Double Jeopardy (19 page)

“Moroconi.” They heard some shuffling of papers on the other end of the line. “There is no Moroconi here.”

Travis took the phone. “He’s a medium-sized, dark-haired guy, with greasy skin and an unpleasant expression.”

“Oh, yes. I know the gentleman. He did not register under that name.”

“Big surprise.”

“If you can hold on, I will connect you to his room.”

“No, no, no,” Travis said quickly. “I want to surprise him. Just give me his room number.”

“Oh, no, sir. So sorry, but I am not permitted to disclose that information.”

Travis’s voice deepened. “Look, this is Sergeant Abel T. Stoneheart of the Dallas Police Force, badge number 714, and if you don’t give me that room number in five seconds flat, I’ll send a platoon of squad cars out to search every room in your place. Including your office.”

There was an audible drawing of breath on the other end of the line.

“They’ll be there in less than five minutes,” Travis added. “Think you can clean up that quickly?”

The desk clerk cleared his throat. “I believe the man you are looking for is in Room 14.”

“Fine. We’re on our way. And you’d damn well better not tip him off before we arrive, or I might bring you in for questioning in his place. That could take days. And I’ve heard the strip search is particularly unpleasant this time of year.”

The man’s voice became a dry, raspy whisper. “I understand, Sergeant, sir. My lips are sealed.”

“Keep it that way.” Travis slammed down the receiver. “See? I learned something in my former life, too.”

“Right. Deception and intimidation.”

As if on cue, Crescatelli wandered back into the room. Travis and Cavanaugh skittered away from his terminal.

“Oh, my goodness,” Crescatelli said. “I left my terminal up. With all those tandems connected. I’d better clear those out right away.” He punched a few keys. The screen went blank.

“Well, that takes care of that,” Crescatelli said. “Whatever I was connected to, there’s no trace of it now.”

Cavanaugh put her hands on his shoulders, leaned forward, and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks a million, John. We’re even now.”

He shook his head. “Not by a long shot. But we’re closer.”

She smiled and kissed him again.

“What was that?” Crescatelli asked. “I felt a sudden breeze against my cheek. I’m going to
have
to talk to the guys in Climate Control. It’s always too hot or too cold, and the thermostats are no help. Nothing around here ever works.”

C
AVANAUGH EXITED BELT LINE
Road and eased her Omni into the parking lot of the Million Dollar Motel, careful not to attract undue attention. After all, they probably weren’t the only people in town looking for Alberto Moroconi.

The Million Dollar Motel appeared to have been financed with approximately one one-millionth of the funds specified in its name. A wire fence restricted access to the rooms in theory, but the fence was broken by so many vandal-cut holes as to make it ridiculously ineffective. The swimming pool was coated with green fungi; it looked as if it hadn’t held more than puddles of rainwater in years. The ugly pink paint was peeling; leaden flecks curled away from the walls. Travis wondered if the place didn’t fulfill the legal description of a toxic-waste dump. He was not surprised to find that, as its flickering neon sign announced, there were
VAC NCI S.

“So,” Cavanaugh said, after she parked her car near Room 14, “you think your client would hole up at this ersatz Bates Motel?”

“I think it reeks of Moroconi’s personal style. Emphasis on
reeks.
”

“Okay. What’s our plan?”

“Our plan?” Travis shrugged. “I suppose we’re going to bust the door open and grab Moroconi by the short hairs before he has a chance to slither away.”

“Once a cop, always a cop. And people wonder why prosecutors lose so many cases on technicalities.”

“I’m not trying to build a federal case. I’m trying to extract information from a walking waste pile who’s standing trial for a sexual felony and is wanted for murder. This guy has very little to lose. If you stop to read him his Miranda rights, you might as well kiss your pretty little butt goodbye.”

She gave him a withering look. “I suppose that’s a compliment, of sorts. But I plan to ignore it. Okay, Dick Tracy, you do the busting, I’ll bring up your rear.”

They scanned the outer perimeter of the motel, saw no one, and stepped out of the car. Travis held back the fence while Cavanaugh stepped through a conveniently placed hole. He glanced at the desk clerk, visible through the large bay window in the front office. He appeared to be reading a magazine and didn’t notice them.

