Double Jeopardy (6 page)

“The police haven’t the slightest idea. His body was found on the shore of Lake Palestine—but he didn’t drown. He was killed—in the most god-awful way you can imagine. Someone poured lighter fluid on his face and genitals, then set him on fire with a blowtorch. Then stabbed him with an ice pick about twenty times. Seacrest died slow and horribly.”

Travis’s mouth went dry. “When did this happen?”

“They’re not sure. The body’s been rotting for a couple of days at least. My friend at the police station tells me the corpse is all green and bloated, chewed by animals, picked at by birds.”

Travis’s eyes closed. Someone truly evil was involved in this. Someone—what was the phrase?—
someone who’d cut your fuckin’ heart out just to see what it looks like.

“I want you to drop this case, Travis.”

“Tempting, I have to admit … but I can’t do that.”

“I think you should.”

“Why? We don’t know that there’s any connection between Seacrest’s death and the Moroconi case. Seacrest just happened to be working on it when he was killed. He was probably working on ten other cases, for that matter.”

“Given the character of your client—”

“My client has been behind bars for weeks. He couldn’t have had anything to do with it.”

“Still, I’d feel more comfortable—”

“I can’t drop the case, Dan. I’ve been appointed by a federal judge.”

“Let me speak to Charles. I’ve known him since law school. I’m sure I can make him see reason—”

“No way, Dan.”

“Just let me talk to him.”

“Dan—no. I can handle this myself.”

Dan squared his shoulders. “Travis, I don’t like to pull rank, but last time I looked at the letterhead, my name was above yours. I’m your boss, and I’m telling you I want you out.”

“Or what? Get real, Dan—I know you’re not going to fire me. I have more respect for you than anyone else in the world. But I can’t drop a client in the middle of a trial.”

“Travis—I don’t mean to interfere. I’m just concerned about you.”

Travis did his utmost to sound reassuring. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

“This from the man who looks like he lost a fight with a refrigerator. I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me what really happened?”

Travis looked away. “Well …”

“As I suspected.” Dan stepped toward the doorway. “Take care of yourself, Travis. You have an extremely promising future. Don’t get in over your head.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Mr. Byrne?” Travis heard a voice from the other end of the courtroom. “May we talk to you for a moment?”

“Excuse me, Dan. Duty calls.” Travis approached a couple, a young woman in a blue print dress and the man in the seersucker suit he had noticed earlier. “Yes?”

“My name is Curran.” He was a skinny man with no chin. “This is my sister, Sarah.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Mary Ann McKenzie is our sister.”

Oh God, not now. Anything but grieving relatives.

“I’ve spoken to some people around town about you,” Curran said. “You get high marks, especially for someone who’s only been out of law school for a year. I hear you’re especially clever at finding legal technicalities to get your clients off.”

“I know the law and I’m willing to apply it, if that’s what you mean,” Travis replied.

Curran reached into a manila envelope and withdrew two eight-by-ten-inch photographs. “Have you seen these?”

The top photograph showed a smiling, red-haired teenage girl in a ruffled blue dress standing beside a straggly-looking geek in a blue tuxedo. “I take it that’s your sister,” Travis said.

“It was taken two years ago, on prom night.” Curran shuffled the photos. “Now look at this.”

Travis examined the second photograph and gasped. It was a close-up of Mary Ann taken at the crime scene, but this one hadn’t been in the file. She was lying beside a dirt road, her body broken and twisted unnaturally, skin flayed from her face and arms. It was nightmarish.

“Where did you get this?” Travis said, suddenly short of breath. He turned the photo facedown.

“I don’t think that’s important,” Curran said. He turned the photo faceup and held it in front of Travis’s eyes. “I’d hate to see the man who did this get off on a legal technicality, wouldn’t you?”

Travis looked away. Wordlessly, Curran returned the photos to the envelope. He put his arm around his sister and left the courtroom.

T
RAVIS SAT IN HIS
office, the contents of his trial notebook spread all over his desk. The office was dark except for the lamp burning on his desk. Mary Ann McKenzie would take the stand soon, and Travis knew he would either win or lose the case depending on how he handled her. He nibbled at a stale Caesar salad and reviewed his cross-examination notes for the tenth time.

