J.A. Konrath / Jack Kilborn Trilogy - Three Scary Thriller Novels (Origin, The List, Haunted House) (51 page)

“When did murder become civil?”

“You must be Detective Lewis. Oh, pardon me, you’re not currently a detective, are you? I believe you’ve been suspended. Tell me, is your mother still working at that grocery store on Clark? She walks home, right? Even after the late shift? Dangerous, at night.”

Tom had to hold Roy back. Stang’s thin mouth twisted into a small smile.

“Let’s come to an understanding here, gentlemen. You’ve apparently put two and two together, but I have no idea what you thought you’d accomplish visiting me. You two aren’t even cops anymore.”

Tom made sure Roy was calm before he approached Stang again. “We wanted to know why.”

“Why, what? Why I did what I did, and am doing what I’m doing? Let’s say that at one point in time you were necessary to me, and now you’ve become a liability.”

Roy made a fist. “Right now I’m liable to knock you upside your bald head.”

“I’d sue you for threatening me, but for some reason I don’t think you will be around for the trial.”

Bert’s face became angry. “Are you threatening us?”

Stang smiled again, his dull eyes twinkling. “Mr. Einstein gets a gold star. I was worried I hadn’t been obvious enough. Now is there anything else, gentlemen? I’m growing tired of you.”

Tom tried to collect himself. He hadn’t expected it to go like this. Stang had openly admitted he was going to kill them, and there wasn’t a damn thing they could do about it.

“Whatever your little plan is, we’re going to stop it.”

It sounded lame as it came out of Tom’s mouth.

“No, you won’t.”

“Sure we will.” Bert said. “You’re practically a corpse now. I got half a tube of toothpaste that’s gonna last longer than you.”

“Au contraire. I’ll be getting my eleventh kidney transplant tomorrow.”

Tom knew people who have been waiting their whole lives for one, and this ugly bastard has had almost a dozen?

“I suppose being rich gets you to the top of all those donor lists.”

“Something like that.” Another twisted smile.

“Why’d you stop at Senator, Stang? An ego your size shouldn’t have settled for less than President.”

“Unfortunately, I was born in Germany. The Constitution—which you had a hand in writing, Tom—states that a President must be born in America. I tried three times, during my years as Senator, to add an amendment changing that. Each time I was unsuccessful.”

“What a shame. I suppose there’s always hope for Phil Jr. I wonder if he’s involved in all of this? Maybe we should pay him a visit.”

Stang’s mood darkened. “Please do. I’ll instruct the Secret Service to shoot you on sight. It will save me the trouble.”

“Roy, do you get the feeling that daddy’s little angel is involved in this too?”

“I think so. Maybe if we go to the media, make a big enough stink, something will shake loose.”

Stang laughed, a short clipped sound like a dog bark.

“I’d like to see that. Go to the networks, tell them you’re Jefferson and Einstein, and see what they do. There’s no proof. No records.”

“There’s DNA testing.”

“That takes weeks.” Another wicked grin. “You don’t have weeks. The remainder of your lives can be measured in hours. Jerome, would you mind escorting them out?”

Tom turned and saw Jerome in the doorway. He was holding a pistol casually at his side.

“Big deal.” Roy opened up his jacket. “I got one too.”

Tom patted Roy on the shoulder. This wasn’t the time or the place for a shoot out. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Jerome permitted them out the door, and followed them through the hall. Tom was angry. But even worse than that, he felt powerless.

“What the hell happened in there?” Roy shook his head.

Bert agreed. “I feel like a fly he just shooed away.”

They went down the stairs, Jerome trailing closely behind.

“It’s just round one, guys. We’ll regroup, do it differently next time. At least we know what we’re dealing with now.”

“A rich, powerful, psychotic egomaniac?” Bert pulled a face. “I was happier not knowing.”

Roy snorted. “Maybe we’ll be lucky, he’ll die during his operation.”

“He’s only part of the problem. We also have to deal with Vlad, Attila, and Jack. Plus this guy.”

Tom pointed to a large portrait hanging at the bottom of the staircase. It was of an elderly Phillip Stang, sitting on a chair. Standing behind him, resting a hand on Phil’s shoulder, was a young man who bore a striking resemblance.

“Phil junior. Mr. Speaker of the House. You think he’s in this too?”

“Does the apple fall far from the tree?”

Jerome stood patiently in the foyer while they let themselves out.

“So what next? Do we go after Mr. Speaker?”

Tom shook his head. “How? Even if we could get to him, what do we do? Tape some wires to our chests and trick him into revealing his plot for world domination?”

“I say we go to the media.”

“They’ll laugh at us unless we have evidence. We need DNA tests. But even then, we’d need original samples.”

“Well, we’re in Springfield. Want to buy some shovels, dig up Lincoln?”

Tom actually considered it for a moment—proof that he needed some sleep.

“How about the FBI?” Bert asked. “Or the CIA?”

“We don’t know how far Stang has influence. Between him and his son, I bet he could send the entire Army after us.”

“Then can’t we just kill them both? Pop some caps?”

“We’re not assassins, Bert.”

Bert climbed in back and passed Roy the donut. Tom sat in the driver’s seat and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, lost in thought.

“How about the Unholy Trio? Jack, Vlad, and Attila?”

“What about them?”

“Well, they’re involved in this, and they’re going to come after us, so we could set some kind of trap.”

“I hate sitting around, waiting for things to happen. Plus, we caught one already, and they just let him go.”

“And what about the other clones?” Bert asked. “They’re on the list, too.”

“Okay. Let me think.”

Tom rubbed his temples. The situation seemed pretty hopeless. With the bad guy so high up in government, they couldn’t expect any help through the official channels. They could try to go over his head, but Tom didn’t have high hopes the President would take their calls.

