Double Jeopardy

by William Bernhardt

  The man nodded nervously. Sweat dripped down both cheeks.

  “By the way,” Curran asked the guard, “has anyone else come calling today?”

  “Yeah. Some other guy. I was told to let him in. ’Bout an hour ago.”

  “Who was he?”

  “I don’t know his name. Honest I don’t.”

  “Medium-size, dark-haired guy? Ugly face?”

  “That’s him.”

  Curran glanced at Travis. “Your client’s presence is confirmed.” Curran wrapped a heavy cord around the man’s wrists and shoved him toward the house. The others followed behind, careful to stay near the trees and in shadows.

  Travis lagged behind. “Henderson,” he whispered, “you’re being awfully quiet.”

  “How long have you known this Curran fellow?”

  “Oh, about half an hour longer than we’ve known you,” Travis replied. “Why?”

  “He seems … dangerous. Like a loose cannon. I wonder if we should be hanging so close to him.”

  Cavanaugh overheard. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s a lightning rod. Maybe we should let him stay well ahead of us. Deflect fire.”

  “I think we have to all stay together or we’re history,” Travis said.

  The man nodded thoughtfully without comment.

  The machine resembled an automated bank teller. Curran inserted the plastic card into the slot just beneath a small screen. The screen glowed blue; then the words State Your Name appeared in white.

  Curran shoved the guard forward. “Elmer Thaddeus Brown,” the man said.

  Curran and Travis exchanged a look. Elmer?

  The next screen asked for his job title. “Chief of security,” the man replied.

  The third and final screen read: Password.

  The guard hesitated. Curran gently reached forward and placed a finger beneath each eyeball.

  “Elcon,” he spat out.

  Elcon? Travis thought. Yet another connection between that corporation and the mob.

  The blue screen disappeared, and a clicking noise told them the front door was open. Cautiously, they stepped inside. Once everyone was in, Curran closed the door behind them.

  “Sorry about this,” Curran told the guard, “but we need to reduce our risks.” He reared back his fist.

  Just before his hand connected with Elmer’s face, Elmer ducked and rushed Curran. Curran was caught off guard; he fell backward against a sofa. Elmer’s hands were still tied behind his back, but he managed to scramble toward the staircase. “Jack! Marty! Trouble!”

  “Damn!” Travis raced forward and grabbed Elmer by his tied hands. Using the man’s own momentum against him, he swung him around into a brick fireplace. Without the use of his hands, Elmer had no way to stop himself. He hit the bricks headfirst, then fell to the floor.

  Barely a second later three men came rushing down the stairs. They were large, muscular types; there could be little doubt about their function in the household.

  Before Cavanaugh could get out of the way, one of the men leaped over the banister, knocked her gun out of her hands, and shoved her down onto the carpet. Travis tried to intervene, but was stopped by another of the men, a tall, blond Nordic-looking behemoth. The blond took a swing at Travis’s head. Travis ducked, but the man’s fist still clipped him.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Travis saw that Curran was having similar problems. The third bodyguard had him pinned against the wall, a large handgun wedged under his chin. Curran might know a hundred and five ways to kill a man, but he wasn’t going to have a chance to implement any of them unless he got out of that chokehold.

  He heard Cavanaugh scream, but couldn’t see what was happening to her. A fist impacting upon his stomach reminded Travis that he had problems of his own. The blond knocked the breath out of him, and he hadn’t the slightest idea where he had dropped his gun. The blond, however, had no such difficulty. He reached behind his back and withdrew a small revolver.

  Travis grabbed the blond’s arm and flung it up into the air. The gun was poised directly above their heads. Travis locked his arms and held on for dear life. Suddenly the blond shifted his weight and brought the butt of the gun down in a straight vertical line—on top of Travis’s head.

  He cried out. That hurt. He felt as if the blond had put an inch-deep gash in his skull. His eyes were watering, clouding over. He tried to tackle him, but the blond knocked him back with a swift boot to the chest. Travis fell to his knees.

