Free The Golem of Paris by Jonathan Kellerman, Jesse Kellerman Page B

apartment, then ran back to the driveway to collect the other bottles.
    In the interim, Nigel had sunk to the living room sofa, still huffing, massaging his sternum, rubbing a small gold cross. His lips were dry, his color worrisome.
    “You can’t sneak up on a man like that,” he said. “I’m no kid.”
    Jacob apologized again. The adrenaline was wearing off, and it disturbed him that his perception had gotten so out of whack, nearly leading him to clobber a good man. Nigel was as close to saintly as anyone Jacob knew. He’d been tending to Sam since Bina’s death—
    Jacob caught himself. He made that mistake a lot.
    Tending to Sam; leave it at that.
    Since banishing his father from his life, Jacob had been out of contact with Nigel, as well, and he noted changes: the thickness was there in the trunk, but the arms had shrunk a degree or two, the crow’s-feet grown entrenched.
    “You didn’t tell me you were coming,” Jacob said.
    “That’s right, Yakov Meir,” Nigel said. “Blame the victim.”
    Jacob went to the kitchen, snuck a quick bolt of liquor, filled a glass with water, and returned to the living room, hurrying to clean up the blizzard of crime scene photos and police reports.
    “Long time no see,” he said.
    “Your dad asked me to drop in.”
    The phrasing was telling: not
sent me
but
asked me.
Sam never could get comfortable in the role of ward. The fact that Nigel’s salary was paid by a wealthy friend, Abe Teitelbaum, didn’t help matters. Abe took great pains to reframe his charity, employing Sam as the superintendent for one of his rental properties and calling Nigel Sam’s assistant. The act grew less and less convincing as Sam’s weakening eyesight demanded greater and greater maintenance.
    Jacob wondered how bad it had gotten since they’d last talked.
    He wanted to ask.
    He kept his mouth shut.
    Nigel said, “He’s been trying to reach you for a while.”
    He finished his water, set it down, sat up straight and tall.
    Jacob felt a nervous flutter. Could he be one of them, too? In his most paranoid moments, anyone over six feet tall fell under suspicion of working for Special Projects.
    He’d have to suspect himself, then.
    Where did it end?
    Nigel said, “Would it kill you to talk to him?”
    “That’s a lousy standard for decision-making.”
    Nigel opened a palm. “‘Bear with one another and if anyone has a complaint against another, forgive each other; just as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive.’”
    “Sounds New Testament.”
    “Colossians.”
    “Lucky me,” Jacob said. “Not my book.”
    “Good advice is good advice, no matter who’s giving it.”
    Jacob shrugged.
    Nigel said, “You two got your differences, it’s not my business. But I do know—”
    “Hang on a minute,” Jacob said.
    “He’s suffering, and you know he’s had enough suffering in his life. That’s something you ought to be able to appreciate. He’s a good man, one of the finest I know. You get a little older, you realize how rare that is.”
    Jacob pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. “You have no idea, do you.”
    “I told you, not my business.”
    “What did he tell you happened? He must’ve told you something.”
    “I asked why you haven’t come around, he said you won’t talk to him.”
    “He didn’t tell you why.”
    “No, and I didn’t ask.”
    Jacob hated himself for what he was about to do. It had to be done, though.
    “Every week,” he said, “you drive him to Alhambra. To a long-term care facility.”
    “Wednesday.”
    “You don’t go in with him.”
    “I drop him off,” Nigel said. “Pick him up in a couple hours.”
    “You’ve never been inside.”
    Nigel shook his head.
    “Who does he say he’s going to visit?”
    “A friend.”
    “What friend?”
    “He never saw fit to mention it,” Nigel said. “It’s his business.”
    “It’s my mother,” Jacob said.
    Nigel seemed to short-circuit. His head jerked, his forehead