The List (2 page)

“Sorry, Dad. There have been some, ah, complications. Jessup is dead.”

“Did he know about the others?”

“He knew a few, but was only in contact with one of them. We put Jack on it.”

“How about the girl?”

“Haven't heard anything yet. But with Jessup—there may be a little snag. The detective in charge of the case is Tom Mankowski.”

If Stang had a sense of humor, he might have laughed at the irony.

“It doesn't matter. He'll be dead before he learns anything. It won't interfere with Project Sunrise. Call when you hear about Joan.”

Stang hung up, not bothering to listen to his son's response. He shifted his attention back to the ceiling.

Waiting.

He was good at waiting. For more than three decades, he'd been biding his time. But a lifetime of patience would be rewarded within the next few days.

It was somewhat unfortunate that millions of people had to die to make it so.

Los Angeles

Joan DeVilliers looked at her beeper and noted the number. Marty.

She called him on the cell phone.

“Joan! You’re impossible to get a hold of.”

“Left my cell in the car.”

She turned down Santa Monica Boulevard and pulled alongside of a limo. The windows were tinted and impossible to see into, but Joan waved and blew a kiss. Never knew who it might be.

“Did you check your email?”

“Not yet. I’ve been on location all day. Ridley and Tom were having an argument.”

“Anything serious?”

“Everything is serious on a hundred mil picture. The gaffer has a hemorrhoid and it’s serious. What was the email?”

“It was from me, telling you to check your voice mail.”

Joan sighed. “Have you read the latest, Marty? About how cellular phones are linked to brain cancer? I can actually feel the tumor growing in my head right now.”

“I’ll buy you a lead hat, hon. Check your voice mail and call me back.”

Marty hung up. Joan punched the gas on the Jag to blow through a yellow light, then hit the speed dial for her voice mail. She rested the phone in the caddy to play it on the speaker.

“You have six calls.”

BEEP.

“Joan, Bill at Paramount. I talked to Peter. Expect a call.”

BEEP.

“This is Marty. Has Peter from Paramount called yet?”

BEEP.

“Joan, this is Peter at Paramount Studios. I’m green lighting the project. The contracts are being sent over. I look forward to working with you.”

BEEP.

“Joan? Max. The reservation is at nine. Call if you need directions to Carmichael’s. Looking forward.”

BEEP.

“It’s Marty again. Where are you? Have you been kidnapped? If you have been, let’s negotiate for the option. Did Peter call?”

BEEP.

“Joan DeVilliers?”

Joan squinted at the phone. She didn’t recognize the voice.

“I’ve scheduled your tattoo removal for tonight at your place.”

Tattoo removal? Who was this?

“Expect it to be very painful. See you later.”

“You have no more messages.”

A horn blared and Joan swerved out of incoming traffic. She pulled over to the curb, her heart racing. Joan only had one tattoo, and she was certain no one in LA knew about it. Even on the rare occasion that she’d brought a man home, none had found any reason to examine the bottom of her left heel.

The phone rang and Joan jumped in her seat, banging her head on the roof of the Jag. She hesitated, then hit the speaker.

“Joan? Marty. Isn’t it fabulous? Paramount bought it!”

“Fabulous, Marty.”

“You’re going to be producing two blockbusters at the same time!

Aren’t you excited? Joan, why aren’t you excited?”

“Marty, did you know I had a tattoo?”

“No, I didn’t. How modern primitive.”

“When was the last time I changed my cell number? Last month, right?”

“I don’t remember. Sounds right.”

“How many people do you think have it?”

“I don’t know. This is Hollywood, dearest. You
want
people to pass around your number. What’s wrong? Peter did make the offer, right?”

Joan rubbed her eyes. Perhaps she was over-reacting. It was probably a prank call, or a wrong number. Or, this being Hollywood, some kind of clandestine, high-concept movie pitch.

“I’m just being paranoid, Marty. Yes, I’m excited. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Night, hon.”

Joan pulled down the sun visor and checked her eye shadow. It hadn’t smudged. She finger-combed her short blond hair and debated changing into eveningwear for her date, but the idea of going home alone made her nervous.