  Travis saw a shimmery outline of the blond leveling the gun at his face. He realized he was too dazed, too drained, and too far away to do a thing about it.

  He heard a gunshot ring out. He was unsure what had happened at first; then he saw the blond fall face forward onto the carpet.

  He heard another shot ring out. Behind him, Cavanaugh was lying on the floor while one of the assailants stood over her with a combat boot pinning her neck. The man’s grip loosened, then he, too, crumpled to the floor. His wound leaked blood onto the white carpet.

  Curran was still fighting. Travis ran to help, but saw that Curran had things under control. He had managed to reverse positions with his attacker and was slamming the upper half of his head repeatedly against the brick fireplace. Even Curran was startled, though, when the next gunshot rang out. The bullet caught the man in the neck; he was dead instantly.

  “What the—” Curran whirled around, trying to figure out what had happened. “Henderson!”

  He was standing by the front door, a smoking gun in his hand.

  “You killed them!” Travis said.

  “Yeah, before they killed you.”

  “Curran would’ve taken his man out soon.”

  “Maybe. We couldn’t afford the risk. Or the delay.”

  “Couldn’t you have … winged them or something?”

  He ran the gun muzzle down the scar on his face. “The situation was getting out of control.”

  “But surely—”

  “Don’t give me a lot of crap, Byrne. Another second and you and the girl would’ve been dead meat.”

  Travis bit his tongue. The man probably had saved his life. And this would be a poor time to spread dissension in the ranks. “How are you, Cavanaugh?”

  Cavanaugh rubbed her neck. The imprint of her attacker’s boot was still visible, outlined in red. “Better than I was a few moments ago. Thanks, Henderson.”

  “At least someone approves,” he grumbled.

  “I didn’t say that,” Cavanaugh replied. “Don’t they show you how to throw a punch at Quantico?”

  “My evaluation of the situation was—”

  “I’m surprised the FBI allows you to just summarily execute people.”

  “I’m authorized to take all necessary action in emergency situations.”

  “Still, that was just cold-blooded—”

  “Cut him some slack!” Curran barked. “It was a tense situation. He did the best he could. He saved your butts.”

  “Yeah, although—”

  “We don’t have time for this. Jack and Moroconi could be crawling out the fire escape. Let’s go upstairs.”

  Travis still didn’t like it. Now a few more unnecessary deaths would be tallied under his name. But Curran was right—they had other tasks that took immediate precedence. Still, he didn’t want this loose cannon near Moroconi. At least not until Travis had a chance to talk to him.

  “Look, Henderson,” Travis said, “we need someone to guard our rear. More thugs could show up at any moment. Reinforcements. Why don’t you take a position behind the trees outside the front door? If anyone else shows up, you can come in behind them.”

  He frowned, obviously displeased.

  “Not a bad idea,” Curran echoed. “We don’t all need to be upstairs with Moroconi. Do you mind?”

  He took a long time before answering. “If that’s what you want me to do, that’s what I’ll do.”

  “Good.”

  Grudgingly, he walked out the door to find a saf
e position among the trees.

  Travis recovered his multistrike weapon from where he had dropped it on the carpet. “All right, team. Let’s go meet the master of the house.”

  Kramer chuckled as he lit a cigarette and pressed it between his lips. Who would’ve thought that shit-for-brains Curran would be the one to come to his defense? He was the only one who had acted remotely suspicious of him before, and now he’d bailed him out of a tight spot.

  It pained Kramer to be associated with such bleeding-heart amateurs, even if he was just waiting for a chance to rub them all out. What fucking idiots. Bursting into a room they knew would be guarded and then trying to slug it out with a bunch of professional bodyguards. If it had been up to him, he would’ve used firebombs, would’ve blown the entire house sky high. And he would’ve been safely tucked away in the forest, watching the beautiful billows of fire illuminate the hillside.

  Christ—he had come with them hoping to kill Byrne and he had ended up saving the man’s life! But it was too soon. He wanted Moroconi, and he couldn’t blow away Byrne until he was certain he had him. Besides, he had the persistent feeling that Curran was watching him, even as he fought.

