Double Jeopardy (12 page)

“You boys live here?” The man from the Chevy was younger than they expected, pasty-faced and obviously nervous.

“Maybe,” Doc bluffed. “Who wants to know?”

“I’m lookin’ for a man named Byrne. Travis Byrne. Short, thick, on the heavy side. You know him?”

Jameel’s eyes twinkled. “What if we do? What’s in it for us?”

Grudgingly, the Chevy man shoved his hand into his pocket and extracted two twenties. After reading the boys’ expressions, he dipped back into the pocket and extracted four more. “That’s all I got.”

Jameel snatched the money from him. “Then it’ll have to do.”

“So how about it? You know Byrne?”

“Not me,” Doc said, grinning. “How ’bout you, Jameel?”

“Never heard of him,” he said. “Sorry, chump.”

“Now look here—”

“Was a dude like that here a while back,” Jameel added. “Ain’t seen him for some time, though. Like weeks maybe.”

“Damn. I figured we had the wrong address.”

“Anything else we can do for you?” Doc inquired.

“I guess not.” The Chevy man headed back toward his car, and Doc and Jameel walked up the front steps of the apartment building. In the reflection in a window, Doc saw the man return to his car, wake his companion, and talk agitatedly into a cellular phone. A few seconds later, he started the car and drove away.

Grinning, Doc and Jameel scrambled up the stairs.

The housebreakers returned to the bus stop about an hour later with two garbage bags draped over their shoulders.

“What happened?” Travis asked. “Did you get in?”

“No problemo.” They tossed the garbage bags to Travis.

“You seem disappointed.”

“Easy pickins,” Jameel explained. “Breakin’ into a guy’s apartment with his permission. Ain’t no challenge.”

Travis grinned. “I’m sorry there wasn’t more excitement.”

Doc chimed in. “It got a little hairy when that nervous dude in the Chevy stopped us.”

“What? What did you tell him?”

“Told him you moved away, bro. What else?”

“Was he someone who might be … well, a professional criminal?”

“If he be in the mob, he must’ve been drafted.” Doc laughed. “He was some kind of pansy.”

Travis wondered if he was the same man who was in the courthouse men’s room. It would help if he knew. “Maybe I should’ve gone myself.”

“No way, bro. Even a pansy can be deadly if he’s packin’. And this one was. ’Sides, there was another dude slumped down in the front seat and they were both barkin’ at someone else on a car phone. Sendin’ us was the smartest thing you ever did.”

“I really appreciate this, guys. How can I thank you?”

Jameel looked out the corner of his eyes. “Well … you could help dee-fray our expenses.”

“Right, right.” Travis took his wallet out of the garbage bag and handed them six twenties. “Will that do?”

“Superfine,” Jameel said, snatching the bills. “Been a good long time since we’ve seen that much cash. Right, Doc?”

A
FTER CHANGING CLOTHES IN
his car, Travis followed a serpentine route downtown. He wanted to ensure that if someone stumbled across him, he couldn’t be traced back to Staci. After he had taken enough random turns to lose even himself, he pulled over to a pay phone. He opened his briefcase and withdrew the object he’d wanted out of his apartment most of all: the business card for Special Agent William Henderson.

Before entering the phone booth, he plugged thirty-five cents into a street-side newspaper stand. Both page-one stories in the
Dallas Morning News
attracted his immediate attention. The paper announced that Alberto Moroconi, criminal defendant on trial for the rape-beating of Mary Ann McKenzie, had escaped from the detention room of the federal courthouse last night. One guard had been wounded during the escape, another was killed. Police were unsure how he eluded the marshals, but said that he must’ve had help from someone on the inside.

Another story reported that the West End was hit by a spree of vandalism, destruction, and murder. Again, police were uncertain what exactly had occurred, but the paper cryptically indicated that they had reason to believe escapee Moroconi was involved. For undisclosed reasons, the police were withholding all information regarding the murdered man.

A boxed item at the bottom of the second page disclosed that the police were searching for Moroconi’s attorney, Travis Byrne, in connection with both incidents. A photo of Travis, probably clipped from the Dallas County Bar Directory, accompanied the notice. According to the article, an ongoing police investigation indicated that Travis was intimately involved in both crimes, and maybe several more besides.

