The Golem of Paris by Jonathan Kellerman

Author:Jonathan Kellerman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2015-09-30T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The Commander asked me to bring this by.”

Detective Paul Schott stood on the landing outside Jacob’s apartment, a laptop dwarfed by his huge hands.

Jacob stepped back to admit him.

Of all the members of Special Projects, it was Schott, with his strong whiff of zealotry, who unsettled Jacob most. Fat, red-cheeked Mel Subach had a sense of humor and could give as good as he got; Mike Mallick was driven and condescending but a pragmatist at heart.

Schott made no attempt to disguise his contempt as he lumbered in, carelessly Frisbeeing the computer onto the couch. He’d shaved off his mustache, which elongated his face and emphasized his frown.

“I’d offer you a drink,” Jacob said, “but you’re going to turn me down.”

Schott waved impatiently. “Fine, you know. I know you know. Congratulations. I’m going on record that I don’t trust you.”

“Join the club,” Jacob said. “Call my ex-wife, she’s the president.”

“Which one?” Schott grinned, a bulldog contemplating steak. “Yeah. I know all about you, too, Lev.”

“Everybody needs a hobby,” Jacob said.

“You could take up pottery,” Schott said.

“You,” Jacob said, “can shut the fuck up.”

The big man started.

“You don’t mention her,” Jacob said. “You don’t allude to her. Ever. Got it?”

Silence.

Schott said, “That all, Your Highness?”

“Yeah. Leave me the hell alone.”

Schott snorted. “Best of luck.”

• • •

HAVING DECENT RESEARCH TOOLS felt like coming up for air. For the next twenty-four hours, Jacob reran names, combed databases.

His relief faded fast. He could find nothing with a matching MO, not even close.

He turned his attention to the owner of the bakery. Her name was Zinaida Moskvina. Her record was spotless, free of so much as a parking ticket, and he felt affirmed in his hunch that whatever had happened, she hadn’t been at the center of it but dragged along.

Her daughter was a different story.

Ekaterina Moskvina, twenty-seven, had racked up three DUIs in the last four years. Additional busts for coke, shoplifting, chucking a drink at a police officer. She called herself Katie on her Facebook page and declared herself “dat bitch u dont fuk wit.” Her posts consisted of announcements that she was hitting the club and sHiT gOn GeT kRaYzEe KrAy.

Jacob agreed with her there.

He spent that night staking out her Van Nuys apartment in an unmarked. She was disappointingly well behaved, in by seven and lights out by ten. The same went for the next several days. But he persisted, and late on Friday night, he got his reward.

Eleven p.m., the hour for shit getting krayzee kray fast approaching. He’d skipped his visit to Bina and was composing a guilt-stricken text to Rosario when Katie emerged in circulation-choking jeans and a black halter top.

She got into her Kia and sped off.

Jacob tailed her to a dive bar on Magnolia. His breath quickened as he stepped inside, walking past Katie’s booth to occupy a stool at the end, scalloped wood a comfort beneath his backside.

“What can I getcha?”

Jacob tore his gaze from the blocky amber silhouette of the Jim Beam bottle and asked for a Bud Light.

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