  He wasn’t thrilled about drawing guard duty, but if he had protested too much, they would’ve become suspicious. Actually, he reflected, this might work out for the best. Let those idiots find Moroconi, do all the risky stuff—and then deliver Moroconi into his hands. Yes, he realized, that was by far the most sensible plan of action.

  After all, he could kill them anytime.

  71

  9:20 P.M.

  TRAVIS AND CAVANAUGH STOOD outside the closed door at the top of the stairs. Curran made a quick sweep of the other upstairs rooms and found nothing. Unless their targets had somehow escaped, they were behind that door.

  Travis pointed toward the hallway corner, just below the ceiling. “Security camera.”

  Curran ignored it. “After a rollicking brawl and three gunshots, I have a hunch they know we’re here.” He gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”

  Travis blanched. “What? Just open the door and stroll in?”

  “What did you want to do? Sneak in through a ventilation shaft? You watch too much TV.” Curran placed his hand on the doorknob. “Ready?”

  Travis braced himself. He glanced at Cavanaugh, who was standing just to his side. She crossed her fingers and smiled. What a trooper. At least he had his police experience to fall back on. She was untrained but unafraid, steeling herself to plunge into almost certain danger. Hard not to feel strongly about someone like that.

  The door swung open and they rushed inside. Travis had half expected to be greeted with gunfire. Instead he heard nothing.

  The room was totally dark. Travis literally could not see his hand when he held it before his face.

  He sensed movement beside him. Curran was pushing forward, exploring the darkness.

  “Freeze,” he heard a familiar voice say.

  “Moroconi,” Travis said. “Is that you?”

  “Guilty as charged. For once. Nice to see you again, counselor.”

  See? Travis couldn’t see a thing.

  “That’s right. I can see all three of you. You’re outlined in the doorway, in the light from downstairs. But you can’t see me, can you? What a goddamn pity.” He laughed in his customary revolting manner. “I guess that gives me kind of an advantage.”

  “What’s this all about, Moroconi? Why did you attack those people at the West End? Why did you set me up?”

  “Because you’re a self-righteous turd, Byrne. My mistake was leaving you eating gravel after I shook you off the back of my truck. I should’ve turned around and run over you five or six times.”

  Travis heard just the slightest shuffling noise on his immediate left. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what Curran was doing. He was sliding his infrared glasses off his belt. Evening the score.

  Travis tried to keep Moroconi distracted. “What about the list? Why did you have to drag me into that?”

  Moroconi chuckled contemptuously. “You still haven’t figured it out, have you, Byrne? What a fool.”

  “I was trying to help you, Moroconi. I still am. I haven’t resigned from the case. Turn yourself in and we’ll finish the trial. I promise I’ll do the best job for you I can.”

  “Goddamn mouthpiece. You’ll say anythin’, won’t you? What do you take me for?”

  Travis took a tiny step forward. “I’m serious—”

  “Don’t move another step,” Moroconi warned. “If you do, I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off.”

  Travis didn’t doubt it. He had successfully managed to distract Moroconi, though. Even in the darkness, Travis could tell Curran was strapping the glasses over his eyes.

  “Did you have anything to do with kidnapping Staci?”

  “Staci? Who the hell is she? What am I bein’ framed for now?”

  “I’m just trying to figure out what the hell is going on.”

  “You and me both.” Moroconi brushed up against something in the dark. A chair? “And I had a damn hard time gettin’ my old chum Jack to talk to me.”

  So Jack was in the room. Funny that he hadn’t said anything. Assuming he was still able to say anything.

  Travis was sure Curran was getting ready to make his move. He fell silent and waited for a signal. He didn’t have to wait long.

  Curran’s voice pierced the dark room. “Get down!”

  Travis ducked, and he could hear Cavanaugh doing the same. A shot rang out from Moroconi’s gun, but he had no idea where it went. Nowhere near him, anyway. He jumped to his feet, ran back to the door, and flipped on the lights.