“Stang said we’re a liability.”

“Yeah. What did he mean by that?”

“Obviously, us being alive is bad for him somehow. He wants us dead for a reason. And it can’t be because we know too much, because he wants the other clones dead as well, and they don’t know anything.”

“I get it. There must be more at stake here than just killing us off. Maybe you were right about the world domination thing.”

“Look, we’re not cops now, right? So let’s say we grabbed Attila or Jack. We wouldn’t have to take him in. Maybe he’d tell us what’s going on.”

“He wouldn’t want to talk.”

Roy’s face got very serious. “I can be persuasive.”

Tom looked at Roy, then at Bert. “Do we all agree, then? We try to grab one of the bad guys?”

“What about saving the other clones?”

“We can do both.”

“I’m in.”

“Me too.”

“Okay, then.” Tom started the car and cranked up the heat. “We know Joan of Arc is in Hollywood, and Abe Lincoln is in Nebraska.”

“Always wanted to see Hollywood,” Bert mused.

“Me too.”

“Sounds good.” Tom cruised down the driveway and through the gate, leaving the Stang estate. “California here we come.”

“J
oan?” Marsha peeked in the door. “There are some men here to see you.”

Joan checked her desk calendar and didn’t see any scheduled meetings for that day.

“Are they anybody?” Anybody big in the business who wouldn’t need an appointment.

“They said they’re police officers.”

“Thanks, Marsha. Send them in.”

“Is everything… okay?”

“It’s fine. I was assaulted last night. I’ll tell you about it later.”

Marsha’s head disappeared, and a moment later three men came into her office. The first was black, big, cop written all over him. The second guy was smaller, a mustache, familiar in some way she couldn’t place. Bringing up the rear was a tall, wiry man, with sandy hair. He’s the one who spoke.

“Miss DeVilliers? I’m Detective Tom Mankowski. This is my partner, Roy Lewis, and this is Bert Blumberg.”

“Thanks for coming down, Officers. You’re here with good news, I hope. You caught the creep?”

“The creep?”

“The guy who attacked me.”

For a moment they didn’t seem to understand her. Then the tall one, Tom, approached her desk.

“Was it one of these guys?”

He opened up a binder and handed her three color computer print outs. The first picture was of a muscular man covered with tattoos. She flipped to the second page. Goatee. Green eyes. There was no doubt at all.

“This is him! Have you picked him up yet?”

“This man attacked you?”

“Twice. Tried to put me on a big stake. You’ve read the reports. Right?”

None of them answered. Joan narrowed her eyes.

“Are you guys LAPD?”

“Miss DeVilliers—”

“I’d like to see some identification, please.”

“Joan, listen, you’re in danger.”

“Do you have any ID or not?”

“Please, give us just a second. This is important.”

Joan felt her face flush. Paparazzi. It was only a matter of time before they caught wind of it. She hit the intercom button in her desk. “Marsha…”

“We’re not from LA. Roy and I are Chicago Homicide Detectives. We’re following up on a murder investigation where the victim had a number 7 tattooed on his heel. Just like your number 3.”

Marsha’s voice came through the speaker.
“Yes, Ms. DeVilliers?”

The tattoo again. Joan stared at Tom. His suit was off the rack, wrinkled, and his face left no doubt he was exhausted. His partners shared the look. Joan tried to tune into any perceived threat, any bad vibe, any hint of them being media jackals. They were calm as calm could be.

“Hold my calls.” Joan leaned back and crossed her legs. “You have my attention.”

“The man who attacked you is named Victor Pignosky. He goes by the name of Vlad. He also has a tattoo on his heel, the number 10. I’ve got a number 5. Bert here has a number 6. There are ten of us, total. All the same age. All adopted by different parents. Vlad and two of the others are trying to kill the rest of us—me, you, Bert. They’ve already succeeded twice.”

“Do you have any proof of this?”

Tom and Bert looked at each other, and then took off their shoes. Their tattoos matched the style of Joan’s.

“Okay, so why does this Vlad guy want to kill me—us?”

“We’re not sure.”

“And what’s the deal with the numbers? Are you guys my brothers?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, what exactly is going on?”

“We should tell her.” The familiar guy, Bert, nudged Tom.

He shook his head. “How can we prove it? With her, we can’t do the writing thing. There’s no pictures, no photos. Maybe we could look for old French paintings.”

“You’re going to have to tell her sooner or later.” The black man, Roy, shrugged. “She either buys it or she don’t.”

“Try me. I’m a Hollywood producer. I’ve heard it all.”

“Fine.” Tom took a deep breath. “This will sound crazy. It sounded crazy to me, when I heard it. But all ten of us, we weren’t born, normally. We were—created. In a lab, in Mexico.”

“Created, how? Are we talking mad scientists and test tubes here? Some holy miracle thing?”

“We were cloned from famous historical figures.”

Joan frowned. “You just lost me.”

The little guy sighed. “He’s telling the truth. I’m a clone of Albert Einstein. He’s Thomas Jefferson. The guy who attacked you is Vlad the Impaler.”

“And I’m…?”

“Joan of Arc.”

She hit the button. “Marsha, call Security.”

Tom said, “Look. This thing is big. The police won’t be able to protect you. Victor—Vlad—isn’t going to stop. We’re all on a hit list.”

“Nice try.”

“This is the truth.”

Joan let out a slow breath, surprised she’d suspended her disbelief for so long.

“Well, it sounds like a movie pitch. The cloning angle isn’t bad, but it needs work. Maybe approach it from a comedy perspective. You could call it
Send In the Clones
.”