J.A. Konrath / Jack Kilborn Trilogy - Three Scary Thriller Novels (Origin, The List, Haunted House) (40 page)

For a moment, she didn’t know what to do. Her brain told her to finish it, go for the death blow that she’d practiced so often but always pulled short in matches. But could she? Could she actually kill an unconscious man?

Joan approached cautiously. His eyes were closed, and he looked more pathetic than threatening. She knelt on his chest, raising her fist, aiming for the neck…

And couldn’t do it.

A moan, from the doorway. Max. She got off her assailant and hurried to him. He was curled up in a fetal position, bleeding from several holes in his chest. His face looked like a lasagna. She turned his head to the side so the blood wouldn’t run down his throat, and then felt in his jacket pocket for his phone. Joan dialed 911 and considered what she should do with the intruder. Tie him up somehow?

It didn’t matter. When she looked down the driveway, the man was no longer there.

“Beverly Hills 911 Emergency, this is Mrs. Schmidtt.”

“My name is Joan DeVilliers. I need an ambulance and the police here as soon as possible. I’m at 1445 Hillcrest.”

“Can you explain what happened?”

“I was attacked.” Joan’s voice broke. “Again.”

T
he O’Hare Hyatt Regency was one of the larger hotels in the area, with over a thousand rooms. The eight-story building had been constructed in a U-shape, with parking all around it. Tom circled slowly, trying to find a space. Even the handicapped spots were full. He put the Mustang in the Courtesy Bus slot.

The lobby was buzzing. The majority of people milling about were white males over fifty, many sporting novelty T-Shirts with slogans like
GET HOOKED ON LURES
and
KISS MY BASS
. The duo made their way to Check-In and waited for the smiling concierge to notice them.

“Are you gentleman here for the convention?”

“No, ma’am. I’m Detective Mankowski, this is Detective Lewis.”

They held out their badges. The girl’s smile held. She was young, blonde, attractive. Upon noticing this, Roy sidled closer, becoming Alpha cop.

“What can we do for you, Detectives?”

“We need your help in a homicide investigation. We’re looking for a suspect believed to be registered here. He’s manning a table at the convention.”

“I can check to see if he’s registered. His name?”

“All we have is the first name. Bert.”

“That may be tough. We have over fifteen hundred guests currently registered, and they’re organized by last name.”

“Can you look them up by address? We believe he’s from Milwaukee.”

“I can try.” She pushed a few buttons on her computer. “Okay, here. We currently have a hundred and sixteen guests with a listed Milwaukee address.”

“Anyone named Bert?” Tom tried to crane his neck over the top of the computer to see the screen. “It might also be variations—Robert, Herbert, Albert, Norbert, Cuthbert, Dilbert…”

“Q*Bert.” Roy grinned. She batted her eyelashes at him. Tom had never seen a woman actually bat her eyelashes outside of television.

“It’ll take a moment, I’ll have to go through them name by name. Okay, here’s a Robert. Signed in as Bob, not Bert. Not a seller. Whoever bought table space in the convention center gets a special room rate. Let’s see. Michael. Jeffrey. George. Chris. John. Here’s one. Albert Blumberg. He has a booth and he did sign in as Bert.”

“Can we have his room number and table number?”

“He’s in room 714, booth number 18-A. I’ll give you a convention map.”

“Any others?”

She spent a minute going through the rest of the names. A fat guy in a shirt that read
MASTER BAITER
walked through the lobby, proclaiming the auction was about to begin. It thinned the crowd considerably.

“No others. He was the only one.”

They received a convention map and left the front desk, heading down a hallway to the Normandy Room, a huge warehouse-sized open space packed with people and display booths. Every direction they looked had tackle or men discussing tackle. A voice boomed over the loudspeaker.

“Next up, mint in box with papers, a Creek Chub Sucker #3900 in frog scale. Bidding starts at two hundred dollars.”

“Two Benjamins?” Roy sneered. “That’s why it’s called a Sucker.”

Tom consulted the map and led them through the ranks and files of booths, zigzagging to 18-A. The table was actually a glass display rack, showcasing several dozen brightly colored lures in neat rows. The man behind the display was thin, tall, in his fifties.

“Albert Blumberg?”

“No. He had to step away for a moment. I’m minding the store. You interested in one of his baits?”

Tom took a quick look in the case, noting all the prices were triple digits or higher. He doubted there was a layaway plan.

“Is he back in his room? We really should talk to him personally.”

“I think so. He was bringing down more lures to display.”

“He’s tall, right? Long hair? About my age?”

“Wrong guy. Bert is short, short hair, big nose. Could be around your age.”

Tom nudged Roy over. “You stay here, I’ll check the room. Call if he shows.”

“You do the same.”

Tom took out his cell phone, making sure it was on and set to vibrate. A ringing phone was not a wise thing for a cop to have on him in precarious situations. The loudspeaker thundered. “Sold, for seven hundred and fifty dollars!”

There was scattered applause. Roy shook his head.

“Seven-fifty. What kind of damn fish can you catch worth seven-fifty? I cast that out, better reel me in a Mercedes.”

Tom wove his way though the crowd and located an elevator, entering alongside two elderly men who were discussing worm burns. Tom exited on his floor and followed the hall to 714. He opened his jacket and stood to the left of the door before knocking.

“Hold on a second.”

The voice seemed to match the one on the phone. Tom tensed a notch. The door opened.

The man was average height, with wavy brown hair and a closely clipped mustache. He was a couple pounds overweight, which showed in his hound dog jowls. Familiar looking, but Tom couldn’t place him.

