Джонатан Келлерман - The Golem of Paris

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.