Travis and Cavanaugh silently approached Room 14. Travis aimed his foot at the door.

“Don’t you think we should knock first?” Cavanaugh whispered.

“No.” Travis kicked the door just below the doorknob. The thin, warped plywood splintered and cracked down the middle. Travis kicked again, this time opening a hole wide enough for his arm. He reached through, turned the knob, and unlocked the door.

He burst into the room just in time to see someone crawling beneath the bedcovers. Travis dove onto the bed, throwing his arms around the cloaked figure.

“Don’t bother trying to get away, Moroconi. I’ve got you.” His captive squirmed and kicked, trying to get free of the bedspread and Travis. Cavanaugh tried to help, to little effect. Despite their best efforts, one foot got free of the covers and kicked Travis between the legs. Fortunately, the aim wasn’t exact.

“Damn it, Moroconi, hold still!” Travis shouted. He ripped the bedspread away—to find a dark-haired teenage girl wearing a black lace teddy and too much makeup. What’s worse, her face was familiar.

“This is Moroconi?” Cavanaugh asked. “He’s changed a lot since he got out of the slammer.”

“Not hardly,” Travis said, staring at the girl. “Where is he?”

“Al? I dunno.” The girl looked puzzled; then, suddenly, a smile of recognition appeared. “Hey, you’re the sex weirdo.”

Cavanaugh raised ah eyebrow. “I take it you two have met?”

Travis took the girl roughly by the arm, and scrutinized her face.
Yes
—it was the same scantily clad young woman who had waltzed into his apartment two nights before. “What are you doing here?”

She lifted her chin defiantly. “This is my room. What are
you
doing here?”

Travis pressed her back against the headboard. “We don’t have time to play around. Where the hell is Moroconi?”

“You’re hurting me.”

“I could do a lot worse. Where is he?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, squirming. “He left sometime last night.”

Travis pushed her away and crawled off the bed. “Is he coming back?”

She rubbed her arm. “I don’t think so. He took all his stuff.”

Travis paced back and forth beside the bed. “And what’s your story? Who are you, his long-lost sister?”

Cavanaugh looked pointedly at Travis. “Somehow I don’t think that’s the answer,” she said, popping a lace garter beneath the girl’s teddy.

Travis’s face flushed red. “How long have you known Al?”

“Since night before last.”

“Night before last? The same night you were in my apartment? The night he broke out of jail?”

“Al broke out of jail?” She covered her mouth with her hands. “Omigod. Are you a cop?”

Travis intentionally failed to answer. “How did you meet him?”

“I was on my usual corner downtown late that night, after I left your place. Al drove up in a pickup and asked if I wanted a date.”

“I thought so,” Travis said. “You’re a—”

“I’m a private entrepreneur,” she interrupted.

“Right.”

Cavanaugh sat down on the bed beside the girl. “Relax, kid, we’re not cops. We won’t bother you, we won’t report you. We just need to know as much about your trick as possible.”

The girl seemed considerably relieved. “Well, he’s about five foot seven with black hair—”

“We know what he looks like,” Travis barked. “What else can you tell us?”

“Well, he’s heavily into bondage, and his favorite snack is edible panties—”

Travis turned away, thoroughly disgusted. He spotted a pair of handcuffs dangling from the headboard of the bed. “We don’t want to hear about his kinky …” Travis searched for the right word, but it wasn’t in his vocabulary. “We want to know about his other activities. Do you have any idea where he’s gone, or what he’s been doing?”

“He was gone for several hours yesterday. That’s all I know.”

“He must’ve said something when the two of you were together.”

“Mostly it was just grunting noises.”

Travis pressed his fingers against his temples. “If Moroconi isn’t coming back, why are you still here?”

The girl shrugged. “Checkout time’s not until three o’clock, and the room’s paid for. It’s a decent place. Lot nicer than where I usually stay.”

To say the least. Travis silently swore. Sometimes, Travis Byrne, you are an insensitive son of a bitch. She was obviously just a pawn in this scenario. And how could he help but feel sorry for anyone who thought the Million Dollar Motel was a pleasant change of scenery?

