Double Jeopardy

by William Bernhardt

  Travis tried to maintain his facade of calm. “The trouble is—I’m supposed to meet the little woman at eleven-thirty. And it’s her birthday.”

  “Ye gods,” the first man said, checking his watch. “We’d better move fast. We’ll come back for the wine later.”

  “Thanks,” Travis said. “I really appreciate it.”

  Travis fell into step with them, careful to keep his newfound friends between himself and the two men in the overcoats. He didn’t have to look over his shoulder; he knew they were still back there.

  After providing a lame story about his gimp leg, Travis convinced the group to go to their car first, then drive him to his own car. All seven of them squeezed into the Land Rover; Travis kept himself in the middle. He instructed the driver to park his car in the aisle between two parking rows, blocking oncoming traffic. Travis then crawled into his car and put it into neutral, resisting suggestions that he give it another try first. Travis steered while the others pushed his car in front of the Rover. As he stepped out of his car he saw the long black sedan with leaded windows pull into the same lane, just behind the Rover. It was waiting.

  The first man, whom Travis had now learned went by “Buzz,” attached the jumper cables to the two cars’ batteries. After a believable period of time Travis tried his engine and—what a surprise!—it started right up.

  After letting the car charge briefly, Buzz removed the jumper cables and closed the hood of Travis’s car. “Well, that should take care of—”

  Travis never heard the rest of the sentence. He floored the accelerator and peeled out of the parking lot. In his rearview mirror, he saw the sedan press forward, but they couldn’t get around the Land Rover. The sedan honked, then someone leaned out the window and began shouting. Buzz closed his hood, got into the Rover, and tried to get out of the way. He eased forward, the sedan riding his rear bumper.

  Travis was already at the Park Lane intersection and the light was green. He turned right and shot down Park Lane, leaving the sedan and its occupants well behind.

  He took the first exit, turned right into a residential section, and wandered aimlessly for fifteen minutes.

  When he was certain he had lost them, Travis pulled over to the side of the street and rested his forehead against the steering wheel.

  Somehow he’d managed to give them the slip. But where could he go now? He couldn’t go anywhere he would normally be expected. Driving was itself dangerous; they could easily identify his car. Whoever they were. He slapped the dash with the flat of his hand. Why would the FBI try to kill him?

  He didn’t know what was and wasn’t safe, who could and couldn’t be trusted. All he had were guesses. And if he guessed wrong, it might prove fatal.

  29

  12:22 P.M.

  HENDERSON WAS ENRAGED. “YOU did what?”

  “I organized a recovery team to bring Byrne in,” Janicek said, folding his hands calmly in his lap.

  “Without my authorization?”

  “You weren’t around,” Janicek said, with barely a hint of derision.

  “You knew I’d be back.”

  “We couldn’t wait. The man was desperate. Claimed his life was in danger. We had to hurry.”

  “Goddamn it, your haste got an agent killed!”

  Janicek examined his fingernails. “We had no reason to believe Byrne was armed or dangerous.”

  “Well, you should’ve, Janicek. You should’ve planned for every contingency.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I tried to act according to regulation. But the first thing I knew, Byrne was shooting at us and poor Mooney was dead.”

  Henderson threw his coat bitterly on the floor. He was a big barrel-chested man with rugged features, now contorted by his anger and frustration. “Did he say whether he’d looked at the list?”

  “He claimed he hadn’t.”

  “Which doesn’t tell us a damn thing.” Henderson pounded his fists together. “I can’t believe that list got out in the first place. Have you tracked down the leak yet, Holt?”

  Holt stepped forward. “I have compiled and committed to memory the names of all the people who had access, sir.”

  “And what is your conclusion?”

  “That would be premature. Any number of agents could have obtained clearance. Any of us could have.”

  “Thank you very goddamn much, Mr. Holt. Tell me something I don’t know!”

  “Sir,” Holt said, “I’m formally requesting authorization to interview every agent on our special team. Separately. See what they have to say for themselves. See if they have any knowledge they shouldn’t.”

