closet.”
“Tumblety was fifty-five years old. How many serial killers over fifty have you heard of?”
“I don’t mean to interrupt here, but you two know so much about the Ripper because...?”
“Police Academy. Mandatory course on suspect elimination. We had to study the Ripper case files and write reports about who we think did it.”
“And you think that guy was Jack the Ripper?”
“If all this cloning stuff is for real, it’s a possibility.”
“Could be.” Roy shrugged. “But if it was, it was Tumblety, not that fish porter cat.”
“So who was that other guy with all the tattoos?”
“His name is Arthur Kilpatrick. He has a number 9 on his heel.”
Bert leaned back and folded his arms. “Arthur... Arthur... what famous historical figured were named Arthur?”
They all thought about it for a moment.
“King Arthur,” Roy said. “He had a sword too.”
“Arthur Conan Doyle. The creator of Sherlock Holmes.”
“Arthur Treacher. The fish and chip mogul.”
Roy pulled a face. “Good one, Einstein. They clone Jefferson, Lincoln, and Arthur Treacher.”
“It’s better than King Arthur. He wasn’t even real.”
“Sure he was. Didn’t you see Camelot ?”
Bert rolled his eyes. “Oh, that’s some good proof right there. That explains why he broke into song and dance.”
“Maybe I’ll dance a number on your face. Do an E equals MC ass whupping.”
“You know, you’ve got some major issues, Roy.”
“ I’ve got issues?”
“You’ve got a whole subscription.”
Tom made the decision right there to never have children.
“Here’s the Hyatt, thank God. We’ll pull up to the lobby. Bert and I will wait in the car. Roy, you run in and get his stuff.”
“I should have two suitcases full of lures. Make sure they cleared out my booth. I want receipts. Don’t touch or break anything.”
Roy gave him a look that would wilt flowers. Tom parked in front of the main entrance and turned off the engine.
“Call if there’s trouble.”
“The hotel should have an inventory list.” Bert said. “Don’t forget it.”
Roy frowned. “Hundred fifty years of freedom, and the black man is running to get the white man’s bags.”
He got out of the car and took a good look around before heading into the lobby. Tom put his arm over the back of the seat and faced Bert.
“Can you please stop antagonizing my partner?”
“It’s not me. It’s him. I think he hates me because I’m Jewish.”
“That’s completely untrue. Race is not an issue with Roy. He hates everybody equally.”
Tom turned back around just as his side window splintered. A sharp cracking sound filled his ears, the wind ruffling the hair on the back of his head.
“Get down!”
Tom lunged onto the passenger side, digging out his Glock. He chanced a look at the driver’s side window and saw a spider web pattern with a one inch hole in the center.
Sniper rifle. High caliber—it punched through the glass, clean.
Something slower would have shattered it. He looked in front of him and saw a divot in the upper portion of the passenger door. Based on the angle, whoever was shooting at him was higher up. The hotel was shaped like a big U, so he was probably in one of the rooms on the opposite side.
Tom considered starting the car and driving out of there, but he’d have to turn around, which would give the shooter a full front windshield to shoot through. And Tom was a big target.
“Stay down, we’re going out the right door.”
“Was that a bullet?”
Another hole materialized in the glass. The driver’s headrest jerked back violently.
“Move!”
Tom tugged at the handle and pulled himself through the passenger side. He helped yank out Bert with his left hand and then closed the door, staying low. There was a loud bang. Tom hadn’t heard any previous shots, assuming a silencer was being used. When the front end of the Mustang began to sink forward he realized a tire had been shot out. Tom called
“Tumblety was fifty-five years old. How many serial killers over fifty have you heard of?”
“I don’t mean to interrupt here, but you two know so much about the Ripper because...?”
“Police Academy. Mandatory course on suspect elimination. We had to study the Ripper case files and write reports about who we think did it.”
“And you think that guy was Jack the Ripper?”
“If all this cloning stuff is for real, it’s a possibility.”
“Could be.” Roy shrugged. “But if it was, it was Tumblety, not that fish porter cat.”
“So who was that other guy with all the tattoos?”
“His name is Arthur Kilpatrick. He has a number 9 on his heel.”
Bert leaned back and folded his arms. “Arthur... Arthur... what famous historical figured were named Arthur?”
They all thought about it for a moment.
“King Arthur,” Roy said. “He had a sword too.”
“Arthur Conan Doyle. The creator of Sherlock Holmes.”
“Arthur Treacher. The fish and chip mogul.”
Roy pulled a face. “Good one, Einstein. They clone Jefferson, Lincoln, and Arthur Treacher.”
“It’s better than King Arthur. He wasn’t even real.”
“Sure he was. Didn’t you see Camelot ?”
Bert rolled his eyes. “Oh, that’s some good proof right there. That explains why he broke into song and dance.”
“Maybe I’ll dance a number on your face. Do an E equals MC ass whupping.”
“You know, you’ve got some major issues, Roy.”
“ I’ve got issues?”
“You’ve got a whole subscription.”
Tom made the decision right there to never have children.
“Here’s the Hyatt, thank God. We’ll pull up to the lobby. Bert and I will wait in the car. Roy, you run in and get his stuff.”
“I should have two suitcases full of lures. Make sure they cleared out my booth. I want receipts. Don’t touch or break anything.”
Roy gave him a look that would wilt flowers. Tom parked in front of the main entrance and turned off the engine.
“Call if there’s trouble.”
“The hotel should have an inventory list.” Bert said. “Don’t forget it.”
Roy frowned. “Hundred fifty years of freedom, and the black man is running to get the white man’s bags.”
He got out of the car and took a good look around before heading into the lobby. Tom put his arm over the back of the seat and faced Bert.
“Can you please stop antagonizing my partner?”
“It’s not me. It’s him. I think he hates me because I’m Jewish.”
“That’s completely untrue. Race is not an issue with Roy. He hates everybody equally.”
Tom turned back around just as his side window splintered. A sharp cracking sound filled his ears, the wind ruffling the hair on the back of his head.
“Get down!”
Tom lunged onto the passenger side, digging out his Glock. He chanced a look at the driver’s side window and saw a spider web pattern with a one inch hole in the center.
Sniper rifle. High caliber—it punched through the glass, clean.
Something slower would have shattered it. He looked in front of him and saw a divot in the upper portion of the passenger door. Based on the angle, whoever was shooting at him was higher up. The hotel was shaped like a big U, so he was probably in one of the rooms on the opposite side.
Tom considered starting the car and driving out of there, but he’d have to turn around, which would give the shooter a full front windshield to shoot through. And Tom was a big target.
“Stay down, we’re going out the right door.”
“Was that a bullet?”
Another hole materialized in the glass. The driver’s headrest jerked back violently.
“Move!”
Tom tugged at the handle and pulled himself through the passenger side. He helped yank out Bert with his left hand and then closed the door, staying low. There was a loud bang. Tom hadn’t heard any previous shots, assuming a silencer was being used. When the front end of the Mustang began to sink forward he realized a tire had been shot out. Tom called
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