Double Jeopardy

by William Bernhardt

“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?”

  26

  9:40 A.M.

  AFTER 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.

  27

  9:50 P.M.

  THE 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, M
oroconi 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.

  28

  10:55 A.M.

  TRAVIS 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—”

  Travis heard another shot, then a cry of pain. He peeked over the top of the dumper. The man with the gun had shot his companion. He shot one of his own men!

  “Ten seconds, Byrne. Then we come after you.”

  Travis heard him count to ten, then heard the snap-crackle-pop of gravel that told him the two remaining men were approaching. In the six inches between the gravel and the bottom of the dumper, Travis could see Hush-Puppied feet shuffling down the driveway. He tried to think—what had his police training taught him to do in a situation like this? All those drills must have been worth something. Only one answer came to him. If you’re totally helpless: bluff.

  “Don’t come any closer,” Travis shouted. “I’m armed.”

  The footsteps stopped. Travis could see the Hush Puppies shifting weight, deliberating. He knew the questions that would be going through their minds: was he lying, and if not, what was he packing?

  “We don’t want to hurt you, Travis,” said the man with the gun.

  “You have a funny way of showing it,” Travis muttered.

  “Throw down your weapon and come with us peacefully.”

  To the morgue? No thanks. One of the two pairs of feet skittered away. Of course—he was going to do an end run, try to come up on Travis from behind. If Travis was going to make a break for it, the time was now.

  Travis turned and bolted toward the Sears service entrance. As soon as he emerged from cover, he heard the first man yell, “He’s moving!” A second after that, Travis heard him fire another shot.

  Too quickly. He was reacting, not aiming. Travis’s practiced ears could tell the bullet was more than a yard away from him. He kept barreling forward, zigzagging back and forth—an erratic target was a lot harder to hit. He grabbed an iron railing and vaulted over just as he heard another bullet zing by. Closer this time, but not close enough. He reached the service entrance and yanked at the door.

  It was locked.

  Travis glanced back over his shoulder. Both men were running toward him, trying to get close enough to get a decent shot off. Travis pounded desperately on the door.

  A dark, unshaven man in a gray service uniform opened the door just a crack. “I’m sorry, sir. You need to deposit your invoice at the front register, then—”

  Travis yanked the door open and shoved the man out of the way. He raced through the warehouse, careening down corridors lined with refrigerators and washing machines and power tools. Seconds later he heard the two alleged FBI men hit the door and race through.

  Travis had no idea where he was going, but he knew if he stopped he was a dead man. The endless rows of merchandise were like a maze. And he was a stupid rat trying to find the cheese.

  He plowed through a group of uniformed workers huddled around a clipboard.

  “Hey, what’s the—”

  Travis didn’t stop. He kept on running, sending the clipboard flying into the air. No time to inquire about exit doors. Judging by the sound of his pursuers’ footsteps, they were closing in on him.

  Finally Travis came to a wide set of double doors. He smashed through and found himself on the main retail floor. Before he could stop himself, he careened into a display of wedding crystal. A punch bowl and some stemware shattered on t
he tile floor. A man behind a cash register whirled around. “Just a minute—”

  Unfortunately, Travis didn’t have a minute. The two men in the unseasonable overcoats burst through the double doors and spotted him almost immediately. Travis plunged further into the store, hoping against hope they wouldn’t fire in front of witnesses. It was just possible that he could lose them in the shopping mail.

  After a crash-and-smash detour through the perfume and hosiery departments, Travis found himself in the main thoroughfare of the mall. He was panting and gasping for air. He probably hadn’t run like this in years. His overweight body was complaining mightily.

  He blended into the main stream of traffic, then glanced back over his shoulder. His trackers were still there, but following at a discreet distance. Apparently, his hope was fulfilled—they didn’t want to be seen gunning him down before hundreds of witnesses. He passed the Hickory Farms outlet, the Suncoast Video store, and the food court. He was hungry and he wanted to pick up some food—some real food, with meat in it—but he didn’t think that advisable at the moment. His immediate objective was to get back to his car and get the hell out of here.

  He circled the food court and retraced his steps. A quick glance confirmed that his pursuers had done the same. They were walking faster now, closing the gap. They knew what he was trying to do, and they were determined to prevent it.

  Travis reentered Sears and spotted a small group of people talking, apparently on their way back to their cars. The group was composed of three couples, all well-dressed yuppies. Travis plunged into their midst.

  “Excuse me,” he said to one of the men. “Do you have any jumper cables?”

  “Sure,” the man replied, stroking his salt-and-pepper beard. “In the back of my Land Rover. Car trouble?”

  “Yeah. Wouldn’t you know? I try to do some shopping for the little woman’s birthday, and my car won’t start.”

  “That stinks,” said one of the other men. “We were just gonna pop into the wine shop. If you don’t mind waiting, we’ll be happy to help you out.”