“Are you here about the Luny Frog? I can’t go any lower than fifteen hundred. Not a single penny.” He blinked. “Okay, fourteen hundred.”

“Bert Blumberg?”

“Yes, that’s me. The bait is in excellent-plus condition, and it’s the first production model, complete with egg sinker. That fourteen hundred is firm. Solid. In stone. I won’t go lower.” Bert smiled, unsure. “Fine, I’ll take thirteen.”

“I’m not here about the Luny Frog.”

“Are you sure? You look so familiar. Wait a sec… Thomas?”

Tom was surprised that the man knew his name. “Detective Tom Mankowski. How did…?”

“The resemblance is uncanny. You’re number five, right?”

The cop’s eyes narrowed, accusing. “How can you know all of this?”

Bert squinted at him. “You don’t know? Don’t you have a tattoo on your foot?”

“What does it mean?”

“Tom Jessup figured it all out. I’m number six. Have you met Jessup yet?”

“He’s dead.”

Bert swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbling. “Dead? I just saw him a few days ago. How?”

“Murdered. I need you to answer some questions.”

“Sure. Of course.”

The room was small, tidy. A suitcase was open on the table, filled with lures individually encased in bubble wrap. Bert closed the door and paced to the table, then to the bed, then to the table again, staring at the floor.

“This is… this is bad. Very bad. He knew there was something wrong. I talked to him on Thursday. He said he was being followed. Am I next?” Bert looked at Tom, his eyes wide. “Could I be in danger? I buy and sell fishing lures, for the love of Mike. I never hurt anyone—I mean, sure, sometimes people get a hook in the finger—”

“Sit down, Mr. Blumberg.”

“How was he murdered?”

“Please sit down.”

Bert sat at the table and began to drum his fingers. Tom pulled up a chair, almost touching. He leaned close.

“Tell me about the tattoo, and how you know my name.”

“You won’t believe it.”

“Try me.”

“I didn’t believe it either. Thought Jessup was a crackpot. But when I saw all the research, and the DNA…”

“From the beginning. Tell me.”

“Tell you? No. No that’s no good. You won’t believe me. How about I show you?”

Bert went to the nightstand and opened the drawer. He took out some courtesy Hyatt stationary and a ball-point pen and set them before Tom.

“Write a few sentences in cursive.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Do it. This is what Jessup did with me. Write some song lyrics, or what you did today, or whatever. Just do it in script.”

Crackpot,
Tom thought. But he’d play along if it got the guy to open up. He wrote the first few verses of the Doors’ hit
LA Woman.

“Fine. Now what?”

“Just a second. I have to find it.”

Bert located a briefcase at the foot of the bed and reached inside. Tom had his gun out and pointed before Bert could remove his hand.

“Hold it!”

“Jeez! Don’t shoot me!”

“Take your hand out slowly, no quick moves.”

“It’s papers. Just papers. Jeez, I think I browned my shorts.”

Bert, hand shaking, pulled a black leather binder out of his briefcase.

“It’s Jessup’s research binder. He wanted me to hold onto it for him.”

“Bring it here.”

“Stop yelling at me. I’m gonna have a heart attack, and you’ll have to use CPR, and you won’t do it because I had egg salad with onions for lunch.”

Bert opened the binder and took out a piece of paper. He placed it in front of Tom. It was a print out of a handwritten rough draft, filled with crossed out words, brackets, and arrows. Very old looking. Tom began to read it, some lawyerspeak about quartering large bodies of armed troops, when something struck him.

The handwriting was his.

He looked at his song lyrics, and then back to the photocopy. All the letters matched. The
Ts
were crossed the same way, the
Ys
had the exact same curly bottom. Tom copied the phrase,
he has erected a multitude of new offices
, on his own paper, and found it impossible to tell the difference between the two.

“What the hell?”

“Does it match?”

“Exactly.”

“Eerie, isn’t it?”

“Who wrote this?”

“You don’t recognize the words? Here’s the first page.”

Bert handed Tom another photocopy, this one with a large scrawl on the top. He read, “
A Declaration by the Representatives of the United States of America, in General Congress assembled.
What
is
this?”

Bert smiled a goofy little smile. “It’s a copy of the first draft of the Declaration of Independence.”

Tom stared at him, incredulous. “So this means—what? I’m a reincarnation of Thomas Jefferson?”

“Close.” Bert sat on the bed next to Tom. “You’re his clone.”

The words hung there like a crooked picture. Tom opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

“Jessup knew about you,” Bert said. “He was planning on contacting you soon. He just needed a final piece of verification. You were adopted, right?”

Tom nodded.

“Jessup didn’t know how or why, but he did have some idea of who. He found me, and you, and two of the others.”

“So… I’m Thomas Jefferson.”

“Not convinced? Here.”

Bert went back into the briefcase and took out a library book—Jessup’s book on the Declaration of Independence. Tom stared at the face on the cover of the book. A painting of the Third President of the United States. Older, white hair, wrinkles. But it bore a striking resemblance to Tom’s face. The broad chin. The deep-set hazel eyes. The tight mouth.

“This is insane.”

“Insane?” Bert laughed. “Are you saying you don’t hold this truth to be self-evident?”

“Funny. And who are you supposed to be, then? Groucho Marx?”

“I’m Albert Einstein.”

“I bet.”

“I’m serious. Look at this.”

Bert took an Einstein biography out of the briefcase and handed it to Tom, the page opened to a black and white picture of the scientist as a young man. It was Bert, down to the big nose and droopy jowls. Tom pushed the book away.