The Golem of Paris (17 page)

T
he robbery was in progress.

From half a block away, he could see the green Mazda parked parallel to the 7-Eleven storefront, its headlights on. As he ran, he ordered priorities: Henry; Henry could be dead, he could be shot but alive, he could have fired the shot himself.

Jacob felt on his hip for a gun he did not have. He didn’t take it with him every time he went out for booze. He went out for booze a lot.

He kept running.

Reaching the eastern side of Robertson, he saw the counter untended under bright lights, the door to the boiler room wide open. They kept the safe back there.

The Mazda honked a frantic tattoo. He’d been spotted.

He barreled into the crosswalk, shouting
police don’t move don’t move
at a man with a bandana over his face who busted through the front doors swinging a plastic shopping bag with the orange and green 7-Eleven logo. The guy threw himself into the car and the tires spun and the worst part for Jacob was knowing that he’d failed; he’d seen it coming for days, just as it was playing out in drip-time, the streetlight winking in the side mirror and the scrape of the fender
as the Mazda lurched over the sidewalk and slammed into the street, fishtailing on the asphalt; the bones of his feet pounding in sneakers and the rattle of untrained lungs; his upper lip, buzzing, crescendo.

A piece of the night sky tore loose.

Black light, jagged, intent. It rocketed down, punching the driver’s door.

Steel buckled like a sucked-in cheek. Four tires lifted. The car rolled and skipped sideways, turning a half-dozen revolutions before landing on its roof, seesawing in a pool of shattered glass, tortured metal, the hiss and pop of ruptured lines.

Sounds of human pain leaked feebly through gape-mouthed window frames.

Stunned, Jacob scanned the sky for the source of the assault.

Nothing.

But he knew, and he felt a stab of gratitude, before he remembered Henry and ran into the store.

•   •   •

H
E FOUND HIM
in the boiler room, wrists zip-tied to a steam pipe beside the open safe, blood trickling from his ear.

“Are you okay? Are you shot?”

“He hit me,” Henry said. He sounded drunk.

While dialing 911, Jacob did a quick check for entry wounds, finding none. He gave the dispatcher his badge number and asked for an ambulance and a black-and-white, then went behind the counter to fetch a pair of scissors and a cup of ice. One of the fridges had a hole blown it, blue Gatorade dripping down the interior glass.

“I heard a shot.” He knelt to cut Henry free, pressed the ice to his head. “The drink case? Is that what I heard?”

“My father’s going to shit himself,” Henry said.

“Stay here,” Jacob said. “Don’t try to stand up.”

He ran out to the street.

The Mazda had stopped rocking. Jacob approached in a wide, careful arc.

“Police,” he said. “Get out of the vehicle. Hands where I can see them.”

No response; no movement. He crouched level with the windshield. It was streaked with blood, broken but hanging in place, the safety glass distended.

“Are you okay in there?”

Fire Station 58 was two blocks north. Already he could hear the siren. He crab-walked around to the driver’s side, holding his cell phone out with both hands.

“I’m going to approach your vehicle,” he called. “I don’t want you to move. If you move, I will shoot you. Do you understand? Don’t move. I’m coming. Here I come.”

The bravado of Mr. No-Weapon. He scooted forward rapidly.

Inside the car, a mess of limbs, bloody money, glass.

He tucked his phone in his pocket and intercepted the arriving EMTs.

“These are the bad guys. They don’t look too hot. The good guy’s inside, he got whaled on a bit.”

One EMT broke off to follow Jacob toward the store, glancing back at the overturned car. “The fuck happened?”

Jacob shook his head.

“You didn’t see it?”

“Just the result.”

Jacob led the EMT to the boiler room and watched him check Henry’s pupillary response. Normal. He patted Henry on the knee and went out to await the squad car.

•   •   •

B
Y TEN A
.
M
., he was back at his desk in the archive, doing his duty.

“Morning, Detective.”

The arc lights had yet to come up to full strength. Commander Mike Mallick’s starched shirt shone dully as he came forward and bent to examine Jacob’s stack of files.

“I would’ve thought you’d be further along than this by now.” Mallick closed a folder and straightened up. “Happy to see me?”

“I’m always happy to see you, sir.”

“Alas, I can’t say the same, today.”

Jacob had expected a visit; just not so soon. “I take it you saw the incident report.”

“Everything you do ends up on my desk.”

“I meant to call you,” Jacob said.

“But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t see how it would help. It’s over. There’s no emergency.”

“The
emergency
, Detective, is that someone—although there seems to be a bit of controversy over
whom—
is bowling with cars.”

“I apologize, sir. I should have called you sooner.”

