The List (8 page)

Tom figured his apartment was bugged, and probably being watched as well. Roy’s place was clean; they’d swept it with the Foxhound earlier.

“Mi casa is your casa. Just don’t let him touch anything.” Roy stared at Bert and pointed. “Don’t touch a damn thing. One thing out of place, and I break your face.”

Bert folded his arms. “Why are you mad at me? I wasn’t the one who told you to jump out the window, ass first.”

“Both you and your damn fishing plugs are going out my window in about ten seconds.”

“Maybe I should stay in a hotel.”

“Bert, please. It would be safer if we stuck together.”

“I know when I’m not wanted.”

“You’re wanted. Roy, tell him.”

“Don’t want him using my john, neither.”

Tom walked his partner into the bedroom. Roy flopped onto the bed, face first. Tom debated helping him take off his pants, but decided to let them be. Leave the guy some dignity.

“Roy, I’m putting your pills here next to the bed.”

“Thanks, Tom.”

“You need anything, I’ll be in the other room.”

“Towels.”

“You need towels?”

“I don’t want him using my towels, neither.”

Tom turned off the light and quietly closed the door. Bert was in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge.

“At least he has good taste in beer. Russian Imperial Stout. Need one?”

“Yeah.”

Bert grabbed two and sat next to Tom at the breakfast bar. There was a carved wooden bottle opener in the shape of a naked African goddess on the table. Bert opened both beers and handed one to Tom.

The cop sipped it—sweet and malty, with a higher alcohol content than its English counterpart.

Bert took a swig from the bottle and looked around the apartment.

There was a definite tribal theme here: voodoo masks on the walls, a tiger print rug, a black leather couch with a leopard throw on the back.

The large rack of LPs, though practically antiques themselves, seemed too contemporary.

“Look, cut Roy a little slack. He’s a good guy. He doesn’t make friends too easily.”

“That’s surprising. He’s such a warm and cuddly fellow. What’s his story?”

“Roy grew up in Cabrini Green. One of the worst housing projects in Chicago, back then. Single mother, two younger brothers. Roy was the man of the family almost as soon as he could walk. But it was tough. He lost one brother to gangs, the other one to drugs. Took it real hard.”

“I get it. He keeps people at a distance.” Bert drank from his bottle. “I had an older brother, passed away when I was five. He wasn’t adopted. I think my father wishes it was me instead of him that died.

How about you? Brothers or sisters?”

“Just me.”

“Lonely growing up?”

“Not really.”

“That’s because you never knew what you were missing. Never having something is different than having something and losing it.”

Tom took another sip of stout and considered Bert’s words. They made sense. He’d dated Donna for three years, and had even considered asking her to marry him. When she left, Tom felt like she took a part of him with her, a part that still was vacant and hollow. He wondered if he’d ever be able to fill that emptiness again.

Bert belched, interrupting his reverie. Tom lightly touched his scalp where the bullet had grazed him. Six stitches. The doctor had wanted to shave off the hair around the wound so it could be bandaged, but Tom wouldn’t allow it. It was bad enough looking like Quasimodo—shaving half his head was out of the question.

He glanced at the clock on the microwave. Almost ten o’clock.

After their trip to the hospital, it took three hours to debrief the Rosemont Police Department. RPD kept things cordial, considering they’d had their jurisdiction trampled on and hadn’t been informed.

Tom’s own boss, Lieutenant Daniels, hadn’t been as charitable.

She chewed them out, promising a full investigation of the incident, and demanding that next time they follow correct protocol for operating out of their territory.

Tom took another sip of beer, and found the bottle empty. He grabbed two more from the fridge. Bert took his, nodding a thanks.

“You know, when we were back there getting shot at, I had one of those moments where my whole life flashed before my eyes.”

“So I gathered.”

“I’ve had a boring life. Not a bad one—just very mediocre. But since Jessup told me that I’m Einstein, it’s given me a new reason to live. I mean, I’m actually somebody now. You know what I mean?”

“Not really.”

“Don’t you feel any different, knowing you’re Thomas Jefferson?”

Tom picked at the label on his beer with a thumbnail.

