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from the doorway. Max. She got off her assailant and hurried to him. He was curled up in a fetal position, bleeding from several holes in his chest. His face looked like a lasagna. She turned his head to the side so the blood wouldn’t run down his throat, and then felt in his jacket pocket for his phone. Joan dialed 911 and considered what she should do with the intruder. Tie him up somehow?
    It didn’t matter. When she looked down the driveway, the man was no longer there.
    “Beverly Hills 911 Emergency, this is Mrs. Schmidtt.”
    “My name is Joan DeVilliers. I need an ambulance and the police here as soon as possible. I’m at 1445 Hillcrest.”
    “Can you explain what happened?”
    “I was attacked.” Joan’s voice broke. “Again.”

----
Chapter 7
    Chicago

    The O’Hare Hyatt Regency was one of the larger hotels in the area, with over a thousand rooms. The eight-story building had been constructed in a U-shape, with parking all around it. Tom circled slowly, trying to find a space. Even the handicapped spots were full.
    He put the Mustang in the Courtesy Bus slot.
    The lobby was buzzing. The majority of people milling about were white males over fifty, many sporting novelty T-Shirts with slogans like GET HOOKED ON LURES and KISS MY BASS . The duo made their way to Check-In and waited for the smiling concierge to notice them.
    “Are you gentleman here for the convention?”
    “No, ma’am. I’m Detective Mankowski, this is Detective Lewis.”
    They held out their badges. The girl’s smile held. She was young, blonde, attractive. Upon noticing this, Roy sidled closer, becoming Alpha cop.
    “What can we do for you, Detectives?”
    “We need your help in a homicide investigation. We’re looking for a suspect believed to be registered here. He’s manning a table at the convention.”
    “I can check to see if he’s registered. His name?”

    “All we have is the first name. Bert.”
    “That may be tough. We have over fifteen hundred guests currently registered, and they’re organized by last name.”
    “Can you look them up by address? We believe he’s from Milwaukee.”
    “I can try.” She pushed a few buttons on her computer. “Okay, here. We currently have a hundred and sixteen guests with a listed Milwaukee address.”
    “Anyone named Bert?” Tom tried to crane his neck over the top of the computer to see the screen. “It might also be variations—Robert, Herbert, Albert, Norbert, Cuthbert, Dilbert...”
    “Q*Bert.” Roy grinned. She batted her eyelashes at him. Tom had never seen a woman actually bat her eyelashes outside of television.
    “It’ll take a moment, I’ll have to go through them name by name.
    Okay, here’s a Robert. Signed in as Bob, not Bert. Not a seller.
    Whoever bought table space in the convention center gets a special room rate. Let’s see. Michael. Jeffrey. George. Chris. John. Here’s one.
    Albert Blumberg. He has a booth and he did sign in as Bert.”
    “Can we have his room number and table number?”
    “He’s in room 714, booth number 18-A. I’ll give you a convention map.”
    “Any others?”
    She spent a minute going through the rest of the names. A fat guy in a shirt that read MASTER BAITER walked through the lobby, proclaiming the auction was about to begin. It thinned the crowd considerably.
    “No others. He was the only one.”
    They received a convention map and left the front desk, heading down a hallway to the Normandy Room, a huge warehouse-sized open space packed with people and display booths. Every direction they looked had tackle or men discussing tackle. A voice boomed over the loudspeaker.
    “Next up, mint in box with papers, a Creek Chub Sucker #3900 in frog scale. Bidding starts at two hundred dollars.”
    “Two Benjamins?” Roy sneered. “That’s why it’s called a Sucker.”
    Tom consulted the map and led them through the ranks and files of booths, zigzagging to 18-A. The table was actually a glass display rack, showcasing