Double Jeopardy (28 page)

“You crazy bastard! That’s scalding!”

“No,” Moroconi said. “One thirty would’ve been scalding. At this temperature, the flesh will peel off your bones.” He folded his arms across his chest. “This kinda confuses matters, don’t it? I’m not sure now whether you’ll die from the heat or from drowning.”

Mario felt his respiration increasing, his perspiration working overtime. Could it be that much hotter so soon? Or was he just losing his grip? He felt a drop slide down the side of his face and realized, to his utter humiliation, that it was not sweat. He was crying.

“Oh, poor little Mario,” Moroconi said in a baby voice. “He’s gettin’ all upset. Awwww.”

Mario tried to speak, but choked. “What do you want, Moroconi?”

“I’m sure you know already.”

“I don’t have any idea!”

“I wanna square the record. I wanna piece of what everyone else got. And I wanna get even for what you and Jack did to me.”

Mario could feel the water lapping at his cheeks. The temperature was definitely hotter. “If it’s money you want, help yourself. I don’t have much, but—”

“But Jack does? Goddamn right. He’s living high off
my
fuckin’ money!”

“Fine—get Jack! Let me out of here!”

Moroconi made a tsking sound with his teeth and tongue. He was savoring every minute of his sweet revenge. “That’s my problem, Mario. I don’t know where Jack is. But you do.”

“You’re wrong. I haven’t seen him since he turned state’s evidence. You’ve got the list. Or had it, at least. Can’t you find him?”

“The list is wrong. I went to the address on the list, and he wasn’t there. He’s relocated himself.”

“Maybe he has. What’s that got to do with me?”

“I think you’ve been in contact with him, Mario. I think you must’ve helped him relocate.”

“Me? Help that traitor? If I knew where he was, I’d cut his heart out.” The water was trickling around his neck, burning his throat.

“It pains me to say this, Mario, but I think you’re lyin’ through your goddamn teeth.”

“Al, if I knew where he was, I’d tell you. What do I care what happens to him?”

Moroconi leaned in close. “Don’t fuck with me, Mario.”

“I’m not! I wouldn’t do that to you, Al.”

“Liar.” Moroconi reached down and pressed Mario’s head beneath the water.

The steaming water flowed over Mario’s face, his eyes, his lips. It was hot, much too hot. It burned. It felt as if the water etched into his flesh. He wanted to scream, but he had to keep his mouth shut tight.

Moroconi jerked Mario’s head out by his thinning hair. “Enjoyin’ yourself, Mario? Ready to talk?”

“I’m telling you”—he coughed, sputtered—“I don’t know where—”

Moroconi lowered Mario’s face back into the boiling caldron. Mario tried to keep his eyes clenched shut, to prevent the water from burning the skin off his eyeballs. All he could do was grit his teeth and wait.

He waited, but Moroconi didn’t raise his head out of the water. Perverted bastard. This was just a scare tactic. He wouldn’t—

Mario’s lungs began to ache. He needed oxygen—now! He thrashed from side to side, trying to lift his head above the surface of the water. It was no use. Moroconi held his head down firmly. With his hands tied, there was nothing, absolutely nothing Mario could do. He felt himself growing faint.

Desperate for air, his lips parted, and the scalding water poured inside. Mario felt it burning his mouth, his tongue, coursing through his lungs. For the first shattering moment he realized he was going to die—

And then Moroconi lifted his head out of the water.

Mario came up coughing and throwing up water. Vomit spewed down his cheeks into the hot tub.

Moroconi laughed. “Gotcha worried that time, didn’t I?”

“It’s under the blotter. On my desk,” Mario gasped, as soon as he was able to talk. “Jack’s new address.”

“Thank you, Mario. Most cooperative of you.” He released Mario’s head. It splashed back into the hot tub.

The hot water rose to the level of Mario’s cheekbones. “Wait a minute. You said you’d let me go if I gave you Jack!”

Moroconi shook his head. “I said no such thing. You assumed I would let you go.” He grinned. “You were wrong. Bye-bye, Mario. Hope you can hold your breath for a long time. Like forever.”

He laughed again, even louder than before, and strolled upstairs.

T
RAVIS AND CAVANAUGH APPROACHED
the front door of the home of the Elcon president, Mario Catuara. It was an elegant house, obviously expensive, not far from Fort Worth, but very secluded. If they hadn’t known exactly where they were going, they never would have found it.