Travis crumpled the paper in his fist. Someone had gotten to the police. And the press. How did they learn about the West End shoot-out in time to make the morning edition? Travis knew from a previous libel case he had handled that the morning edition was put to bed around three
A.M.
—only shortly after last night’s incident occurred. There was only one explanation: someone at the newspaper was in close contact with Moroconi—or the men behind the searchlight.

Travis plunked a quarter into the pay phone and dialed the number on Henderson’s card. It rang twice before it was answered.

“Hello. American Exports.”

Travis blinked. “I’m—I’m calling for Agent Henderson.”

“One moment.”

Travis heard several clicks on the other end of the line, then a computerized beep that indicated his call had been transferred. “Hello?”

“Agent Henderson?”

“Henderson is unavailable at the moment. Who’s calling, please?”

Blast! Where’s the Special Agent when you need him? “This is Travis Byrne. I want to talk to Henderson. This is important.”

“As I said, Henderson is unavailable, but I’m familiar with your situation. Please tell me what happened.”

Travis was perplexed. Where the hell was Henderson, and who was this chump on the other end of the line? Holt? Janicek? Travis couldn’t tell. The voice sounded weird; he was probably using one of those mechanical gizmos to distort his voice. Travis knew only one thing for certain—he needed help, and he needed it quick.

“Okay,” Travis said, “get out your pencil. This ordeal began sometime after midnight, when I got a phone call from a client who’s supposed to be behind bars. …” He told the story as briefly as possible—including the shoot-out at the West End and the stakeout of his apartment.

“Mr. Byrne,” the man on the other end of the phone said, “listen to me carefully. You said Moroconi shoved a piece of paper into your hands. Have you looked at that paper?”

“No, I haven’t had time to think about it. Should I?”

“Absolutely not. Under no circumstances should you look at that list. This is a matter of grave importance.”

List? How did he know it was a list?

“Mr. Byrne, we need to bring you in.”

“Bring me in? What does that mean?”

“It’s obvious that you’ve become involved with the Outfit.”

He recalled his conversation with Agent Janicek. “Gangsters?”

“Quaint, but accurate. They’ll be trying to obtain what you now have, and if they believe you’ve read what’s on that paper, they’ll try to kill you as well. You need to be placed in protective custody.”

“Excellent suggestion. Where do I meet you?”

A pause. “My computer indicates that you’re currently at a pay phone near the intersection of Abrams and Mockingbird.”

Travis felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He didn’t think he’d talked nearly long enough for a trace to be completed.

“Why don’t we pick you up in the alley behind the grocery store on Abrams?” the man continued. “So as not to attract attention.”

So as not to attract attention? Something about that phrase bothered him. “Nothing personal, but I’d rather meet somewhere in the open. I haven’t had much luck with clandestine meetings lately.”

“That would raise the possibility of detection by the persons who are looking for you, Mr. Byrne.”

“I’ll take that risk. How about the Northpark Mall? Just off Central Expressway. Say, in the package-pickup alley behind Sears.”

Travis heard the scratching of a pen on the other end of the line. “Got it. The recovery team will be there at eleven hundred hours. Stay out of sight until then.”

Travis checked his watch. More than enough time. “Okay. I’ll be there. Will Henderson be coming?”

“Unlikely. He probably will not have terminated his current engagement.”

“How will I know you?”

“Do you recall the password on Agent Henderson’s business card?” Travis said that he did. “Be prepared to use it.” The line disconnected.

Travis hung up the phone and shoved his hand into his pocket. He knew he shouldn’t look, but he couldn’t resist the temptation. The FBI agent had definitely pricked his curiosity. Besides, if he was going to remain alive, he needed to have as much information as possible.

List?
Travis examined the paper top to bottom, back and front. He held it up to the sun and watched the light seep through.

List, huh? He felt his confidence in the friendly neighborhood FBI seeping away.

The paper was blank.

