“I didn’t mean to. I–I made a serious mistake.”
“What mistake.”
Jacob hesitated, then told him.
Stein burst out laughing. “That’s goddamned awful.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, no, listen: that’s more or less the worst thing I ever heard. And trust me, I’ve heard some winners. Did she take em?”
“Pardon me?”
“My wife. Your balls. Did she take em.”
Jacob shook his head. “I guess I got lucky.”
“You got that right, amigo,” Stein said. “So? Why’re you talking to me?”
“I—”
“Ahhhh I get it: you want to try and top yourself. Well, hunh. Dunno, I can’t think of anything. Lessee. Okay, how about, how bout this: ‘Hey, Eddie, Detective’ — what is it, again?”
“Lev.”
“‘Detective Lev here. Good news, I got a lead on your daughters, turns out they’re both alive. Denise’s turning tricks at a truck stop in Barstow. And Janet, she works as a press secretary for Hezbollah. Just kidding, they’re still dead as Christ.’” Stein smiled. “How’d I do?”
“Look—”
“Don’t spare my feelings. Be honest. One to ten.”
“Look, I’m sorry. I really am. I feel like an asshole—”
“Trust that feeling.”
“—but your wife ran off before I could say anything, and I don’t know where she went.”
“That’s easy,” Stein said. “To get a refill.”
Jacob said, “I just want to tell her I’m sorry.”
Eddie Stein wiped his face and stood up. “Come on, let’s go.”
Standing before an open locker, Stein said, “Don’t let me catch you ogling my manhood. Jealousy’s a negative emotion.”
“No, sir.”
“People have been known to try. Its reputation precedes it. Although,” Stein said, toweling his stomach, “come to think, I can’t say anything precedes it. It’s always the first one in the room.”
Now Jacob really did want to look. Stein wasn’t lying.
“Don’t think I don’t see you, Lev.”
Jacob faced the opposite wall.
“Mind if I ask what you want with my dead kid?”
Jacob made a judgment call. “We found one of the guys.”
Behind him, the whisk of terry cloth on flesh cut off. “Found who?”
“One of the guys who killed Janet. He’s dead.”
Silence. Jacob worried that he’d given Stein a coronary. “I’m going to turn around,” he said. “You can cover up.”
But Eddie didn’t cover up. He was standing with the limp towel in his limp hand, his face streaming to match his still-streaming chest.
Jacob said, “Do you need a doctor?”
“No, you schmuck, I need a tissue.”
Jacob pulled one from the dispenser. “I’m sorry to tell you like this.”
“Sorry? What the fuck are you sorry for? That’s the best news I heard since the little blue pill went generic.” He looked at Jacob. “He’s dead? What happened to him?”
“Somebody cut his head off,” Jacob said.
Eddie barked a laugh. “Fantastic. Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Eddie nodded musingly. Then he seemed to recall that he was naked and pulled the towel around his waist. “I said no peeksies and I meant it. Go wait in the hall.”
A few minutes later he emerged in fitted plaid slacks, a bright blue Izod shirt, and cream-colored calfskin loafers. His white hair was gelled back to his scalp.
“Tell me if I’m reading this correctly,” he said, punching the elevator button. “You found this son of a bitch with his head chopped off and you got to thinking Denise did it.”
“I wanted to talk to her,” Jacob said feebly.
“And I’m Alfred, Lord Tennyson.” Stein shook his head. “Well, based on my extensive experience with LAPD, you’re par for the course. Par being retarded.”
The elevator juddered, dinged, opened on the manager flanked by two security guards.
“Sir, you’ll have to please come with us.”
“Shut up,” Eddie said, pushing through the men as through a bead curtain. “He’s my guest.”
They found Rhoda in the main building, at the second-floor bar, a new drink in front of her. Nearly empty.
“Do I know my wife or what,” Eddie said.
She saw them approaching and flagged the bartender, pointing to her cocktail. “Another,” she said. “Make it thick.”
“Hang on, Arturo,” Eddie said. To Jacob: “Tell her.”
Jacob told her.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t react at all. She said, “Arturo. I’m getting thirsty.”
“Yes, madame.”
“I apologize,” Jacob said. “From the bottom of my heart.”
Rhoda nodded once.
“Who told you Denise was alive?” Eddie asked.
“I went to your house,” Jacob said. “I talked to a woman.”
“What’d she look like?”
“Big lips. Tracksuit. Dog on a pink leash.”
“Nancy,” Rhoda said.
“I thought she was your neighbor,” Jacob said.
“She is,” Eddie said. “She’s also Queen of the Cunts.”
Rhoda clucked her tongue. “She claims we blocked her view when we added on.”
“View of what?”
“Exactly,” Rhoda said.
A silence.
Eddie said, “I don’t know what else we can tell you, Detective. But you find out who did it, you let me know. I want to send him a Rosh Hashana card.”
Rounding the top of the stairs, Jacob saw the two of them huddled together, their arms around each other, two soft old bodies trembling. Laughing or crying, it was impossible to tell.
Chapter twenty-two
He texted Divya from the parking lot.
anything yet
Her reply came back quickly.
no prints
damn he wrote. 2nd offender?
patience
not my strong suit
She responded with a smiley.
He dithered a moment, then typed dinner?
Her reply to that was far slower in coming.
busy
He rubbed his eyes, started the car, began to back out. The phone rattled in the cup holder.
sorry she had written. maybe another time
Something to work with. He started to type hope springs eternal; told himself not to be an idiot. He erased that and wrote asking her to be in touch.
There was still no reply from 911 dispatch, not even an acknowledgement of his first two requests. He wrote directly to Mike Mallick, outlining the new developments at length and imploring him to intercede. Let Special Projects do some of the heavy lifting.
He ate his dinner, dogs and bourbon, sitting on the floor, a file open on his lap.
By eleven-thirty he had a tension headache and could no longer see straight. Trudging to his bedroom, he collapsed without brushing his teeth. To feel himself finally running out of steam brought palpable relief. For the present, at least, he was sane.
He itched.
Arm and back, neck and genitals.
It was a maddening sensation and he rubbed at himself and the itch regrouped elsewhere on his body, newly doubled in strength.
He looked down.
They were on him.
They were everywhere.
Beetles.
Swarming his body like a black coat of armor; twisting in his navel, the cracks of his toes, tiny feather feet whispering against him. He slapped at himself and they scattered in concentric circles, seeking refuge in his pubic hair, his armpits and buttocks, clogging his ears, tunneling up his nostrils then tumbling, wriggling, down to the back of his throat. The more he struggled, the worse it got. They were too fast, too numerous, sprung from an infinite source, burrowing into him, millions of tiny undulant bulges bubbling in the nonexistent space between skin and raw flesh.