited for the scene to speak to him.
Clover and bluegrass and dew-jeweled dandelions.
Sprinkler heads.
A fence.
Beyond it, the rear neighbor, a dented play structure.
Above, electrical lines sagged under the weight of crows, black as the wires they sat on.
He waited and waited for inspiration to strike.
Wrong time of day?
Something once there, now missing?
As the thrill of revelation faded, he felt a pang for the prophets of old, their loneliness and disorientation when, touched by God or imagining they were, they ended up stumbling in the turbulence left by a deity’s receding hand.
All at once, the crows raised up, shrieking and flapping and vanishing east.
Jacob took some photos, walked back to the Honda, and drove to Christa Knox’s old place in Marina del Rey.
The unshaven man who came to the door refused to admit him without a warrant, loudly turning the deadbolt.
Quarter after ten a.m. He texted Divya.
She failed to answer and he sent her another text, immediately regretted it.
Katherine Ann Clayton’s El Segundo studio apartment had been demolished to make way for a strip mall. On the corner where she’d lived and died, a Starbucks dispensed its wares. Jacob used the camera’s panorama mode to stitch together a 270-degree view, bought a 470-calorie bran muffin and a decaf that tasted of charred cardboard, hopped back on the freeway to Santa Monica.
His luck improved: Cathy Wanzer’s old condo was vacant, for sale. He phoned the listing agent and made an appointment to see it later that day.
As he was getting off the phone with her, call-waiting beeped: his father.
“Hey, Abba. What’s up?”
“I wanted to see how you are,” Sam said.
“Me? I’m okay.”
“Good,” Sam said. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”
“Yeah. Okay. Everything okay with you?”
“Oh, I’m fine.”
“Well, good.”
“Yes,” Sam said. “Just terrific.”
“That’s great, Abba. You know what, though, I’m right in the middle of something, so—”
“What’s that.”
“What?”
“What are you in the middle of?”
“I’m working,” Jacob said.
“Yes. Of course. On the case.”
“Yeah.”
“How’s it coming?”
“Not bad. Slowly but surely. Look, can I call you back later?”
“Yes, of course . . . But—Jacob? I’m out of milk. Do you think you’d have time to pick some up for me?”
“Milk,” Jacob said.
“I need it for breakfast,” Sam said.
“Nigel can’t do it?”
“I haven’t asked him.”
“Well. Can you ask him, then?”
“I could, but I don’t know if he’ll have time.”
“Abba. It’s noon.”
“Tomorrow,” Sam said. “Breakfast tomorrow.”
“I’m sure he can get it to you before then. And if he doesn’t I’ll bring some by tonight, okay? I need to go.”
“Yes. All right. Take care.”
He hung up.
Bewildered, Jacob stared at the phone. His father had never been a nudge. He was an even more hopeless liar.
Milk? Really?
Why he would be pestering Jacob about the case was unclear, unless Sam truly was concerned about Jacob’s stress level. It unsettled Jacob to realize that perhaps there was something to be concerned about. The nightmares; the boundless, electric zaps powering him through the day.
He wrote them off. Occupational hazard. He had a right to nightmares. He was staring down wickedness. He had a right to be excited. He was making progress.
He opened up the phone’s settings and assigned his father a unique ringtone so he’d know which calls to ignore.
Laura Lesser, R.N., had lived in a Tudor-style cottage. The present owner, a middle-aged woman, listened to Jacob’s pitch, wrote down his badge number, and asked him to wait on the porch.
He stood shifting his weight from foot to foot, thought about the last few days, and decided a three-day marathon work session, a crash, a smaller spike, and a gentler ebb was simply doing the job well. Mania didn’t follow that pattern or cycle that rapidly. Right? Right.
The owner returned looking wary. LAPD had confirmed that Jacob was a cop, but not what department he was with or why he might want access to her house. Before allowing him in, she pelted him with questions, which he answered as evasively as possible. Even after she’d relented and let him in, she persisted.
“What sort of crime did you say it was again?”
He hadn’t. “A break-in.”
“Oh my God. Should I be worried?”
“Not at all,” he said, coming to the end of the hall.
“How can you be sure?”
“It occurred several years ago.”
“Then why are you here now?”
“It relates to some newer crimes, but nothing that’ll ever connect to you.” Smiling as he made a beeline through
her house. “Promise.”
He found what he was looking for: Laura Lesser’s former walk-in closet.
It had been restored to a bedroom, a preteen girl’s. Tufted fabric letters above the bed spelled ISABELLA.
Jacob superimposed Laura Lesser’s savaged body on the purple rug.
Knelt on her back and gazed out the window at a stop sign.
He snapped a picture.
“What are you looking at?” the woman asked.
“Thanks, finished, sorry for the inconvenience.” He made his way back to the front door. He was beginning to take grim satisfaction in finding nothing of interest. A negative pattern could be useful, in its own way.
The woman said, “We picked this neighborhood because it’s safe.”
“It is.”
“My husband’s been talking about getting a gun.”
Thinking of the girlish accoutrements, Jacob said, “Tell him to keep it locked up.”
—
AT CATHY WANZER’S CONDO, the real estate agent said, “It’s been completely redone. Fabulous open-concept living-eating space.”
“What about the master bedroom?”
“Also brand new,” she said, striding off. “Right this way.”
Quick-stepping up a corridor lit by shabby-chic sconces, the agent began to extol the virtues of wallpaper.
“. . . really in right now . . .”
Jacob followed her into the master.
“Don’t you adore these floors?” she said.
“They’re nice,” he said.
“Reclaimed teak. The previous owners got inspired by a trip to India and they found a school in Mumbai that was going to be knocked down, so they were able to—”
“Did they move any walls or windows?”
“In here? I don’t think so. You can see they deepened the closet, perfect for a young . . . couple, or if you . . .” She watched him kneel and snap pictures. “We have a website, you know.”
“Mm,” he said.
“Do you want to see the master bath?”
He ignored her and walked to the window.
Across the street, a preschool.
“What can you tell me about that place?” he asked.
“The school? Oh, it’s fabulous. It’s less than four years old and the facilities are top-notch. There’s a gifted track. Do you have children?”
“No.”
The Golem of Hollywood Page 17