“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.

  “Harold, there’s a lot to discuss here. Let’s start at the beginning.”

  “Over the phone? Why don’t you come out to the ranch? We could talk all you like. It would be lovely to finally talk to one of you, after all of these years.”

  Tom thought it over. Could be a trap, of course. And so much had happened in the last few days that leaving town now wasn’t the wisest idea. But interrogating someone in person was infinitely preferable to over the phone. With cell phone rates what they were, it might actually be cheaper to fly down there.

  “We might be able to get there tomorrow, if we can find a flight.”

  “Excellent. I can meet you at the airport in Albuquerque. Just tell me the time.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “I’ve thought about this many times. One of you finally figuring it out. Once or twice I almost called you up and told you, but you would have thought I was crazy. Listen to me, an old man rambling on. I’ll wait for your call tomorrow.”

  Tom couldn’t resist. “It’s true, isn’t it? I’m really a clone of Thomas Jefferson?”

  “Yes, my boy, you are. I should know. I’m the one who did it.”

  “See you soon, Doctor.”

  Tom ended the call. Several people around him were staring.

  Their expression left no doubt they’d heard the conversation. Carl was among the bemused.

  “How much do I owe you?”

  “No charge—President Jefferson.”

  His expression was so smarmy that Tom wanted to yank the pink streak out of his head. Instead of resorting to violence, he glanced at the pay rate for computer time and fished out his wallet. He plunked down a five.

  “Is there anything else you need to purchase? Stationary? Pens?”

  He smirked. “Louisiana?”

  Tom left the shop, not sticking around to hear Carl’s laughter.

  Questions were about to be answered. And no one had a bigger stake in it than Tom did.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  Los Angeles

  “You poor dear. This is horrible. Simply horrible.”

  Marty hugged Joan for what seemed like the hundredth time. He was more devastated than she was, bless his heart. Short, bald, immaculately dressed Marty, smelling of expensive aftershave even though he had a chic three-day beard. He was a genuine friend.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt your date.”

  “Hush. You should have called after it happened the first time.

  Justin wouldn’t have minded at all. Right, Justin?”

  Justin came over for a group hug. “Of course not. I’m happy to be here for the two of you. Twice in one night. How horrible.”

  Joan felt smothered from all the embracing going on. She gently freed herself from the care-fest.

  “I can get a room someplace, if I’m intruding.”

  “Nonsense.” Marty and Justin said it at the same time.

  “I have to be going, anyway.” Justin gave Joan a peck on the cheek and another hug. “I wish we could have met under better circumstances. Marty talks about you so much, I’m jealous.”

  Joan offered a gracious smile and a thank you. Justin gave Marty a more personal good-bye, and promised to call tomorrow to see how everything was going. He left with a big wave.

  “How long have you been keeping him a secret?” Joan gave Marty a playful punch in the shoulder.

  “Two weeks. I’ve been dying to tell you, but I wanted the test results first.” Marty wouldn’t get serious with anyone who didn’t have a current bill of good health, signed and dated. “Isn’t he gorgeous?

  He’s into interior design, and he’s my size. I just doubled my wardrobe.”

  “Congrats.”

  “But this isn’t about me. Can I get you some coffee? Something stronger?”

  “I’m tired. I’d like to get some sleep. Busy day tomorrow. Got those contracts to sign.”

  “Dear, I know you’re joking. You can’t go back to work after a shock like this.”

  “Well I can’t stay at your place forever, peeking through the blinds.”

  “So brave.” Marty brushed the bangs off of her forehead. “Would you like me to call the hospital again, see how Max is doing?”

  “I’m sure his condition hasn’t changed since twenty minutes ago.

  You can’t get more stable than stable.”

  “It’s so heroic that he came back to your place.”

  Joan kept her thoughts to herself on that one. She felt bad for Max, but any affection she may have had for him disappeared when he deemed Carmichael’s more important than she was.

  “I’ll get your room ready. Extra towels are in the bathroom closet if you want a shower.”

  “I think I’d like that drink, actually.”

  “Vodka okay? It’s imported. Super-premium, supposedly filtered five times.”

  “Sounds great, Marty. Thanks.”

  “Be back in two shakes.”

  Joan found her way to the couch and plopped down, displacing an unhappy Siamese cat. It arched its back and hissed before stalking off.

  “Right back atcha.”

  She noted the time on the entertainment stand—Marty was so meticulous he actually set his DVD clock. Coming up on one in the morning. It felt so much later. Joan kicked off her running shoes, the same pair she’d worn to the police station on the first trip. Curling her legs up under her, she found herself staring at the bottom of her left heel.

