The Golem of Hollywood by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

apparently did not think required explanation. They showed her in far-flung locales, engaged in mildly risky activities: strapped into a rock-climbing harness; in ski suit and goggles; among girlfriends woozily hoisting margarita glasses.
    No kissy photo booth strip; no thick-haired man in surgeon’s scrubs, clutched around the waist.
    She said, “I hope I didn’t bother you, calling on you early.”
    â€œI was up.”
    â€œI wanted to catch you before I had to leave for the day. I know it’s unorthodox to meet here, but it’s for the best. I’ve had to tread lightly. My immediate superior isn’t very gung-ho about your severed head. Right now we’ve got several pathologists away at a convention, and the bodies are piling up.”
    â€œWhat’s that mean, not very gung-ho?”
    â€œI believe his exact words were, ‘I haven’t got time for curiosities.’”
    â€œIt’s a homicide.”
    â€œHe tried to convince me it’s a relic from a museum.”
    â€œWith fresh vomit?”
    â€œI didn’t say he was successful,” she said. “Or sensible. But I know better than to waste time arguing. He can be rather authoritarian, especially under stress.”
    â€œSo you called me here to apologize for not working my case?”
    She smiled, causing a gold stud in her left nostril to twinkle. He hadn’t noticed it before.
    She said, “I’m afraid I’ve been a bit naughty.”
    â€”
    H ER APARTMENT WAS a two-bedroom. The door to the first was ajar, giving Jacob a glimpse of a bed piled with embroidered pillows.
    The second had been set up as a mini pathology lab. Heavy-duty plastic sheeting protected the carpet. A dissection tray sat on a folding table; a desk hosted a microscope; there were bins labeled for scalpels and forceps and hammers, a biohazard container, an air purifier, and a two-thousand-count box of nitrile exam gloves.
    Jacob looked at her.
    She shrugged. “Beg, borrow, and steal. Nothing fancy, mostly surplus. I’ve been refining it since my student days. No mean feat getting it through customs, believe you me.”
    â€œIt’s nice to meet someone as OCD as me,” he said.
    â€œIt helps to pass the time,” she said.
    And explains in part why you’re single.
Jacob liked her more and more.
    In the closet, a wire rack displayed five vinyl bowling bags—the pink and green versions she’d had with her at the crime scene, and three others in orange, black, and red.
    â€œVery
Sex and the City
,” he said.
    She pointed to the green bag. “Emesis.” The black one. “Fingerprints.” Red. “Blood.” Pink. “Gobbety bits.”
    â€œOrange?”
    â€œFor when I go dancing,” she said. “It’s my favorite color. Tell me: how would you know anything about
Sex and the City
?”
    â€œEx-wife,” he said.
    â€œAh,” she said.
    He wondered if he’d erred, because in the next breath she was back tobusiness. “I didn’t want my boss looking over my shoulder, so I brought the material here—”
    â€œMaterial?”
    â€œThe head. Vomit, too. They’re in the freezer.”
    â€œRemind me never to have ice cream here, either.”
    â€œIf I might continue, please. The vomit wasn’t very useful. It was so laced with acid that it actually began corroding my glove. And I confess I still haven’t been able to determine what sealed the neck. The skin isn’t blistered or scorched in keeping with a blast of high heat. I suspect it’s some form of tissue adhesive, such as hospitals use to aid in wound repair.”
    â€œSomeone with specialized knowledge,” Jacob said. “Access to medical supplies.”
    â€œPossibly. Although you can order transglutaminase over the Internet. Chefs use it. They call it meat glue.”
    â€œA mad doctor or a mad chef.”
    â€œOr none of the