The Golem of Hollywood by Jonathan Kellerman Page B

meticulously crafted to look correct at a distance of about fifteen feet—Monet meets Grand Guignol.
    His heart still tripping, Jacob said, “You do that for all your guests?”
    â€œYou’re not a guest.” Pernath popped a cashew in his mouth. “You might want to get on with it,” he said. “I am eighty-four.”
    Jacob sat down in the loveseat. “Tell me about the house.”
    Pernath shrugged. “It was my father’s. He came from money, owned property all over the city. Houses, factories, raw land. It was a great deal of real estate, and when he died, that made for a great big fight.” He sipped whiskey. “The truth is I didn’t need the money. But my sister decided she had to have it, so naturally I decided I wouldn’t let her.”
    â€œShe’s deceased, your sister.”
    Pernath cackled. “That’s how I won. I had a fifth column: Virginia Slims.” He sat back in his chair, which was large and creaky and studded with brass nailheads. In its grip he resembled a dried leaf. “
Technically
, I won. Lawyers gobbled up two-thirds of the pie. I kept the properties that brought in income and sold the rest. Made out like a bandit. The house was part of a larger plot that my father subdivided. He built it. His design.”
    â€œHe was an architect.”
    â€œHe was a pig,” Pernath said. “But, yes, he did draw. Personally, I’ve never cared for his work. Bit antiseptic for my liking.”
    Jacob glanced at a stuffed monkey suspended from the ceiling. “So I gathered.”
    Pernath chuckled and got up to pour himself another whiskey.
    â€œThat house,” Jacob said. “It brings in income?”
    â€œNot a cent.”
    â€œThen why not sell? Seems to me it’s wasting away.”
    â€œThat’s exactly the point. Let it rot. Every time I think about it falling apart, I get a nice fuzzy feeling inside.” Pernath stoppered the decanter and hobbled back to his chair, making a detour to reclaim the rubber head, which he cradled in his lap like a shih tzu. “It was supposed to be a haven for him, someplace he could go to dip into the well of creativity. I don’t think he so much as lifted a pencil there. He was
creative
, after a fashion, and no doubt he did a lot of
dipping
. Every secretary or office girl he ever hired saw the inside of that place—or the ceiling, anyway, while he bounced on top of them. It’s amazing he didn’t crush anyone to death. He was a pig, in every sense of the word. He destroyed my mother.”
    â€œWhy not tear it down, then?”
    â€œOh, well, I would
never
. It’s architecturally
significant . . .
” Pernath finished his second drink in one swallow. “Call it a monument. To adultery.”
    â€œYou haven’t been by since you inherited it.”
    â€œWhy would I?”
    â€œWho else has access?”
    â€œEveryone. I leave it unlocked. Anyone who wants to come in, that’s their problem. The more curses heaped upon that place, the better.”
    Jacob frowned. That wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear.
    â€œWhat kind of crime are you investigating, Detective? Something ugly, I hope.”
    â€œA homicide.”
    Pernath’s throat clicked. “Ugly as it comes. Shame. Whodunnit?”
    â€œIf I knew, I wouldn’t be talking to you.”
    â€œWho died?”
    â€œI don’t know that, either.”
    â€œWhat do you know, Detective?”
    â€œNot much.”
    â€œThat’s the spirit,” Pernath said. He tilted his glass. “Embrace ignorance.”
    Jacob, thinking of the missing photos, said, “You have other family in town?”
    â€œMy ex-wife’s remarried, although I hesitate to call her family. She lives in Laguna. My son’s in Santa Monica. My daughter’s in Paris.”
    â€œDo you see them often?”
    â€œNot if I can help it,” Pernath