  “We can’t do that,” Henderson said. “Among other reasons, we don’t have time. We have to recover that list before it’s sold or made public.”

  “With all due respect, sir, that won’t be easy,” Janicek said. “Byrne is a cold-blooded killer.”

  “Are you sure? It just doesn’t make any goddamn sense.”

  “I told you what happened,” Janicek said. “What other explanation can there be? Simpson, Mooney, and I arrived at the appointed place. When I demanded the list, Byrne opened fire and shot Mooney. He would’ve killed us all if he’d had the chance.”

  “But why?”

  “Apparently he plans to keep the list,” Janicek replied. “Maybe Moroconi was acting for Byrne when he acquired it. Maybe they’re in it together. We’ve checked Byrne out. He’s not a wealthy man.”

  Henderson pressed his knuckles together. It still didn’t add up. He’d already checked with Simpson, though, and he had confirmed Janicek’s story in every detail.

  “Well, what the hell are we going to do?” Henderson asked, his teeth clenched.

  “I don’t see that we have a great deal of choice,” Janicek said. “Damage control is our first priority. If it’s possible to preserve the integrity of the list, we have to do it. And that means we have to get Byrne. Immediately. Before he’s found by someone else. We’re not the only group in town chasing him, you know.”

  Henderson’s eyebrows shot up. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Moroconi’s old business acquaintances.”

  “They’re after Byrne, too?”

  “There’s no other explanation for what happened at the West End. The initial target was Moroconi. But Byrne’s got the hot potato now, so they’ll want him. And frankly, if they find him first, there won’t be enough left for us to scrape up with a pizza knife.”

  “And they’ll have every name on the list,” Henderson said solemnly.

  Janicek nodded in quiet agreement. “Names and addresses.”

  There was a long silence during which all three of them thought the same thought. It was Holt who said it first. “We have to find Byrne before they do, sir. And if we have to kill him, then we have to kill him. In all likelihood, we will.”

  30

  2:00 P.M.

  ANOTHER OFFICE, IN ANOTHER high-rise, on the opposite side of town. Shadows masking the grim faces of the participants.

  Mario pressed a hand wearily to his forehead. “Can someone please explain what is going on? How did this simple plan for the elimination of one penny-ante pissant turn into a major disaster?”

  Kramer’s face became taut, distending his long, gruesome facial scar. He spoke in measured tones that in no way prevented Mario from realizing Kramer would like to set his face on fire. “That ain’t fair. Most of this operation has been flawless.”

  “One of your own men was killed!” Mario shouted. From the safety of the sofa, Donny smirked. “What the hell is so flawless about that?”

  “That was a mistake,” Kramer admitted. “Hardcastle fucked up and he paid the price. Still, most of our goals have been achieved. Such as watchin’ the phone lines and locations connected to Byrne. That’s how we got our first lead to Moroconi. That’s how we learned he had the list. That’s how we interrupted their little rendezvous at the West End.”

  Yes, Mario thought, that was Kramer—quick to bul
ldoze over this gaping hole in his heretofore unblemished record of stylized sadism. Why had the family endured him for so long? Sure, he was proficient, but he was unpredictable. And expensive. At least fifty thousand dollars a hit. Hell, the Outfit was teeming with poor slobs desperate to finish a hit so they could become made men. And Mario never paid them more than ten thousand a shot. Sure, there were risks, but anytime a murder was actually planned—wasn’t executed in the heat of the moment by an enraged spouse or jealous boyfriend—the chances of the police ever figuring out who did it decreased dramatically. All in all, Kramer was convenient, but unnecessary. So why the hell were they still using him?

  “Yes, you discovered the rendezvous at the West End, but once you arrived, what did you do?” Mario demanded. “You screwed up!”

  “There was … some confusion. I dunno why Hardcastle identified himself as a cop.”

  “The police line was a great idea,” Donny said. “In fact, I suggested it.”