I’m being ridiculous,
she thought. Some nut in the City of Mixed Nuts calls with a vague threat, and she was acting like a scream queen.

Her security system at the house was top notch, her dog Schnapps would die to protect her, she carried pepper spray, and most important of all Joan was a second dan black belt in karate.

Any freak who tried to mess with her would have his hands full.

She wove back into traffic and was at her home twenty minutes later.

Joan’s house was of moderate size—tiny by Beverly Hills standards, but more than enough space for her. It was nestled away in a small enclave of trees, the last lot on a tiny wooded hill. Private, quiet, a complete about-face from her high powered job. The occasional visitor was surprised to find the interior warm and rustic. Rather than harsh lighting, leather couches, Picasso lithos, and a bowl of cocaine on the bar, Joan had decorated like
Banana Republic
. The only thing chic about the place was her Jacuzzi, and even that was trimmed in cedar.

She hit the access code on her remote and the garage door opened.

In her mind she went through her gowns. Max had already seen the Versace. Maybe the Christian Dior? The same dress had been worn by Jodie Foster to some awards ceremony. She and Jodie were the same size, though Joan would have bought the dress no matter how big or small it was. It was black, classic, and simply stunning.

Joan parked and closed the garage door behind her. She entered the house using the keypad entrance, and then quickly reset the alarm.

Preoccupied with what she was going to wear, it took Joan a moment to realize something was wrong.

Schnapps.

A month ago, she’d bought the German Shepherd from best handler in California. A trained guard dog, but a lovable one as well.

He normally greeted her at the door. Joan’s mind raced. Is he sleeping?

Eating? Sick? Hurt?

Dead?

The phone call. Tattoo removal.

Joan reached into her purse and palmed the pepper spray in her right hand. In her left she gripped her car keys, making sure their jagged edges poked out through her fingers.

Then, without hesitation, she opened the door without punching in the code. This would set off the alarm and alert the police.

But nothing happened. No piercing siren. No lights going on. No immediate call back from the security company to see if this was a false alarm.

Joan bounded out the door and into the garage, almost bumping into the man leaning against her Jaguar.

He was average height, medium build, dressed in a black turtleneck and pants. On his hands were leather driving gloves, skin tight. He had deep green eyes, and a meticulous black goatee came to a point on his chin.

Joan forced back the shock and assumed a defensive position. The man didn’t appear to be armed. He smiled at her.

“Hello, Joan.”

She attacked. In two steps she was on him, lashing out at the invader’s face with her keys. He ducked away and sidestepped her, using her momentum to throw her against the car.

Joan absorbed the impact with her shoulder and spun, spraying mace in an arc as she turned.

He got inside of her arc and grabbed her around the waist.

“Aren’t we feisty?”

His breath was garlic and peppers. She jerked back her head and smashed it against his face, and then threw a roundhouse left that buried her ignition key in his biceps.

He stumbled backwards, bleeding from two places, and Joan twisted out of his grip and ran into the house, locking the door behind her.

The phone was dead. Her cell was in the car.

“Eight thousand dollars worth of goddamn security!”

Quick choice—fight or run? He was stronger. Outweighed her.

Smart enough to disable her dog and her security system.

Run.

Joan kicked off her heels and headed for the kitchen. She grabbed a paring knife from the butcher block on her counter. Resting on a mat by the patio door were her jogging shoes. Ears cocked, she slipped them on without bothering to tie the laces. Then she eased open the patio door and moved cautiously into her backyard.

The moon was out and it was a clear night. Joan side-stepped her garden and headed to the back of the house. She decided to cut through the woods and head for the neighbor’s.

She found her dog when she rounded the corner.

In the shadows, she first thought Schnapps had been hung.

Moving closer, Joan realized he’d been speared on a big stick which had been driven into the ground. Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t draw a breath to scream.

To her left was an even bigger stick, with a ladder set up next to it.

“That one is for you.” A voice, from behind her. “Let’s see if it fits.”