“Yes, you should’ve. Because now we’ve got a story problem. You told the EMTs you hadn’t seen anything. Then you told the responding officers that it was a hit-and-run.”

“How else would you describe it?” Jacob said.

“I would describe it as a clusterfuck. We have two lowlifes in the hospital who might not live, and if they do, they’re going to swear up and down that there was no other car in the vicinity.”

Jacob had never heard Mallick use profanity. “They were fleeing the scene of a robbery, sir. Not much credibility.”

“That doesn’t mean they deserve to die.”

“No, sir. Of course not. All I mean is, I saw the shape they were in. There’s no way they’ll remember anything but impact.”

“What if she’d hit another vehicle? What if she’d hit a pedestrian?”

“The road was clear—”

“What about the woman pumping gas on the other side of Airdrome?”

Jacob paused. “I didn’t notice that, sir.”

“A piano teacher. With superb credibility.”

“Is she okay?”

“She’s fine,” Mallick said. “In fact, she was so fine that she was able to provide a detailed statement. She said the car started rolling”—he went hand over hand, and for a moment Jacob had an image of him, leading a conga line—“like it was hit by a missile. But she didn’t see a missile. She didn’t see a flame. She didn’t see an explosion. She said—this is a quote—‘It just jumped up in the air and went crazy.’”

Jacob had to admit that it was an accurate description.

“You don’t think that’s going to raise some questions?” Mallick said.

“Look,” Jacob said, “it was dark, there’s—”

“Forget her. What she does or does not say is secondary. What’s crucial now is preventing a repeat performance. This can never, ever happen again. Clear?”

“I can’t control her, sir.”

“You promised me you would not let her get away again.”

He hadn’t; he had been careful never to make that promise. “There was nothing I could do. It was over in less than a second.”

“I want you to describe what
you
saw,” Mallick said. “Everything. Don’t skimp.”

As Jacob talked, the Commander’s face grew more and more
deeply furrowed with distress. He had perched on the edge of the desk, long neck wilting.

“Before it happened,” he said, “you weren’t in manifest danger?”

“Not immediately, no. The threat wasn’t toward me. If I were you, sir, I’d think that’s cause for optimism. She’s taking chances.”

Mallick shot him a withering look. “She chose to show herself. Why?”

“They were getting away.”

“How many times a day does someone get away with something awful and she doesn’t do a thing about it? She did it for
you
. You were angry. She saw a way to help.”

“How would she know what I’m feeling?”

“How do you think? You’re like a goddamned Roman candle to her.”

His aura.

The liminal waves of color that he had perceived surrounding others, that had his doctor referring him to a shrink. They’d begun after Mai transfused him and faded as his body healed. “Sir? Can you see it, too?”

“Wise up, Detective. If I could, do you think I ever would’ve agreed to take surveillance off you?”

Mallick began to pace. “She’s taking risks because she can. Every day she’s free, she gets stronger.”

“Until?”

“I have no idea. She’s never been out of custody this long before.”

Jacob said, “You’re getting weaker.”

Good guess. Mallick flinched.

“I saw the book,” Jacob said. “
Dorot shel Beinonim.
My father has a copy.”

The Commander sat there, chewing his cheek. When he spoke
next, his voice was low—almost ashamed. “It occurs at a slower pace. Generation to generation, rather than day to day. But, yes, sooner or later we’re going to reach the point where we can’t readily contain her on our own.”

“I think you’re already there,” Jacob said. “That’s why you need me.”

“We need you because, whatever our capacity to deal with her once we have her, she can simply continue to stay out of sight.”

“You don’t know where she is.”

“Of course I don’t,” Mallick said irritably. “I’m not a prophet.”

“Nobody’s taken the time to explain the rules to me.”

“Ask your father. I’m sure he’d be willing to fill you in.”

“I did. He showed me the book. He also told me what you did to my mother.”

Mallick stiffened.

“You destroyed her,” Jacob said.

“That’s not correct.”

“You used her the way you’re using me.”

“What happened,” Mallick said, “was extremely regrettable.”

Jacob began to laugh. “Honestly, sir? Right now, I’m trying not to say something extremely regrettable myself.”

Mallick folded long arms across his chest. “It did not occur on my watch. And we’ve revised our policies since then. Your safety is of the utmost importance to us.”

“Horseshit,” Jacob said.

Silence.

“I was supposed to retire,” Mallick said. “Did you know that?”

“No, sir, I didn’t.”

“Mel organized a collection for the party. I had my watch picked out. Then . . .
this
.”

Jacob said, “So that’s your strategy for dealing with her. Containment.”

“Ask yourself what you’d do in my position.”

Jacob said nothing.

“I know you’re fond of her,” Mallick said. “But please believe me: it’s not safe to have her free in this world. For anyone. You. Most of all, for her. She’s a danger to herself. If you care about her, you’ll help us.”

