Jack Rose

JACK ROSE Welcome to SerialKillerCon! The convention where true crime fans get to dress up like their favorite criminals, attend forensics seminars, and meet law enforcement legends. Former cop Harry McGlade loves being a Guest of Honor. Former cop Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels… not so much. Jack hates being the center of attention. True crime groupies freak her out. And some of her police officer peers have serious envy issues. But the surreal event goes from irritating to frightening when a storm traps everyone inside the conference hotel. Then fans start getting gruesomely murdered, mimicking Jack’s past serial killer cases. Can two old ex-cops use their decades of experience to end the horror? Or are Jack and Harry about to finally face a psychopath they can’t stop? JACK ROSE Murder has its conventions… JACK ROSE A Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels thriller J.A. KONRATH CONTENTS Author Note Jack Rose Begin reading JACK ROSE Other recommended titles Newsletter AUTHOR NOTE The Jack Daniels thriller series doesn’t have to be read in order. Each book functions as a stand-alone, and no knowledge of any previous adventure is necessary to enjoy Jack Rose. That said, all of my books interconnect into a larger shared universe. If you’d like to see how, please visit my website, www.JAKonrath.com. Also, I got gross in this one, with some pretty crazy murders. If you’re sensitive, squeamish, easily upset, or have a detailed imagination, be ready to skip some scenes. They are clearly marked and easily avoidable. But you’re probably going to read them anyway, aren’t you? You’re awesome. As always, thanks for reading! Joe Konrath JACK ROSE 2 oz apple brandy 1 oz grenadine ½ oz lime juice ½ oz lemon juice Two bourbon cocktail cherries Orange peel Crushed ice Pour brandy, grenadine, and juices into a shaker with crushed ice. Shake like your life depends on it, then strain into a stemmed martini glass. Add two bourbon cherries and an orange peel. Enjoy multiple consecutive times for that giddy “I can’t stand up” feeling. JACK Hotel Ashapay, Syracuse, NY Charles and Alex Kork approached me with wide smiles, their cell phones pointed at my face. The Charles Kork case had been one of the most disturbing of my career. As a Chicago homicide cop, I’d seen the worst of the worst of the worst. But Charles reigned nearly supreme, having videotaped himself torturing women to death. To catch him I had to watch those tapes, and during bad nights I couldn’t wipe those images from my mind. But his sister, Alex, was even worse. A serial killer. A torturer. A psychopath so formidable and smart and terrible that she was the closest thing I’d ever had to a true adversary. Invading my life. Killing those I loved. Causing me untold pain and nightmares. And there we were, face-to-face, once again. “Chicago Homicide Lieutenant Jack Daniels!” Alex squealed, the scars on her face bending as she smiled. She rushed over and I braced myself, fighting irrational fear as she pulled me in for an embrace. “Oh my god, are you the real thing? Tell me you’re not cosplaying!” “I’m not cosplaying,” I eked out through the bear hug, feeling claustrophobic in the busy hotel lobby and feeling suffocated by the intense attention and my own deep fears. “Charles, take a snap!” Her fake brother (or maybe it was her real brother) shot some pics and I tried not to look mortified. Then they switched. “Do I look like him?” Fake Charles Kork asked me. “This is the outfit he was wearing when you killed him.” “Harry McGlade killed him,” I explained, cursing that asshat under my breath. “Oh, right, I saw that on his TV show. But you killed me,” Fake Alex said. “It was like a quick draw thing, right? Or did you shoot me and then plant a gun on me?” Alex and I had been alone at the time, so no one could have possibly known what happened. But that didn’t stop armchair detectives and fanboy speculation. “It was self-defense,” I muttered. Murder didn’t have a statute of limitations. “When is your speech, Lieutenant?” Fake Charles asked. “I’m not sure. I just got here.” I used both hands to plainly indicate my suitcase at my feet. “I haven’t even checked in yet.” My extraction effort apparently went unnoticed, because I was subjected to more pics, and then asked to sign their conference programs. The cover announced that the event was named SerialKillerCon ’22, and was adorned with the faces of the guests of honor, some of whom I knew, some of whom I didn’t. “Autograph your face, Lieutenant,” Fake Alex told me, jamming a black marker into my hand. “I’m not a lieutenant anymore.” And I hadn’t been for years. “Do you know where Rose Alba is?” Fake Charles asked. “As I said, just got here. I haven’t even checked—” “Have you met her? She’s stopped more serial killers than you, hasn’t she?” “Don’t know her. Haven’t been keeping count.” I glanced at the lobby check-in desk, only a few meters away. Then I glanced out through the bay windows by the grand-room fireplace, where two plow trucks and one brave dude with a shovel were trying and failing to keep up with the falling snow. My Uber had only made it to the hotel because I’d requested an all-wheel drive SUV. It was insane out there. And, apparently, in here as well. “You guys have never met?” Fake Charles went up an octave. “You and Rose? I thought all celebrity cops knew each other.” “Nope.” I signed his program, and behind him I saw a large man in a CPD uniform walking up to me. Below the gold star on his chest, his name badge read FULLER. A cosplay of yet another psycho from my past. I swear, this conference was the stupidest thing I’d ever done. For years, I’d been weighed down by feelings. It could have been dysthymia—chronic depression that zapped the joy out