“Look,” he said more quietly, “are you sure you can’t think of anything that might help us find … Al?”

She shook her head.

“One more question. Who sent you to me the other night?”

“I dunno. Someone had the money delivered, then called on a pay phone and gave me your address. I assumed you were calling the shots, till you started acting so strange.”

“So you just go to any address someone phones in, without checking first?”

She drew her shoulders back. “Most people are delighted to see me. Most normal people.”

“You don’t ask your employers many questions.”

“My employers prefer it that way.”

“Okay, okay. Why don’t you collect your belongings and leave.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yeah. We’re not the only ones looking for your buddy Al. But we’re the only ones who don’t carry big guns.”

“Oh. Okay. I’ll go.” She jumped off the bed, then hesitated. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a quick date?”

Travis stammered incoherently.

“If you’d like,” Cavanaugh said dryly, “I could step outside.”

“We could do whatever you like,” the girl added.

Travis shook his head. “No, really …”

“I could call a friend. You know, two at once.”

“Uhh, no …”

“We could use this.” She reached under the bed and withdrew a foot-long wooden handle with long gossamer-looking angel hair dangling beneath.

A profound line creased Travis’s brow. “What on earth is that?”

“It’s the Cosmic Spider.” She leaned forward and whispered the rest into his ear.

“Good Lord! That’s … that’s …”

She giggled. “It’s kinda fun, actually.”

“Look, miss, you really need to get out of here.”

“You like guys, don’t you? I should have known. The only time I get turned down is when the trick likes boys better.”

“I do not like boys better. I mean, I don’t like them at all. I mean—”

Cavanaugh stepped between them. “I hate to break up this beautiful moment, but why don’t we let the teenager report back to her boss? You and I can search for any clues Al might’ve left behind.”

“Right, right.” Travis reached for his wallet. “Look, here’s sixty bucks. I’m sorry it’s not more, but I’m tight on cash right now and I may need—”

“Oh, no,” the girl said. “I never accept handouts. I’m a working girl.”

“It’s not a handout. It’s compensation for your illuminating information. And an apology for the rough stuff on the bed.”

“That’s all right,” she said, snatching the cash from his hand. “I’m used to it.”

T
HE MAN IN THE
black stocking cap slowly approached the yellow Dodge Omni, shielding himself from the view of the desk clerk in the front office. If his contacts back at Orpha’s Lounge were right, and Moroconi had stayed here, he was gone now. Using his binoculars, he scanned the parking lot. No black pickup.

There did appear to be someone in Moroconi’s room—someone who wanted to be there badly enough to break down the door. A barely dressed teenage girl had just left the room. He didn’t recognize her—hotel whore, probably. But who was inside?

He crept closer and listened to the voices in the room. It sounded as if they were searching; probably trying to determine where Moroconi had gone. He didn’t recognize the female voice, but he was certain the man was Travis Byrne.

He touched the shoulder holster attached to his Kevlar vest. He slowly removed the gun, keeping it out of sight inside his jacket. He could slip inside the room, take care of Byrne, and slip out again. No one would be the wiser. Perhaps this mission would be easier than he had anticipated.

He started toward the door, then hurriedly retreated to the shadows. Someone was leaving the front office and walking briskly toward Room 14. He shouldn’t have procrastinated; he should’ve just gone in there and—

Well, it was too late now. The desk clerk was probably investigating the gaping hole in the door. He’d call the cops soon, if he hadn’t already. It wasn’t safe to be here any longer.

He eased his gun back into the holster, then opened one of the compartments on his Sam Browne belt and removed the tiny SSI tracer. He quickly crept into the backseat of the Omni. It would be better to hide the tracer among their personal belongings; they might be tempted to switch cars later. He opened a black leather briefcase and slipped the device inside.

The tracer had a range of twenty miles. Now he’d be able to follow them from a distance, with no risk of being spotted. Never mind this temporary setback—his time would come.

And when it did, Travis Byrne’s time would come to an end.

A
FTER THE GIRL LEFT,
Travis and Cavanaugh searched every cranny of Moroconi’s motel room. They tried to be as thorough as possible while still remembering that their entrance had been less than subtle and was bound to attract attention, possibly from the police.