  Number 3. Her parents had never given her a straight answer about the tattoo. When she was younger, they told her things like You’re the third angel that came out of heaven or I love you has three words, and we wanted you to always remember that.

  Joan knew she was adopted from the moment she could talk. Her parents began their family late in life; her father had been career Army and was always flitting from one part of the world to another. When he finally settled down, he and his wife were already in their late forties.

  Losing them had been unbearable. Mom from heart disease, and Dad from a broken heart, missing Mom so much. Joan so much wanted to call them right now, have them tell her it would all be okay.

  But would it be okay? The psycho who attacked her knew about the tattoo. It seemed somehow tied in with the reason he wanted to kill her. Someone wants me dead, Joan thought. She shivered. There was something going on here that was beyond her understanding, and she didn’t know who to turn to for help. The police didn’t even file a report for the second attack—Joan watched as the detective in charge tagged it onto the end of the first one. Rather than offer to escort her home, they suggested she spend the night elsewhere. So much for protecting and serving.

  “What would you prefer, hon, cranberry or OJ?”

  Marty approached with a cocktail tray, complete with a small silver ice bucket and tongs. He was so cute, Marty.

  “Just ice. Thanks.”

  Marty plunked some cubes into a rocks glass and poured her a healthy shot of vodka. Joan gulped it down like water. The burn made her stomach clench, but she held it down.

  “Hit you again, Miss?”

  “Please.”

  After he filled her glass, she patted the cushion next to her and Marty sat down.

  “Is that the tattoo you were talking about? What is it, the golden arches?”

  “It’s a 3.”

  “How mysterious. What does it mean?”

  Joan took a small sip of vodka. “I have no idea. I’ve had it since I was a baby.”

  “You know, I worked with a man who had a tattoo just like that.

  Not a three, though. I think he was number four.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. Same size, same blue color. We had a company party at the beach and I noticed and asked him about it. He didn’t know where it came from either.”

  “Who was he?”

  “He wrote ad copy at that agency in Santa Monica that you lured me away from. Gosh, this was years ago. What was his name? Began with a B. Bob, Brian, Buster, Bill... Bill. Bill Masterton. God, I’m so happy I’m out of the advertising biz. It’s so cutthroat.”

  She rolled her eyes. “And the movie business isn’t cutthroat?”

  “Of course it is, but at least we pretend to be nice to one another.”

  Joan took another sip of vodka. “Do you think he still works there?”

  “Why? Do he think he might be your long lost brother or something? How’s that for a movie of the week—four children, separated at birth, each with a number to identify them, and an intrepid mother’s search to track them down. I bet Lifetime would lap it up.”

  “What was the agency?”

  “Hmm? Oh, Chalmers/Sloan. Kind of an eclectic client list. They do a lot of print stuff, not too much TV work.”

  Joan finished the drink and mulled it over. Another person with a number tattoo. It could mean nothing, or it could mean a lot. She’d have to check the guy out.

  A yawn escaped her mouth, and the alcohol was taking the edge off of her paranoia.

  “Dear, you’re exhausted. Let’s get you to bed.”

  Silently, Joan followed him down the hall and to the guest bedroom. Marty had turned down the blankets and left a large white T-shirt on the pillow.

  “There’s a new toothbrush on the sink. I’m one room over if you need anything.”

  “Thanks, Marty.” She gave him one more hug. “Good night.”

  “Sweet dreams, hon.”

  She closed the door and undressed. The T-shirt had a Harley Davidson logo on it and smelled like fabric softener. She put it on and slipped into the cool, inviting bed, too tired to take her make-up off.

  Sleep came fast and hard.

  Joan jolted herself awake sometime the next morning.

  She’d had a nightmare, a reoccurring one that went back to her childhood. In it, she was being chased by someone or something. She could never see its face. The closer it got, the harder it became to run—her legs got heavy, and her feet stuck to the ground, and it seemed like she was moving in slow motion. Joan would try harder and harder to get away, but no matter how much she strained the thing would always get her. That was when she’d wake up, often gasping for air.

  This time it was worse than usual. When the thing caught her, it began to drag her to a large, pointed stake buried in the ground.

  “Ass or crotch?”

  She bolted upright in bed, her heart banging away, and tried to remember where she was. The sun was peeking through the blinds, and a clock radio she’d never seen before told her it was a little past eight.

  Marty’s place. Joan relaxed, leaning back and wiping the crust out of her eyes. She got out of bed and padded over to the bathroom. The mirror confirmed her fears. She looked like hell. Her eyes were red and baggy, her face was drawn, her hair resembled a dead plant.

  Joan showered, brushed her teeth twice, found and used some Visine, and went back to the bedroom to change. Marty had already made the bed and laid her clothes out for her. There was also a big, foamy cup of cappuccino on the nightstand.