Joan ducked a shoulder and rolled towards the intruder, coming up in a kick to his chest. He caught her foot and twisted. To avoid a broken ankle, Joan flipped with the twist and wound up on her back, her head swimming.

“Don’t you want to know who I am? The last one had so many questions. I answered all of them, in the sixteen hours it took for him to die.”

He removed a cloth and a small bottle from his pocket. In the moonlight, the blood trickling from his nose looked like motor oil.

“I’ll give you a choice. Where do you want the stake, the ass or the crotch?”

Joan rolled onto her stomach and got up in a crouch. When she felt his touch she shot out both of her feet, mule-kicking him in the chest. Then she ran.

She had several advantages. She was in shape. She knew the area.

And most of all, she was running for her life. It took her a few seconds to find the trail in the dark, but once she did she ran like hell. Branches whipped at her face, and twice she almost tripped on some unseen obstacle, but she continued full tilt until she’d reached the backyard of her closest neighbor.

Not bothering with the doorbell, Joan picked up a terra-cotta flower pot and smashed it through a window.

The siren wailed. The security lights came on.

Joan stood with her back to the house—the paring knife clutched in her hands and her eyes scanning the woods—and waited for the police to arrive.

Chicago

Tom returned to his office at the 26th District, in the heart of downtown. He dragged along a large suitcase—Jessup’s—that he and Roy had filled with papers and personal effects from the deceased’s apartment. Roy had gone to the Harold Washington Library, where Jessup worked, to search his office and talk to his co-workers, leaving Tom to sort through the suitcase solo. Tom was fine with that—he was almost feverish with questions, and the suitcase might contain answers.

There was half a pot of old coffee set up on a table near the lockers, which Tom took back to his desk.

They'd worked the crime scene all morning, the discovery of Jessup's number tattoo fueling Tom's urgency. Tom hadn't found any obvious clues pertaining to it, or the man's murder. But the resemblance to his own tattoo was undeniable.

He'd asked his parents about the mark at an early age. They had no answers—when they'd adopted him at a few weeks old, he'd already had the tattoo. Some years ago, after becoming a cop, Tom had searched for his birth parents, but could find no evidence that he was even adopted. According to the county, he was naturally born to Joe and Laura Mankowski.

That was impossible, of course. His parents were both of Polish descent; short, dark, stocky. Tom was at least a foot taller, and several shades lighter.

He dug into the suitcase, pulling out some documents. Tom discovered he and Jessup were born at the same hospital. A labeled picture of Jessup with his parents showed that he also had little resemblance to them. Adopted as well? A long-lost brother?

“Not unless it was a really long labor,” Tom mused. He and Jessup were born six days apart. He located a death certificate for Jessup's father, along with several US patents in his father's name. One of his patents was for a waterproof hairdryer, which in Tom's mind sort of defeated the purpose.

A recent birthday card from Jessup's mother wished him thirty more years of happiness, with love and kisses. Postmark from Des Moines. A piece of notebook paper with several book titles on it was found in Jessup's desk. Handwriting appeared to be his. Among the titles were several biographies of Thomas Edison, a bio of Lincoln, a book about the Declaration of Independence, a book about the Theory of Relativity, and an old Ira Levin thriller. Tom checked the inventory sheet. None of these books were found in the apartment.

Tom plugged a pen drive into his USB port—he’d copied Jessup’s

My Documents
folder—and waded through spreadsheets, games, tax figures, and letters concerning library business. It took almost an hour and the remainder of the coffee before he found something interesting.

A word processing file,
BERT.DOC
. It had no address heading, and was dated nine days ago.

Bert—

Looking forward to meeting you, to see if you live up to your many pictures. I realize it must be a shock, and even with the proof in the articles and in our birth certificates, you must still harbor some doubt. Besides the question of how, there are also many whys.

Perhaps we can figure these out together, as wel as find the others.

I’m enclosing a copy of a photo of you I recently found. Call me when you’ve made travel

arrangements.

All best,

T. Jessup

Tom read it again, trying to find the hidden meaning. Was Bert a pen pal? Someone famous? Or had Jessup managed to find another person with a tattoo on their heel?