The Golem of Hollywood by Jonathan Kellerman

the block in several days, shifting from space to space.
    Somebody had a lot of curtains to put up.
    He jogged over to peek through the windshield.
    Tools, rods, boxes of fabric.
    No hulking dude on a headset monitor.
    He told himself to stop acting ridiculous.
    En route to Culver City, the sat phone rang: his father again. Jacob let it go to voicemail.
    The address Divya Das had given him turned out to be a pink stucco apartment complex fronting an unsavory stretch of Venice Boulevard. A homeless man slept on the grass beneath a hopeless sign touting one-, two-, and three-bedroom vacancies.
    Jacob parked on a side street, cut the engine, and played the voicemail from his father.
    Hi, Jacob. I don’t know if you listened to my previous message, but please disregard it. I’ll manage.
    He hadn’t listened to it. Now he had to.
    Hi, Jacob. You’ve probably got your hands full, since I haven’t heard from you. Not to worry. I have everything prepared, except for one thing: Nigel accidentally brought me two challahs
instead of three and I wanted to ask, if it’s not too great an inconvenience, maybe you might have time to pick up another. I like poppy seed, but—
    Jacob stopped the playback and dialed him.
    â€œJacob? Did you get my other message?”
    â€œI got it. Can I ask you something, Abba?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œWas that an honest attempt to absolve me of picking up the challah, or was it intended to make me feel guilty?”
    Sam chuckled. “You think too much.”
    Jacob rubbed one gummy eye. “What time’s dinner?”
    â€”
    D IVYA D AS HAD APPROACHED her generic white Sheetrock walls as a blank canvas, embarking on a charmingly random spree of color and texture. A neon orange throw revived a battered sofa; the dining table was a fifties-era TV set topped with glass. Laminated prints of gods and goddesses brightened the living room: elephant-headed Ganesha, Hanuman the monkey god.
    He meant to tell her about the missing letters, but she began chatting with him, inviting him to sit at the breakfast bar and setting out a plate of cookies and a steaming mug.
    â€œThere we are,” she said. “Proper tea.”
    He took a mouthful. It was scalding.
    â€œShit,” he gasped.
    â€œI was about to say,” she said, “you might want to blow on it.”
    â€œ. . . thanks.”
    â€œIt’s essential to use fresh, clean water and to bring it right up to the boil. Americans consistently neglect that step, with disastrous results.”
    â€œYou’re right,” he said. “It tastes much better with a third-degree burn.”
    â€œDo you need me to call an ambulance?”
    â€œSome milk would be nice.”
    She got it for him. “I’m sorry I don’t have something more substantial to offer you.”
    â€œDon’t be. This is the most complete breakfast I’ve had in months.”
    â€œI shall have to tell your mother.”
    â€œYou’ll have to shout pretty loud,” he said. “She’s dead.”
    â€œOh, my,” she said. “I’m so sincerely sorry.”
    â€œYou didn’t know.”
    â€œWell, I ought not to make assumptions.”
    â€œDon’t sweat it. Really.” To spare her further embarrassment, he pointed to the fridge door, magnets pinning snapshots. “You and yours?”
    The centermost photo had Divya embracing an elderly woman in a red sari. “My
naniji
. This one”—a host of people arrayed on either side of an elaborately bedecked couple—“is from my brother’s wedding.”
    â€œWhen did you move to the U.S.?”
    â€œSeven years ago,” she said. “For graduate school.”
    â€œColumbia,” he said.
    â€œHave you been checking up on me, Detective?”
    â€œJust Google.”
    â€œThen I’m sure you know everything you need to know.”
    There were others photos, too, that she