“I don’t know how to feel. Suppose I am Jefferson. What does that mean, exactly? I may have the same genes, but I’m not the same man. I didn’t do all of those great things that he did. I’m still Tom Mankowski, no matter what my face looks like. Aren’t I?”

“I’ve been struggling with this one, too. Here I’ve got Einstein’s brain.” Bert tapped his temple. “The brain of the most brilliant man to ever walk the earth. And what am I doing? I buy and sell fishing lures.”

Tom opened their beers and took a long pull. “You’re just a salesman, I’m just a cop. Not quite living up to our genetic potential, are we?”

“Is there such a thing? Does anyone truly live up to their potential? Here’s a good question for you—is greatness in a person born or made?”

Tom didn’t have an answer.

“I think it’s a combination.” Bert scratched at the bandage on his chin. “Some people are born with a fire inside them. The will to succeed. It isn’t a learned behavior. It’s just some unknown biological factor that makes them try harder.”

Tom stared into Bert’s eyes. Einstein’s eyes.

“Do you think you have that fire in you?”

Bert took a moment before answering. “Sometimes... sometimes I really think I do.”

They finished their second beers. Bert went for the thirds, throwing out the empty six-pack container.

“Your friend’s going to be upset we drank all his beer.”

“He’ll be fine. He was drugged up and in pain, that’s all.”

“He hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you.”

“He won’t let me use the toilet.”

“You can use the toilet, Bert. It’ll be fine.”

Bert opened the beers and set one before Tom.

“So what’s the story with the lures?” Tom gestured at the suitcases. “Let me guess—your dad is a fisherman.”

“Wrong. Physics professor. The lures are an investment. Look at it this way—things like stock, or gold, or real estate—they fluctuate with the market, but they more or less go up steadily. But with collectibles like dolls or toys or fishing lures, the potential for profit...”

“Hold on a sec,” Tom interrupted.

This couldn’t be a coincidence. Bert’s dad was a physics teacher.

Tom’s dad was a politician. Jessup’s dad was an inventor.

“That Tennessee cop, the clone of Robert E. Lee. You think his father was in the military?

“So?” Bert didn’t see the connection. “My dad was in the army.

Jessup mentioned his was too. Was yours?”

Tom’s father had done a tour in Vietnam. He wondered if Bert had stumbled onto something. Was that how all of the clones’ parents were chosen? Dad had the same profession as the clone, and had a link to the military?

Tom stood up, thoughts racing. He needed to get online. Roy was the last of the technophobes—he didn’t even own a calculator, let alone a computer. Tom went to the kitchen and checked drawers until he found a phone book.

“Are you okay? What are you doing?”

Ignoring Bert, Tom looked up the name of a popular all-night copying center and located the one nearest to Roy. As he’d hoped, there was one only a few blocks away.

“I have to go out.”

“Where?”

“I have to track down a lead. Stay here, get some rest.”

“What if Roy gets up? If you’re gone, he’s gonna throw me out the window.”

“It’s only the third floor. Try to go limp right before you hit the ground.”

Tom grabbed his jacket, gun, and Roy’s keys, and was out the door.

The night had gotten cooler, freezing weather right around the corner. Tom stuck his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders, an act that caused pain flares in each of his injuries. He walked down an alley that let him out on Addison and hung a left, heading east.

Roy’s neighborhood was a nice one. It was easy to spot Chicago’s good sections—no graffiti and the sidewalks weren’t broken. Even at this hour and temperature there were people out. Some high school kids, clowning around with a tennis ball against a brick wall. Four young women in short skirts on their way to one of the many clubs along the strip. Two guys, walking the opposite way, openly admiring the girls. An older couple, huddling close because of love or warmth or both.

Tom moved at a good clip, going left on Clark, easily spotting the copy shop between a submarine sandwich place and a liquor store.

It was busy, as expected; someone somewhere was always having a school or business emergency. Tom looked along the far wall and saw the computers available to rent by the hour. All were in use. He approached the counter and took out his badge.

“I need to use a computer.”

The kid didn’t even bother looking up at him. He was a twenty-something slacker type with a pink streak in his black hair and a Sex Pistols pin on his blue uniform shirt.

“Sorry. All booked up for the night.”

