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

by J. A. Konrath

  “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 wante
d 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.

  “Impossible. Humans can’t be cloned. Not thirty years ago. They didn’t have the technology.”

  Bert spread his hands. “And yet here we are. Einstein and Jefferson, having a conversation.”

  “Who was Jessup?”

  “Thomas Edison.”

  “And the others?”

  “There’s a guy in Nebraska who we think is Abe Lincoln, and a guy in Tennessee who is probably Robert E. Lee.”

  Tom’s cell phone vibrated. He put it to his ear.

  “Nothing happening down here, Tommy. ‘Cept some guy just bought a lure worth more than my damn car. How’re things up there?”

  “Surreal. I’m with Bert in his room. Come up.”

  Tom hung up and stared at the Jefferson book, his mind a tangle. This had to be some kind of put-on. He flipped it open and found a description of the man. Six feet two inches tall. Thin and wiry. Sandy hair.

  “There has to be more proof than this. I can see that I look like Jefferson, and write like Jefferson, but I could be a relative, a great-great-grandson or cousin or something.”

  Bert nodded, his jowls jiggling. “I figured the same thing. I mean, I flunked biology in high school. I get headaches when I do long division. But it all fits. I can explain it to you.”

  Someone knocked at the door.

  “Ah. The guy who wants the Luny Frog. Fifteen hundred. Don’t let me go less than fifteen hundred.” Bert went to the door, pulling it open and pointing dramatically. “The Heddon Luny Frog, right? I’ve got it right here. Excellent plus condition. I couldn’t go less than fourteen hundred for it. Maybe thirteen. You can touch it, you don’t need to wear those gloves.”

  Tom shifted to see the person in the doorway. Male, white, medium build, with dark blue eyes and thick, almost feminine lips. His face appeared to be stretched too tight. He was wearing latex gloves and a poncho, even though it wasn’t raining.

  “You can touch it, you don’t need to wear those gloves. I’m Jack. You’re Albert. We’ve both made history before, Albert. Let’s do it again.”

  Jack reached inside his poncho pocket but Tom was already on his feet with the pistol in his hand.

  “Freeze! Police!”

  Jack grabbed Albert by the sweater and tugged him forward, his arm around the smaller man’s neck, using him as a shield. A knife came out, wickedly sharp with a long curved blade, the kind of crazy design that freaks bought from classified ads in Soldier of Fortune magazine. Fast as a snake he brought the point under Bert’s chin.

  “I could cut out his eyes before you pull the trigger.”

  Bert lost all color. “I like my eyes. They’re my second favorite body part.”

  “Drop the weapon!”

  “Drop the weapon. I know you. You’re Jefferson. I’m number ten. Saucy Jack. A hundred year old mystery revealed.”

  Tom’s finger flexed lightly on the trigger, aiming for the perp’s shoulder.

  “Drop the weapon, now!”

  “Drop the weapon, now. I don’t think so. Maybe you drop the gun, hmm?”

  The knife slid half an inch into Bert’s chin, bringing forth a torrent of blood. Bert began to cry.

  Tom let out a breath, ready to fire. Jack must have sensed his intention, because he pulled Bert backwards into the hall. Tom moved to follow, but then he heard Bert yell, “There’s two!”

  A trap. Coming in low, under his line of fire, was Arthur Kilpatrick. He’d been waiting outside the door. Tom couldn’t bring the gun down in time and was caught in a flying tackle. Kilpatrick landed on top of him, his breath smelling of rotten meat.

  “Hello, Mr. President.”

  Tom’s gun was pinned next to his body, useless. But his left hand was only inches away from his pocket. The gravity knife. He yanked it out and flipped the switch. The blade sprung from the handle and locked into position. Tom jammed it into Kilpatrick’s hip.

  The small man howled, rolling off of Tom and hobbling for the door, the knife jutting out of his leg. Tom rolled to all fours and stumbled into the hall after him.

  Kilpatrick had gone left, heading for the stairwell. Tom brought up his gun, hesitant to take a shot. The hotel was fully booked. If he missed, the bullet could easily go through someone’s door.

  Tom spun in the other direction, searching for Albert and Jack. Jack had vanished. Bert was on the floor, his chest soaked with blood. Roy was kneeling next to him, gun in hand.

  “Where’s the perp?” Tom yelled.

  “Ran down the stairs. Go!”

  Roy pulled out his cell phone to call an ambulance, or back-up, or both. Tom took off down the hallway. He reached the door to the stairs and turned the knob. It didn’t budge. Tom looked down and saw the wicked knife blade jammed underneath it like a doorstop. Exercising bad judgment, Tom kicked at the blade, neatly severing a large flap of rubber from the bottom of his shoe.

  He jogged back down the hall. Roy had taken off his tie and was holding it tight under Bert’s chin.

  “Door
’s jammed. They got away.”

  “Kilpatrick again?”

  “Yeah. Plus a friend.”

  Bert gasped. “Tourniquet. Tie a tourniquet.”

  “He okay?”

  “Nasty cut to the chin, nothing fatal.”

  “I’m bleeding to death. Tie a tourniquet.”

  “Buddy, if I tie a tourniquet around your neck, it’ll strangle you.” He turned to Tom. “What in the hell is going on here, Tommy?”

  “It’s a long story. But I think I know the guy who cut Bert.”

  “Did you see that knife? I come out of the elevator and he was waving it around through the air like Jack the freaking Ripper.”

  “Got it in one, Roy.”

  “Got what?”

  Tom pursed his lips, eyes intent. “I think that was Jack the Ripper.”

  “I have to get my lures.”

  Bert sat in the back seat of the Mustang, petulant. Five stitches in the chin did little to calm his resolve.

  “I spoke to the hotel. They’re keeping your things for you.”

  “You don’t understand. There’s, well, a lot of money invested in those. I want them by my side.”

  Roy turned around and faced him. “They set a trap for you. They knew you were there. If I didn’t come out of that elevator when I did, you’d be on the slab waiting for an autopsy.”

  Bert folded his arms. “I need my lures. I won’t say another word to you until I have my lures.”

  “Bert…”

  “I want my lawyer.”

  “You don’t need a lawyer. You’re not under arrest.”

  “Then let me out right here.”

  “Dammit, Bert.”

  Bert leaned forward, his hands on their headrests. “Get me my lures, and I’ll tell you how Jessup figured it all out.”

  “Figured what out? Tom, you know what he’s talking about?”

  Bert tapped Tom’s shoulder. “You haven’t told him you’re Thomas Jefferson?”

  Roy made a face. “Thomas—what?”

  “This may take a while.” Tom turned up the heat and gave Roy the quick version, telling him about the handwriting and the Jefferson book and the cloning. Roy was less than impressed.

  “Maybe, just maybe, I could see you as Jefferson. But this guy is definitely not Einstein.”