Then, dialing up a new demeanor, he laid a waxy hand atop the stack of files. “Find anything interesting?”

The sudden bout of agreeability bothered Jacob. He assumed that Divya Das had relayed the contents of their conversation, and that Mallick already knew about his side interest in the Duvall murder. But the Commander’s curiosity sounded authentic, and tinged with regret, as if he was just now coming to appreciate the punitive nature of the archive assignment.

“There’s a case I’ve been taking a closer look at,” Jacob said.

“Really. And what would that be?”

“Double homicide. Mother and child. Ugly stuff.”

“I see.”

“I could use some time to work on it.”

Mallick was silent a moment. Then he said, “I suppose you’ll need a new setup.”

Special Projects, making amends for making amends?

Or changing the subject, diverting Jacob’s anger over Bina?

Whatever the Commander’s motivation, Jacob wasn’t about to argue. He much preferred the relatively human horror of murder. “That’d be helpful, sir.”

“I’ll have it sent to your apartment. Anything else?”

Jacob remembered a white credit card with seemingly unlimited credit—but only for certain items. “Expense account?” he asked.

Mallick stooped to tie a shoelace. “You want to work like everyone else, you’ll submit reimbursement forms just like everyone else.”

Jacob said, “What’s going to happen with the piano teacher?”

“Let us worry about that.”

“What are you going to do to her?”

Mallick straightened up. Fixed him with a stare. “I hope you’re not implying what it sounds like you’re implying, Detective.”

Jacob said nothing.

“We’re the good guys,” Mallick said. “Don’t ever forget that.”

S
toner Avenue Elementary School sat half a mile from the house where Marquessa and TJ had lived. Jacob flashed his badge briefly at the receptionist and introduced himself as a truancy officer on an administrative call.

She told him to head on inside while she paged the principal.

Patricia Eubanks was a black woman in her early fifties. She shut her door, fretting as she shook Jacob’s hand. “You must be new.”

He said, “I’m here about TJ White.”

She recoiled. “Pardon?”

He handed her his ID, adding that he’d meant to be discreet.

She appraised him before giving an appreciative nod.

“I’ve been asked to revisit the file,” he said. “I didn’t want to create a disturbance.”

Eubanks nodded. She sat at her desk and began opening and shutting drawers. “I haven’t thought about TJ in a long time. For a long time, I thought about nothing else.”

“Whatever you can tell me would be helpful.”

Eubanks found what she was looking for: a neon-green stress ball, which she began to squeeze rhythmically. “Unfortunately, I don’t
think I can add much. I try to establish a personal connection with each one of my students, but that takes time, and I never got the chance to know TJ or his mother. They were new to the area.”

She paused. “I do remember where I was when I heard the news. That I will never forget. It was a Thursday evening, day before Christmas Eve. I was wrapping presents and my phone rang. One of our former teachers lived on their block.”

“Jorge Alvarez,” Jacob said. “I spoke to him.”

Green foam swelled from her fist. “I’d known Jorge ten years, but till that night I’d never heard him cry.”

Jacob considered Alvarez’s emotional state during the most recent interview—less extreme, but consistent with the natural ebb of grief. “Did the police ever talk to you?”

“No.”

“His teachers?”

“Nobody came to the school, Detective, except for the community relations officer. We held a meeting for parents in the gym.” Eubanks paused. “I suppose they could’ve spoken to Susan over the phone.”

“Susan . . .”

“Lomax. TJ’s teacher. We have two kindergarten classes. One slot, we can’t keep someone there more than a couple of years; it’s a revolving door. The other class belongs to Susan. She’s been around longer than I have. We had an emergency staff meeting the day after Christmas to figure out how we were going to talk to the students about what had happened. Susan was at the center of the discussion, because it was her kids most directly affected. In the end, we tried to use it as an opportunity to learn.”

“About death?”

“About life,” she said.

She put down the ball.

“That poor, poor little boy,” she said. “Everyone, and I mean everyone, was a wreck. We came back for spring semester, and it felt ten degrees colder.”

“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to speak with Mrs. Lomax.”

“It’s certainly all right, although you’d be better off not calling her that.”

“What should I call her?”

“Ms.,” Eubanks said. She glanced at her computer. “Recess is in seven minutes.”

She left, clutching the stress ball.

Eight minutes later, the door opened and in walked a stout woman in khaki cargo pants. Susan Lomax stood around five feet, but her entrance dramatically shifted the room’s gravity, prompting Jacob to sit up a little straighter.

She said, “I’ve been waiting ten years for you people to call me back.”

•   •   •

L
OMAX AND
J
ACOB
sat facing each other.