Or tried, anyway. He took another bite, then pushed the take-out container away with disgust. He was really learning to hate salads. And Caesar salads were the worst—cold, soggy, and slimy. Even when they claimed the anchovies were gone, Travis knew they were still there. What kind of weenie could survive on this hamster chow?

He knew the answer to that question well enough. The kind of weenie who gets pummeled in the men’s room by two ham-fisted thugs. He tried to concentrate on the case, but his mind kept drifting back to the day’s bizarre series of events. His interview with his client—the most revolting man he had ever met, much less represented. The pressure tactics from the victim’s family. Hagedorn’s version of a kangaroo court. Learning that Seacrest bought the farm. And the incident in the bathroom.

Damn!
He slammed his fist down on the desktop. That shouldn’t have happened. Which was beside the point, or as the older lawyers said, “immaterial, inconclusive, and irrelevant.” It happened, whether he liked it or not. He should have told Dan what happened—he knew that—but somehow, he just couldn’t admit he’d been caught with his fly open by those two creeps.

What were they after? Surely there was more involved than a trial fix. All indications at this point were that Moroconi was well on his way to the big house. Assistance from outside forces seemed grossly unnecessary. Why take the risk? Unless they had a different objective in mind.

Travis’s head suddenly rose to attention. Behind him, in the lobby outside his office, he heard a shuffling noise.

He bolted from his chair and pressed himself against the wall. Was he imagining things again or …

No. He heard the shuffling again. Louder now. Footsteps—several of them. And they were drawing closer.

This time, by God, they weren’t going to get the drop on him. He grabbed the letter opener on his desk and whirled through the open office door.

“Freeze, punks! I’ve called the cops.” Travis spun through the lobby, trying to look in every direction at once. He stopped, pivoted, then whirled around the other direction. Unfortunately, his foot struck the coffee table. He stumbled, waved his arms madly trying to regain his balance, then fell flat on his back.

He lay on the floor for a second, dazed. When he finally opened his eyes, he saw two men in long overcoats staring down at him.

Instinctively, he covered his stomach.
Please God, not again.
“Who … are you?” he whispered.

One of the men reached into his coat and withdrew a badge. “I’m Agent Janicek. This is Mr. Holt. We’re with the FBI. The Joint Organized Crime Task Force, to be specific.”

“You’re …
feebees
—” Travis propped himself up on one arm. “Then you’re not going to …”

Janicek offered a hand and pulled Travis to his feet. “We’d like to have a word with you.”

“You’d like …” Slowly, Travis was getting a grip. “How did you get in here?”

“Does it really matter? We’re here, obviously. Let’s talk.”

Travis brushed off his suit. “I suppose this is about the McKenzie case.”

“Not exactly. We want to discuss your client.”

“Moroconi? What about him?”

Janicek was in his midforties, judging from the pronounced wrinkles around his eyes and the gray patches in his brown hair. “How much do you know about Mr. Moroconi?”

“Not much. I just met him this morning.”

“And you’ve made no attempt to investigate his … background?”

“I haven’t had much time, and the court-appointed-attorney retainer won’t pay for private investigations. Even if it did, I’d investigate the crime, or perhaps the victim. Not my own client.”

“Then you know little about Mr. Moroconi’s past.”

“Next to nothing.”

Holt, a dark man with a bug-eyed expression, looked harshly at Janicek. “I told you this wouldn’t work. He’s a lawyer; he’s not going to divulge anything voluntarily. We should’ve brought him in. Tried a few procedures.”

Travis had thought Holt looked like a class-A moron the first moment he saw him. It was nice to have his judgment confirmed so soon. “A few procedures? Is that a threat?”

Janicek shook his head. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary. Mr. Byrne will be happy to help us. Won’t you?”

“That depends on what you want.”

“Of course it does. Let me tell you about Alberto Moroconi. A few years ago he was a bagman for the Outfit.”

“The Outfit?”

“You know. The boys. The mob. La Cosa Nostra.”

“Moroconi was with the mob?”

“Right. The Gattuso mob, to be exact.”