  “That figures,” Kramer said with disgust.

  “I thought that if Byrne took us for police, he’d surrender quietly.”

  “Brilliant.” Kramer pulled out his lighter. “Unfortunately, Moroconi, who had busted out of jail a few hours before, had a slightly different reaction.”

  “I couldn’t predict that!” Donny screamed. “He always blames me, Uncle Mario. It’s not my fault.”

  “Of course it’s your fault, you little shit!” Kramer shouted back. “Your stupidity got one of my men killed!”

  “Uncle Mario, make him stop!”

  Mario covered his face with his hands. “Please, gentlemen. Must we always have this squabbling? No wonder we can’t accomplish anything. We’re our own worst enemy.”

  “Our worst enemy is our blood relations,” Kramer muttered.

  “Have there been any traces of Byrne since the West End incident?”

  “Yes,” Kramer answered. “My agents have confirmed that he didn’t go to his apartment or his office, or the courthouse, or any of his other usual haunts. He’s on the run, probably feeling like a cat in a Doberman cage. He finally turned up at a shopping mall.”

  Mario looked incredulous. “A shopping mall?”

  “Yes. Northpark Mall. One of my contacts reported the incident.”

  It was Donny’s turn to snicker. “Yeah, an hour after Byrne left.”

  Kramer fired up his lighter and held it about an inch from Donny’s nose. The message was unmistakable.

  “Look,” Kramer said, “I planted all the right info with my boys at the police station, and they fed it to those unquestioning vultures at the press. Byrne is a wanted man. He’s got nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, and he can’t run forever. Just gimme some more time. I’ll give you his fat ass on a silver platter.”

  “Any thoughts on what this wanted man was doing at a public mall?” Mario asked.

  “My source tells me he was running, like he was being chased. He thought there mighta been some gunplay.”

  “The police?”

  “So soon? Fat chance.”

  “Then we must assume that the people who lost the list are now attempting to reclaim it.”

  “I’d say that’s a fair conclusion.”

  Mario spread his hands across his desk. “Mr. Kramer, I want that list. Bring it to me.”

  “A tall order,” Kramer said.

  “But one I feel confident you can fill.”

  “It won’t be enough to just find Byrne, men. We have to find him before anyone else does.”

  Mario nodded. “I concur. Do it.”

  “And when I find him? What then?”

  “You may do whatever you like with him, Mr. Kramer. Indulge yourself. Just bring me the list.”

  “And what if he’s with Al when I find him?”

  Mario smiled. “All the better. Shoot to kill.”

  31

  4:45 P.M.

  TRAVIS SLIPPED INTO THE phone booth and closed the glass door behind him. As he dialed he scanned in all directions, watching for suspiciously slow cars or anyone taking an unhealthy interest in his license plate number.

  Gail picked up the phone. “Holyfield and Associates.”

  “Put me through to Dan.”

  “Omigosh! Travis! Is this you?”

  “Shhh!” Travis hissed into the receiver. “Don’t say my name. Someone could be listening. Just act as if this is nothing out of the ordinary and put me through to Dan.”

  “But, Travis, everyone is so worried—”

  “Gail—”

  “I don’t care what anyone says. I know you didn’t have anything to do with those murders.”

  “Gail, transfer my call to Dan.”

  “I just wanted you to know—”

  “Gail, do it!”

  “Right, right …” Travis heard a series of electronic beeps as his call was transferred.

  “Hello?”

  Travis recognized the voice at once. “Dan, are you alone?”

  “Travis! Where are you?”

  “Dan, please don’t say my name. We don’t know who might be listening.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m alone.”

  “Dan, just let me talk. I can’t stay on the line for long. They might trace the call.”

  “They? Who on earth—”

  “Dan, I’m not going to be able to finish the trial. Send Abigail or someone else over to make an appearance—”

  “The trial has been suspended, Travis.”

  He swore silently. “Because I didn’t appear in court.”