She said, “We keep a sign-in sheet posted on the wall of the classroom. There’s a space for morning drop-off and another for pickup. It’s important for us to know who’s taking which child and when, and to have a record of it. TJ’s mother kept forgetting to sign him out. It was an ongoing problem. At the end of the week, I have to submit the attendance sheet to the principal, and in TJ’s row there would be five blank spaces, highlighted where his mother hadn’t signed.”

Realizing she was taking a dead woman to task, she toned it down a degree. “I didn’t like to pester her about it, because I knew she was
a single mother, and she always looked wrung out. About halfway through the fall semester—early November—a man came to pick TJ up instead of her.”

“Can you describe him? Age, race, height, build?”

“He was white. Big, and tall, although frankly, everybody looks big and tall to me.” Lomax grimaced. “I’m not being very helpful, am I.”

“You’re doing great.”

“I feel responsible to get it right,” she said.

Her eyes grew unfocused as she walked back in time. “It’s hard to say how old he was. People age differently. He wore a hat, one of those—you know, fur, with earflaps. He was totally overdressed. That struck me. He looked like he was getting ready to land on the moon. Overcoat, scarf, gloves. Then I heard him talk and thought, ‘Well, he’s Russian, that’s why.’”

A spike of excitement. “How do you know he was Russian?”

“My mother-in-law is from Petersburg,” she said. “I recognized the accent. And TJ called him
dyadya
. ‘Uncle.’”

“TJ knew him.”

She nodded. “And liked him, I could see that. He said TJ’s mother was busy and had asked him to help her with pickup. But he wasn’t on the authorized list. I told him sorry, I couldn’t allow it. He started arguing with me. ‘Just for today.’ I told him to tell Ms. Duvall to come get TJ no later than six, and that she’d be responsible for the fee.”

She paused to explain: “We do an after-school program. You have to be enrolled, and TJ wasn’t. It costs eight dollars a day. Less back then, but we need every penny.”

“What happened?”

“He took out a hundred-dollar bill and waved it in my face. ‘For the fee,’ he said.”

Jacob stopped scribbling and looked at her.

“Your basic bully,” she said.

“Did you get his name?” Jacob asked. “Maybe when you checked the list?”

She looked despondent. “I’m . . . I don’t remember. I—”

She broke off, her eyes big and round. “Something else. I just thought of it. He was wearing a ring.”

“What kind of ring?”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t gold, that much I can . . . Black, I think, and huge. He’d taken off his glove, to get at his wallet, and he was waving the money in my face. I thought he might punch me. Does that help at all?”

“Absolutely,” Jacob said.

“I’d draw it for you,” she said, “except there’s really nothing to draw. It was just a big piece of metal, almost like brass knuckles. Vulgar. Black, though. Definitely black.”

Jacob said, “That’s excellent. Thank you.”

“I’m sorry I can’t remember his name.”

“It’s all right,” he said. “What happened next? After he waved the money at you.”

“I asked him to leave. He walked out and I never saw him again.” She paused. “TJ’s mother came to get him that evening. She was pretty clearly annoyed with me.’”

Disapproval had crept back into her voice.

“It’s the child’s welfare I’m concerned about, first and foremost,” Susan Lomax said. “Parents don’t always understand that. It can be very frustrating.”

Jacob asked if she had told any of this to the police.

Like a lighthouse beacon, the disapproval swung around in his direction.

“I tried,” she said. “Nobody ever called me back. Can you explain that to me?”

He said, “Wish I could.”

“At least you’re honest. How hard is it to return a call? I even went down to the station in person, but they told me I was at the wrong department, they couldn’t help me.”

She shook her head, glanced at her watch, worn with the face on the inside of her wrist. Jacob figured it for a habit born of too many job-related casualties.

“Recess is over,” she said.

She didn’t get up to leave, though. She said, “He was a sweet child.”

Jacob nodded. “So I hear.”

“Some boys come into a room and immediately go for the first thing they can destroy. It’s not malicious, it’s just the age. TJ wasn’t like that. He was thoughtful, cautious. Young for the class. He preferred to play with the girls. He liked to draw. He liked to build. A bit of a loner, but I respected him for that.”

She reached for the tissue box on the principal’s desk.

“I’ve been doing this job since I was twenty-three,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I’m forty-seven now. Except for my mother’s death, I’ve never taken more than a week off. I timed both of my pregnancies to give birth over the summer. I love what I do. But I’ll tell you something, Detective. That spring, I came close to quitting.”

“You didn’t, though,” Jacob said.

She evaluated him for sincerity. Nodded, and set the crumpled tissue down, watching it slowly expand. She started to cry again, without fanfare. “I felt I had to set an example for the children.”