The Golem of Hollywood by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

TRUSTS and blinds and holding companies stank of money. Keywording the Castle Court address pulled up nothing, noteven the expected Zillow or other real estate sites. An afternoon at the desk brought Jacob to the home page of a USC professor interested in the social history of the Southern California upper class. The prof had undertaken to scan in decades of Blue Books, getting as far back as 1926 and as far forward as 1973. OCR made the directory searchable.
    Jacob found what he needed in the 1941 edition.
    The house belonged to a Mr. and Mrs. Herman Pernath. Mister was a principal architect at a firm that bore his name. The couple had two children, Edith, sixteen, and Frederick, fourteen.
    The
L.A. Times
archive yielded obituaries for Herman in 1972, his wife two years before that. Daughter Edith Merriman, née Pernath, had died in 2004.
    A search for Fred Pernath brought up an Internet Movie Database entry with scores of special effects credits, the sort of Z-grade gorefests Jacob figured didn’t get made anymore. But there were titles as recent as three years ago, indicating that Pernath was alive and well, and another search yielded a phone number and an address in Hancock Park.
    Jacob called him on the sat phone, explained who he was, and asked if he could find out more about the house on Castle Court.
    â€œWhat’s there to find out?”
    â€œHave you been there recently?”
    Pernath’s laugh was wooden. “Not since it became mine.”
    â€œWhen was that?”
    â€œWhat’s this regarding, Detective?”
    â€œIt’s an ongoing investigation,” Jacob said. “Who else has access to the house?”
    â€œHow was it you found me?”
    Jacob didn’t like people who answered questions with questions. They reminded him of his grade-school rabbis. “Look, Mr. Pernath—”
    â€œYou want to talk to me, you can come here.”
    â€œA phone conversation would be fine,” Jacob said.
    â€œNot to me,” Pernath said, and he hung up.

CHAPTER TEN
    F red Pernath lived on June Street, north of Beverly Boulevard, in a stately Georgian at odds with the Neutra-like stylings of Castle Court. Jacob did detect a certain similarity in the lack of upkeep. Every other home on the block had been landscaped, repainted, reroofed. Pernath’s gutters sagged; brown smeared the front lawn.
    One look at the man himself went a long way toward ruling him out as a suspect. He was pigeon-chested and emaciated, leaning on a cane whose tip squeaked against the hardwood as he beckoned Jacob in and hobbled off into the gloom.
    Like its exterior, the house’s overflowing interior stood in contrast to the emptiness of Castle Court. Jacob didn’t see any severed heads, but he might well have missed them, lost among the quivering electric sconces, the still lifes in carved gilt frames, the Chinese vases sprouting dusty silk flowers. Ornate, polished furniture impeded easy passage—reverse feng shui—every space remotely horizontal clustered with gewgaws.
    Amid the dizzying visual thicket, no family photos.
    They went to Pernath’s study, wallpapered with ghoulish posters and production stills. Jacob sank into a depleted loveseat, declining with considerable reluctance Pernath’s offer of whiskey. He watched enviously as Pernath poured from a crystal decanter and crossed the room to open a built-in cabinet containing cut-glass bowls of nuts and a severed head.
    Bloody and ragged and gazing out eyelessly.
    Jacob leapt up.
    Pernath glanced at him incuriously. He plucked the head by its hair and hurled it at Jacob, who caught it.
    Rubber.
    â€œFor a cop, you seem a tad high-strung,” Pernath said.
    He took out two bowls of cashews, setting one in front of Jacob.
    â€œApologies if they’re not at the peak of freshness,” Pernath said, folding himself behind a formidable oak desk.
    From up close, the head was obviously fake, the paint job