“Gattuso?” Travis’s forehead creased. He might not be on the force anymore, but he still followed cases of that magnitude. “I thought you whiteshirts shut down the Gattusos a few years back.”

“We did,” Janicek said proudly, as if he took personal satisfaction in the Bureau’s success. “For the most part, anyway. It was one of the great success stories of the Joint Task Force, a demonstration of what could be achieved when the feds and the locals work together and centralize our databases. Instead of trying to get criminal convictions, we used the asset-forfeiture provisions in the RICO Act. Civil verdicts are much easier to get than criminal convictions; after a prima facie RICO case is made, the burden of proof shifts to the crooks. We seized all property that might have been used or obtained in connection with a crime. Which with these guys was virtually everything they had. When we took away the toys, we cut the heart out of the mob. Pretty soon we had all the informants we needed to shut them down permanently. There were just a few loose threads, a few fish that slipped through the net. Al Moroconi was one of them.”

Travis still couldn’t believe it. “Moroconi used to be with the mob? The real-life, honest-to-God
mob
?”

“There’s no such thing as
used to be
with the mob,” Holt said. “Once you’re in, you’re in for life.”

“Agent Holt would know,” Janicek said. “He’s our resident guru on mob activities. He’s one of those obnoxious pricks who acts like he knows everything—except that Holt actually does.”

“I have an eidetic memory,” Holt said, displaying a touch of pride himself. “I never forget anything. I could tell you about dozens of illegal deals in which Moroconi is believed to have been involved. He was a
made man
—a member of one of the highest levels of the organization.”

“Then you’re not interested in the pending trial at all,” Travis said, finally catching the drift.

“Correct. It’s Moroconi we want. We’ve been specially sent on this errand by the head of our department. We’ve been looking for Moroconi for years, ever since an informant clued us in to his importance. But he disappeared when the Gattusos went down, and he’s kept a low profile ever since. Until he was stupid enough to get arrested on this rape charge.”

Stupid enough? Travis wondered. Or, as Moroconi suggested,
framed.
“So you want to talk with my client in connection with this Gattuso case.”

“The Gattuso case is closed,” Janicek said. “History. But we still need to interview him. Just to clear up a few details. A stolen slush fund, a witness who disappeared. That’s all.”

Sure it is. What aren’t you telling me, Janicek?
“Are you offering immunity?”

“Well, let’s just say that if—
if
—he spills something we like, a deal might develop.”

Travis shook his head. “No dice. If you want to negotiate, we do it up front. Otherwise I’m advising my client to remain silent.”

Holt pursed his lips. “We could agree that nothing Moroconi tells us can be used against him in the current trial.”

Hardly a sacrifice, Travis thought, since the current trial looked like a sure conviction already. “Sorry, boys, but I can’t advise my client to relinquish something that might be of value to you unless you reciprocate.”

Janicek glanced at his associate. An unspoken message seemed to pass between them. “I’m afraid we’re not prepared to offer immunity at this time.”

Travis shrugged. “Then I guess we have nothing to discuss.”

He saw Holt grit his teeth and ball up his fists. Janicek reached inside his coat and withdrew a card. “This is my boss’s card, Mr. Byrne. If you change your mind, just dial that number and ask for Special Agent Henderson. See the password at the bottom of the card? That’ll get you through. Call anytime, night or day. We monitor the phone constantly.”

Travis took the card. “I don’t think I’ll be calling.”

“Keep the card anyway. You never know.” He opened the front door, then paused. “There are any number of reasons why a guy like you might need the FBI.”

T
HE MAN IN THE
trench coat lit another cigarette. How long did it take to drag out a prisoner, anyway? Christ—as much money as he’d paid to get in here, you’d think he’d be entitled to better service.

He sucked deeply, then exhaled the smoke in perfectly formed little rings. At last one of the guards shuffled up to the conference cell, Moroconi in tow. The guard unlocked the door and shoved Moroconi into the chair on the opposite side of the table.

“Remember,” the man in the trench coat said to the guard, “you didn’t see me, you didn’t hear me, and you don’t know who I am.”

“Right, right,” the guard replied. “Forgot all about it.” He rubbed his hands together. “I bet you could prevent any sudden spurts of recollection, too.”