  The room was flooded by bright overhead bulbs. Moroconi stood behind a desk, squinting, waving his gun. Curran was already on top of the desk, and a moment later he knocked the gun out of Moroconi’s hand. Curran brought his fist squarely into Moroconi’s neck. Moroconi went reeling back against the windowsill.

  “Are you all right?” Travis asked Cavanaugh. She nodded. Wherever Moroconi’s wild bullet had gone, it hadn’t been into her, thank God.

  Travis ran to see if Curran needed help. He didn’t. He had Moroconi pinned firmly facedown on the floor. Travis watched as Curran patted Moroconi down, then systematically pulled knives, condoms, and rolled-up wads of money out of his pockets. And a single sheet of paper.

  Travis scanned the typewritten sheet. Names, aliases, addresses. This had to be the list. The real one.

  Travis noticed red ink checkmarks beside four of the names on the list, the four geographically closest to Dallas.

  “Blackmail,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “Not content to extract money from Jack, I’ll bet Moroconi was planning to bleed bucks out of every ex-mobster on this list.”

  Speaking of Jack—where was he? The desk chair was facing the window. Travis swiveled it around … and found a man’s body slumped in the chair, blood trickling down his face, a gag tied in his mouth. His face seemed familiar, but it was so contorted and smeared with blood it was difficult to see it clearly.

  “Jack?” Travis said under his breath.

  “That’s him,” Moroconi answered, twisting his neck around. Curran rammed his face back into the carpet.

  Cavanaugh pushed Travis aside. She was holding two wet washcloths and a bottle of antiseptic. He had no idea where they had come from—probably the bathroom down the hall.

  “You shouldn’t have done this,” Cavanaugh said, glaring at Moroconi as she dressed the wounds.

  “The bastard deserved it.”

  “No one deserves to be tortured.”

  “What do you know about it, bitch?”

  Cavanaugh turned away from him in disgust. “This isn’t fatal,” she told Travis and Curran as she wiped off the coagulated blood. “In fact, the cuts are minor. Moroconi was probably just scaring the man in his own sick way. I think he’s in mild shock. It looks awful, but the blood is principally coming from just two superficial facial sla
shes.”

  “I had to!” Moroconi protested. “Fuckin’ asswipe wouldn’t talk.”

  Curran twisted Moroconi’s arms painfully behind his back and tied them.

  Jack was beginning to come around. Cavanaugh laid a cool washrag on his face and let it soak. The color gradually returned to his face. About five minutes later Travis decided he had waited long enough. He lifted the washrag off the man’s face.

  Yes. Now that the man had been cleaned up, there was no doubt in Travis’s mind. He had seen him before.

  He was the man who had created the disturbance in front of the warehouse four years ago. The man who had acted like a crazed religious lunatic. The man who had stolen his gun.

  The man who had killed Angela.

  72

  9:41 P.M.

  “IT’S YOU,” TRAVIS SAID breathlessly.

  Jack turned away. “Shit. I was afraid you’d recognize me.”

  “Recognize you? How could I forget you?” Travis wiped his hand across his brow. “They told me you were doing time.”

  “They lied.”

  “What’s going on?” Cavanaugh asked. “I don’t understand.”

  “You and me both.” Travis swung Jack around to face him eye to eye. “What are you doing on the outside? What’s your connection to Moroconi?”

  “Jesus T. Christ.” Jack shook his head in disgust. “You still don’t know?”

  Travis grabbed him by his lapels. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Curran laid his hand on Travis’s shoulder. “Stay calm, Travis. Let’s just ask him some questions.”

  “I won’t answer,” Jack said.

  Curran clutched the man’s throat. “If you don’t, I’ll untie your buddy Al and give him back his knife. I don’t think he’s quite finished cutting you.”

  Jack was visibly shaken. “Ask your stupid questions. What do I care?”

  “What’s your real name?” Travis demanded.

  “Who gives a flying fuck?”

  Who did, actually? Travis realized he had only asked the question because that was standard police procedure. First line: Name. Next he would probably ask for the man’s Social Security number.

  “What’s your connection to Moroconi and Mario Catuara and the rest of their gangland buddies?”