  “Plus the fact that your client broke out of jail last night.”

  Of course. How stupid of him. Normally, the voluntary disappearance of the defendant wouldn’t halt a trial (if it did, they’d all disappear), but when both the defendant and his attorney vanished, it could definitely gum up the works.

  “Was Hagedorn angry?”

  “What do you think? He held you in contempt and issued a bench warrant for your arrest. Which is convenient, because I understand the police are looking for you anyway. Charles didn’t have much choice under the circumstances. You haven’t been disbarred, Travis, but of course, the day isn’t over yet.”

  “I had to stay away, Dan. Someone’s looking for me. Someone who wants to kill me.”

  “What could be safer than a courthouse?”

  “Dan, I got the hell beaten out of me in the courthouse a few days ago.”

  “Come into the office, then. I’ll see that you get every possible protection.”

  “Sorry, Dan. I’ve already driven by the office. Someone’s parked across the street from the front door, and there’s a thug pacing up and down the steps. I’m certain they’re watching for me.”

  “I’ll personally escort you upstairs.”

  “I’m not putting you in danger.”

  “Travis. The police think you were involved in a shooting at the West End.”

  “It isn’t true, Dan. I mean, I was involved, but only as a target. You’ve got to believe me. People are trying to kill me.”

  “Travis …” Dan inhaled slowly, choosing his words with care. “I know you’ve been under a lot of stress lately. We’ve all been trying to get you to slow down. You’ve been working much too hard.”

  “I haven’t gone bonkers, Dan.”

  “No, of course not. You’re just a little … stressed. Paranoia sets in. …”

  “You wouldn’t think I was paranoid if you’d lived my last twenty-four hours. People are trying to kill me, Dan. And it appears to involve both the police and the FBI, so don’t suggest that I turn myself in to either one.”

  “Where did you get the idea that—”

  “I don’t have time to go into it Just relay a message to Judge Hagedorn. Tell him I apologize, that I regret the inconvenience to the court, and that I would’ve appeared if it had been at all possible.”

  “I will, Travis, but I don’t see what good it’s going to do.”

  “Thanks. Bye.” He disconnected the line
.

  There was one more call Travis wanted to make. He looked the number up in the directory dangling beneath the pay phone. Sure enough, it was not the number on Henderson’s business card. He dialed.

  “Good afternoon. Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “Yes.” Travis tried to muffle his voice with his hand. “Could I speak to Special Agent William Henderson?”

  “Extension, please.”

  “Uh … I’m sorry, I don’t know it. Can you look it up?”

  He heard an annoyed hmmph on the other end of the line. After a few moments the voice returned. “I show two Hendersons—a George and a Phoebe. No William.”

  “Perhaps he’s located in an office outside Dallas.”

  “Sir, I’m looking at the directory for the entire FBI. All offices.”

  “Perhaps I have his title wrong.”

  “I show no William Henderson with any title.”

  “Are you certain?”

  A long exasperated sigh. “Yes, sir, I’m certain. Will there be anything else?”

  “How about an agent named Janicek?”

  She checked. “I’m sorry. No Janicek.”

  Travis felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. “What about Holt? Check for Holt.”

  “I show a Clara Holt in Seattle.”

  “No, this was a man.”

  “Strike three,” the woman said. “Does this mean you’re out?”

  “Yeah,” Travis murmured. “As a matter of fact, it does.” He hung up the phone.

  Travis stood in the booth, utterly clueless about his next move. If they weren’t FBI, who the hell were those people? How could he fight them when he didn’t even know who they were?

  He jumped back into his car and floored it. He had no idea what to do. The only thing he knew with clarity was what he couldn’t do. He couldn’t go to the police, or the alleged FBI agents, or his friends—at least not without taking a serious risk of getting killed, and maybe getting others killed as well. What was left?

  32

  5:30 P.M.

  SPECIAL AGENT HENDERSON SAT at one end of a long conference table with Janicek, Holt, and three other agents.