Джонатан Келлерман - The Golem of Hollywood

Then he thought about Mai.

Then he thought: Get a life.

He stepped outside and dialed his own extension at Valley Traffic. The phone rang ten times before Marcia, the normally cheerful civilian receptionist, answered warily.

“I just finished packing up your stuff.”

Mike Mallick didn’t screw around.

“Where are you sending it?” Jacob asked.

“Chen had me leave it in his office. Come get it at your leisure. Why are you calling?”

“I was hoping to touch base with him.”

“I wouldn’t. He’s less than thrilled with you. He seems to think this is a habit of yours.”

“What is.”

“Bailing.”

“It wasn’t my choice,” he said.

“Hey, I don’t care. I mean, I care . You used to brighten my day, Lev.”

“You’d be the first to say so,” he said.

Marcia laughed. “Where are you headed?”

“Caught a case.”

“What kind?”

“Homicide.”

“ Re -ally. I thought you were finished with that.”

“You know how it goes.”

“I don’t. Anthony’s been trying to move from Central Burglary to Van Nuys Homicide for a year and a half so he doesn’t have to commute like a maniac. No go. Total freeze. Tell me how you swung it and I’ll be your best friend.”

For a moment he considered asking if her husband was circumcised. With a name like Sangiovanni, though, it was probably a moot point. “Not my choice.”

“We didn’t bore you enough with our puny little vehicular mishaps?”

“I miss them already,” he said.

“Then I’ll expect to see you back here as soon as you’re done.”

“Your mouth to God’s ears,” he said.

He did another outdoor search, taking his time, finding nothing.

Overhead movement against the two o’clock sun caught his attention.

The bird was back, circling to Jacob’s south, descending gradually.

Do your thing. Show me what you’re after.

As if responding, it swooped. Flattened its descent, speeding diagonally.

Aiming directly at Jacob.

When it was about forty feet above the ground, it pulled up and began turning loops. Big and black and shiny — not a raptor. A raven? He squinted, unable to get a bead on it. It was moving fast and the sun was strong. Not a raven, either: the wings were too stubby, and the body oddly flat.

For nearly a minute it traced haloes far above him. He waited for it to touch down. Instead it shot off into the eastern sky, over the deep canyons. He tried to follow its trajectory. No cloud cover, nowhere to hide. Even so, it vanished.

The Crown Vic was parked outside his building, Subach and Schott in the front seat. Jacob nodded to them as he eased into the carport, and they met him at the door to his apartment, each man carrying a cardboard box.

“Merry Christmas,” Schott said. “Can we come in?”

They set the boxes down in the living room and — without obtaining consent or announcing their intentions — began rearranging the furniture.

“Feel free,” Jacob said. “Really, don’t hold back.”

“I do feel free,” Schott said. “It’s the defining feature of humankind.”

“That and the capacity for speech,” Subach said. He lifted Jacob’s coffee table with one paw. “Otherwise we’re no better’n a buncha animals.”

They disconnected the television and DVR, stacking the media console atop the couch, which they had shoved into the corner. That left a low bookcase, its shelves home to a collection of wooden-handled tools, oiled and polished. Wire brushes, scrapers, styluses, knives, loop-end trimmers.

Jacob transferred them, two by two, to his bureau. Schott bent to admire them.

“Nice. You a woodworker?”

“My mother’s,” Jacob said.

“She’s a woodworker?”

“Was. A sculptor,” Jacob said.

“Talented family,” Schott said.

Subach appeared, carrying the denuded bookcase. “Where do you want this?”

“Where it was,” Jacob said.

“What’s your second choice?”

Jacob waved vaguely in the direction of his closet.

While Schott returned to the car for another box, Subach pried open a flat-packed pressboard desk. He settled down cross-legged in the living room and began laying the pieces out, rotating the diagrammed instructions this way and that, shaking his head.

“Fuckin Swedes, man,” he said.

Jacob went to the kitchen to make coffee.

An hour later, they were done.

A swivel chair. A brand-new computer, a blue pleather three-ring binder leaning against it. A compact digital camera and a smartphone. A compact multifunction printer, tucked against the wall, on the floor. A wireless router and a humming battery pack.

“Welcome to your new office,” Schott said.

“Mission Control,” Subach said, “J. Lev Division. Hope it works for you.”

“I was thinking I could use a new look,” Jacob said.

“Sorry about the TV,” Subach said.

“It’s better,” Schott said. “No distractions.”

Subach indicated the router. “Secure satellite. The phone, too.”

“You won’t be needing your old cell,” Schott said.

“What about personal calls?” Jacob asked.

“We’ll reroute them to the new one,” Schott said.

“All the numbers you’ll need are preprogrammed,” Subach said.

“Does that include pizza?” Jacob asked.

Schott handed him an unsealed envelope. Jacob took out a credit card, pure white plastic, orange Discover logo, embossed with his name.

“Operational expenses,” Subach said.

“Does that include pizza?”

The men did not reply.

“Seriously,” Jacob said. “What the fuck is this?”

“Commander Mallick thought you’d be better off working from home,” Schott said.

“How thoughtful.”

Subach made a pained face. “May I remind you, Detective, you let us in of your own free will.”

Jacob examined the sat phone. It was a brand he had never heard of. “Should I assume you’ll be listening?”

“We won’t tell you what to assume,” Schott said.

Subach pulled out the desk’s keyboard tray, pushed a button. The computer screen glowed darkly. There was a chime, and the desktop popped up, tiny icons displayed in a tight grid: everything from NCIC to police departments in major cities to missing persons databases to ballistics registers.

“Fast, comprehensive, broad reach, no passwords, no permission slips,” Schott said.

“You’ll like it,” Subach said. “It’s fun.”

“I bet,” Jacob said. He looked at the binder.

“Your murder book,” Subach said.

“Some things are best kept old school,” Schott said.

“Any questions?” Subach asked.

“Yeah,” Jacob said. He held up the credit card. “What’s the limit?”

“You won’t hit it,” Subach said.

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Jacob said. “I eat a lot of pizza.”

“Anything else?” Schott asked.

“About thirty thousand,” Jacob said.

Subach smiled. “That’s good. Questions are good.”

After they’d gone, Jacob stood there for a moment, wondering if a drink would make it harder or easier for him to accept his new reality.

For most of his adult life, he’d been a high-functioning alcoholic, although sometimes functioning was the operative word, and sometimes it was high . Since his transfer to Traffic, he hadn’t been drinking as much — he hadn’t needed to — and it bothered him that he’d blacked out last night.

Now that he was back in Homicide, he supposed he was entitled.

Stop, wagon-driver! I want to get off.

He brewed fresh coffee and got the spare bottle of bourbon from beneath the sink and added an unhealthy slug.