Travis stopped when he got to the porch steps. The front door was open.

“Something’s wrong,” Cavanaugh said.

“I agree,” Travis replied. “Someone got here before us.”

“Moroconi? Or that creep from the library?”

Travis shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Why would Moroconi be looking for Catuara?”

“I don’t know. But that envelope we found in his hotel room tells me they’re connected somehow. Why don’t you stay out here while I take a look inside?”

Cavanaugh grabbed Travis by the collar. “Spare me the chivalry. If Moroconi is in there, you’re going to need someone who’s capable of firing a gun.”

Cavanaugh pushed the front door the rest of the way open and entered. Frowning, Travis followed close behind.

They made a quick sweep of the ground level of the house. Marvelously well furnished, but beyond that, they found nothing of interest. They did discover a staircase—nineteen steps going up, twenty steps going down.

“Let’s cover both floors at once so he can’t slip away,” Cavanaugh whispered. “You take the basement. I’ll take the upstairs.”

Travis didn’t argue. He tiptoed quietly down the carpeted steps and soon realized he had gotten the easier assignment. There was only one room downstairs.

The door was partly open and the light was on. Travis took a deep breath, then stepped through. He hit the deck, just in case someone fired at him. No one did. He crawled into the room on his hands and knees, then slowly rose to his feet.

It was a rec room—a high-class, state-of-the-art playhouse. Travis eyed the sophisticated exercise equipment, feeling a wave of envy he couldn’t suppress. If he could afford to put gizmos like these in his apartment, maybe he could lose those extra pounds around his gut. Scanning the room, he saw a pool table, several pinball machines, and in the far corner—a hot tub.

There was something floating in the hot tub. Approaching, he saw it was a body—Catuara, unless Travis missed his guess. He was tied down in the tub, and his face was covered with water. He was not moving.

“Cavanaugh!” Travis yelled.

He reached into the water, then instinctively withdrew his hand. The water was blisteringly hot. He grabbed a towel from a nearby rack and wrapped it around his hand. Steeling himself, he reached into the hot tub and pulled the man’s head above the water.

The man’s eyes did not open, but Travis saw them move under the eyelids—a sign of life, however slight.

He cut the ropes with a pocketknife he’d picked up at the pawnshop. After the man was free, he hauled him out of the steaming water.

It was at just that moment, when Travis’s arms were wrapped around the body and there was nothing he could do to defend himself, that he heard quiet footsteps immediately behind him. He felt a heavy blow on the top of his head, and before he passed out, he had a brief sensation of his face plunging into scalding hot water.

T
HE SHORTER, BEEFIER OF
the two men checked his watch, then frowned. “I don’t think he’s coming.”

“He’ll come,” Staci said defiantly. “I know he will.”

“Just a few more hours till midnight.”

“Plenty of time.” Despite her outward show of strength, Staci was scared to death. Why was Travis taking so long? Why wasn’t he here yet?

They were in a crummy hotel room somewhere in Dallas—Staci and the two men who grabbed her outside Aunt Marnie’s house. There were two other men in an adjoining room who popped in from time to time. Staci didn’t know anything about any of them, except that they all looked like crooks and they were all carrying big guns.

After she had regained consciousness, she had found herself tied to a stiff-backed, uncomfortable chair. They hadn’t let her move since.

“Maybe he didn’t get the message,” Staci suggested.

“Unlikely. It was in the paper, right?”

The tall man with the long scar down the side of his face nodded. “My man at the newspaper never fails me.

“Maybe Travis doesn’t have time to read the papers,” Staci suggested. “He’s been real busy.”

“If I were gettin’ the press coverage he’s gettin’, I’d read the paper,” the shorter man said. “Wouldn’t you, Kramer?”

The tall man’s eyes widened. In one sudden, savage motion he clubbed the man on the side of his face.

Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “Jesus Christ! What was that for?”

“Names,” Kramer whispered under his breath.

“Oh, shit. I didn’t think.” He looked down at Staci.

“ ’Course, that isn’t his real name, you know. We all use aliases around here.”

Kramer rolled his eyes. “Unlike you, she ain’t a complete moron.” He cast his eyes down at the girl. “You just signed her death certificate.”

Staci only understood about a fourth of what the two men said, but she fully understood the import of that last remark. “What did he call you? I didn’t even hear it. And I wouldn’t remember it if I had. I’ve got a real short attention span. Really. It’s certified and everything.”