T
HE FBI AGENT PRESSED
his fingers against his throbbing temples. Thank God Henderson wasn’t in. That would have screwed everything up. Although that was about the only complication that hadn’t occurred yet. First, Moroconi botched his flawless escape plan, then he intentionally dragged Byrne into this mess just for spite. He didn’t have much doubt about who was having Byrne’s apartment watched, either. Everything that could possibly go wrong was going wrong.

And of course there was the goddamn list. Did Moroconi really give it to Byrne? After all his trouble to get the damn thing, would he give it away just to sign Byrne’s death warrant?

He realized he made a major-league mistake when he got into bed with Alberto Moroconi. If he just hadn’t needed the money …

There was only one solution. He would handle this rendezvous himself. He’d take Simpson along. Simpson was a new, fresh-faced recruit—eager to please, unquestioning. He’d do what he was told. And if Simpson needed any help keeping his mouth shut afterward, he’d haul out those pictures he had of Simpson with his male roommate. Most feds wanted to follow in the footsteps of J. Edgar Hoover, but Simpson took it a bit too far.

“Excuse me, sir. Are we going to log that call?”

He snapped out of his reverie. It was Mooney again, no surprise. The same sniveling idiot who got in his way every time he turned around.

“I was listening on the extension, sir,” Mooney added.

The FBI agent maintained a calm, even demeanor while silently calling Mooney every swear word he knew. This definitely complicated matters.

“I believe standard procedure is to log the call and fill out a report,” Mooney continued. “Then I would recommend a staff meeting to consider our options and assemble a field team to deal with this situation.”

“Would you indeed?” And if I don’t, you’ll file a report accusing me of incompetence. Or dishonesty. Or both. You need to be taken care of, Mr. Mooney. “I’m afraid we don’t have time for a meeting.”

“This is very unorthodox, sir.”

“You can’t always play by the book, Mooney. A good agent knows that.”

“We should at least wait for Henderson to return. He’s due back shortly.”

“Sorry, that’s impossible.”

Mooney looked at him strangely. Did he suspect? “If you won’t wait for Henderson, sir, then I feel I should accompany you. As an independent observer.”

“You? Why—” He bit down on his tongue. On second thought,
yes,
that was a splendid idea. That would work out perfectly. “Fine, Mooney. Get your gear. We leave in five minutes.”

Mooney departed for the locker room. Excellent. With any luck, the whole affair would be resolved before Henderson even knew about the phone call.

He had to recover that damn list before it was traced back to him. He had to pin the rap for everything on Byrne. And with Mooney along, he could accomplish both goals at once.

Agent Janicek took his gun out of the desk drawer and slid it into his shoulder holster. He would get that list back. No matter what he had to do.

T
RAVIS WALKED CAUTIOUSLY DOWN
the package pickup driveway of the Northpark Sears and positioned himself behind a trash dumper. He wasn’t sure why, but this rendezvous made him nervous. Something about the situation didn’t click. At the moment, however, he didn’t seem to have any other options.

After a few minutes, a long black sedan with leaded-glass windows pulled sideways across the driveway. Sideways, Travis observed—preventing any other cars from coming in or going out.

Another minute passed. What on earth could they be doing in there? Travis felt himself tensing up. Why don’t they get this show on the road?

At last three men in tan overcoats, much too heavy for the season, stepped out of the car. They looked like FBI agents; all they lacked were gray fedoras. Unfortunately, they were too far away for Travis to identify them.

They did not approach. They stood outside the car, conferring.

Travis wiped the sweat from his brow. My God, what were they waiting for?

Finally one of the men took a step forward. “Travis Byrne?” the man said, not too loud, not too soft.

Thank God. “Present,” Travis said, stepping out from behind the trash bin. “Over here.”

The man’s gun was out from under his overcoat before Travis even realized he had moved. Travis ducked instinctively, and the bullet whistled over his right shoulder and ricocheted off the back wall. He flattened himself on the gravel just before the second bullet flew over his head. Crawling like a baby, Travis scrambled back behind the dumper. What the hell was going on here?

“Come on out, Byrne. You’re just wasting our time.”

No thanks, Travis thought. At least I’m wasting it in a reasonably safe place.

“I don’t understand,” Travis heard the third man say—the one with the curly blond hair. “Why did we open fire? We were supposed—”