Tom squinted at his name tag. Carl.

“This is a police emergency, Carl.”

Carl glanced up, giving Tom the once over.

“You’re a cop?”

Tom offered his badge as proof.

“Man, someone sure kicked your ass.”

“You should see the other guy. They have to feed him through a tube.”

“I bet. Hold on, lemme see what’s going on.”

He walked out from behind the counter and approached the computers. After a brief chat with a girl sitting in the third booth, he motioned Tom over. The girl who was booted gave Tom a dirty look as she left. He took her seat.

“My sister. She was here for free anyway. Knock yourself out.”

Tom got on the net and went to the CPD database, accessing Arthur Kilpatrick’s rap sheet. His parents were dead. Fire Marshall’s report suspected arson. A few clicks revealed that Kilpatrick’s father had also been in the army. The same went for that cop in Tennessee.

It was doubtful the Army would let him into its private database, but he wasn’t going that route. All groups, no matter the size, were made up of people. And people had the tendency to stay in touch.

Within a few keystrokes Tom found a dozen websites whose sole purpose was to help a person find their old Army buddies. He hunkered down over the keyboard and cracked his knuckles, preparing himself for the task ahead. This might all be a waste of time, but it seemed like the way to go. So far, all roads lead back to the Army. It stood to reason that Harold Harper, the doctor from Rush-Presbyterian Hospital who was responsible for faking Tom’s birth certificate, might have also been in the Army. He began to search.

The surname Harper was common. Tom found several Harolds on different sites, eliminating anyone who was too young to have been a doctor thirty years ago. Of those who did match, he clicked on their bios to get a background, looking for either medical training or a previous address in Chicago or New Mexico. After an hour of monotonous effort he hit pay dirt. An Army surgeon, the right age, with a current address in Albuquerque.

Tom checked his watch. New Mexico was an hour behind, right?

It was late, but a doctor would be used to being awoken in the middle of the night. He took out his cell phone and dialed the number.

After five rings there was an answer.

“Yes?” The voice was male, deep and groggy.

“Dr. Harold Harper?”

“Yes?”

“The same Harold Harper who worked at Rush-Presbyterian in Chicago?”

“Who is this?”

“My name is Detective Tom Mankowski, Chicago Police Department. I’m calling—”

“Wait a moment. Did you say Mankowski?”

Tom paused. This was the doctor who had forged the birth certificates. Who’s to say he wasn’t in on this entire murder plot?

“Detective Mankowski? Are you still there? I believe I know why you called. When did you find out?”

The doctor sounded eager, genuine. Good guy or bad guy?

Ultimately it didn’t matter. There had been two attempts on Tom’s life in two days. It wasn’t as if talking to someone could make it any worse.

“I found out today.”

“How did you trace me... the birth certificates?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful. This is wonderful. I haven’t seen you since your graduation from the Academy.”

That came out of left field. “You were there?”

“Of course. Since the funding dried up, I’ve tried to keep tabs on the Lucky Seven—not always successfully, I’m afraid. You were always my favorite. You’re a detective now? Wonderful. So, when are you going to fulfill everyone’s expectations and go into politics?”

“Dr. Harper...”

“Harold. Call me Harold.”

“You’re getting ahead of me here.”

“Yes. You must have many questions. Do you know about the others?”

“I’ve met Bert. He’s the one who told me.”

“Albert? Splendid. Is he still a stock market wizard?”

“He buys and sells fishing lures.”

“Hmm. There’s one for the social scientists to ponder.”

“Harold, you just mentioned the Lucky Seven. I thought there were ten.”

There was a long pause.

“You know about—
them
?”

“By them do you mean Jack the Ripper and Arthur Kilpatrick?”

“Oh dear. They’re still in jail, I hope?

“I wish. Both of them tried to kill me last night.”

Dr. Harold clicked his tongue several times. “They know as well?

Oh dear. This isn’t good. I warned him about this.”

“Is that really Jack the Ripper?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“And that other guy? Kilpatrick?”

“Attila the Hun.”

Tom let out a breath. He felt a little better. It was a real ego blow to get beaten up by a short guy. But since the short guy was once the barbarian who conquered the world, it was a little easier to take.