“It ain’t gonna make much difference, in the end,” Kramer said grimly. “Even if Byrne does show up—”

“He will. I know he will.”

Kramer raised an eyebrow. “Then what’s takin’ so long?”

“I don’t know, but I know there’s a reason.”

“I think Byrne has deserted you.”

“He has not!”

“Maybe I screwed up. Maybe he never cared about you.”

Staci’s face flushed. “You
geekwad
.”

The short man raised his fists eagerly. “She can’t talk to you like that, boss. Should I hit her?”

“Of course not. Idiot.” Kramer stepped forward and, just as suddenly as before, swung his fist into Staci’s face.

Afterward he rubbed his hand and smiled. “Rank has its privileges.”

Staci began to cry. Her teeth and jaws ached; she had accidentally bitten her tongue.

“Stop bawlin’!” Kramer barked.

Staci tried, but she couldn’t. It hurt too bad.

“Fine. Gag her.” The short man stuffed a towel in Staci’s mouth.

The door to the adjoining room opened, and a third man leaned in. “Simmons just called in,” he said, looking at Kramer. “He’s been talking to Mario.”

Kramer’s eyebrows rose. “What does Mario want?”

“He wants you to come to his home immediately. Didn’t explain why. He left an address.”

“Wow!” the short man exclaimed. “I ain’t never been invited to his home. I didn’t think anyone got to go. What do you suppose happened?”

“I dunno,” Kramer murmured. “But it must be bad. He wouldn’t call me unless the whole operation was in trouble.” He grabbed his coat. “I’m leavin’.”

“Fine,” the short man said. “I’ll watch the girl.”

“No. Take her to the CEO.”

“Really?”

Kramer nodded. “You know where he lives?”

“Sure, but—why?”

“If Mario is in danger, our CEO also may be threatened. You will deliver this invaluable insurance policy to him.”

“Should I stay there with her?”

“No. She isn’t going anywhere. You’re needed here.”

“What if Byrne shows up and there’s no girl?”

Kramer made a steeple with his fingers. “What does it matter, really? We can kill him just as easily, whether she’s here or not.”

W
HEN TRAVIS AWOKE, HE
was lying faceup, staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t sure where he was. The only things he could be certain of were that he wasn’t in heaven and he wasn’t in the overheated hot tub.

He touched his face; it felt tender and raw. Probably swollen and burned, too, but at least all the parts still seemed to function.

He rolled slightly to one side, sending shooting pains up and down his abdomen. Never mind, he thought to himself. I’m not drowning, and I’m not being burned alive. Maybe I’ll just lie here for a moment.

He heard a soft rhythmic sound behind him—steady breathing. Twisting his head, he saw Cavanaugh hunched over the man he had dragged out of the hot tub. And—what the hell? She was kissing him!

He rolled his eyes to the back of his head. What an idiot he was sometimes. She wasn’t kissing him—she was giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. And it was working. Travis could see water spewing out of the man’s mouth, and could see his arms and legs beginning to move.

An intense aching radiated through Travis’s skull, reminding him that he’d been clubbed over the head. Cavanaugh must’ve hauled him out of the tub. Cavanaugh seemed to have everything under control. He’d just remain still and try to pull himself together. Who knew—maybe he could get some mouth-to-mouth for himself.

About half an hour later Mario sat on a beanbag chair in the rec room hunched over a half-filled brandy snifter. Travis pressed a fully filled ice pack to his forehead. Cavanaugh stood between them and listened.

“Moroconi hates me,” Mario murmured. He spoke in short, breathy bursts, a few syllables at a time. “He left me to die. Must’ve clubbed you on his way out.”

“What did he want?” Cavanaugh asked.

“He wanted an address. One he couldn’t find on the list.”

“There it is again,” Travis said. “That damn list that everyone wants. What is it?”

“It’s a list of squealers who were given new identities by the Federal Witness Relocation Program. Once the witnesses are relocated, there are supposed to be no traces of their former lives. No trail to be followed. But someone in Bureau 99 kept a list.”

“Why?”

Mario inhaled the brandy fumes. “Don’t ask me. Some overzealous bureaucrat, probably. Maybe it was necessary to forward payments, to make periodic checks. All I know is that the list exists. And Moroconi got it.”