Jack sat in sullen silence. Curran grabbed him and shook him hard.
“Don’t you know what they do to squealers?” Jack shouted. “The penalty for violating the Omerta is death!”
Curran gritted his teeth. “Don’t you know what I’ll do to you if you don’t talk?” When that didn’t work, he slapped him several times with the back of his hand. The contemptuous expression melted into a what the hell.
“I was big in the Gattuso mob before the FBI shut it—” Jack smiled. “Before the FBI thought they shut it down. I mean, I was heavy-duty, locked in tight with the boys that mattered. The players. I got all the important jobs.” He glanced at Travis. “Like the one where I iced that bitch you were fuckin’.”
Travis’s fingernails dug into the palms of his hands. Stay in control. Stay in control. “I take it the mob wasn’t altogether eradicated?”
“Shit no.” He picked something black out from between his teeth. “See, we had us a contingency plan. Something to fall back on.”
“And what was the plan?”
“The FBI had the goods on most of the made men. But some of us had been smart. We kept a low profile.”
Lower than a rock, Travis suspected.
“We knew the feds were about to make their move. So we executed Escape Plan A. We merged.”
“Merged?”
“Yeah. We’d bought a small corporation a few years before. Limited business, single shareholder. Small-potatoes stuff. And totally legitimate. The guy who ran the thing had no idea he’d married the mob. At first.”
“He found out later?”
“He had to. Believe me, no one could write off the money that started pourin’ through that corporation to increased market penetration. But the original owner just took the money and kept quiet. We wanted to keep him happy, see. We needed a place to stash the dough, someplace it would be safely waiting when we needed it. It was our golden parachute, right? Our private retirement fund. By the time this schmuck knew enough to be really concerned, he was in too deep. Besides, he was making money, real motherfuckin’ money for the first time in his life. And he liked it.”
“So when the FBI clamped down on all the known mob members, you and the other faceless ones phased into the corporation.”
“Very smart.” A tiny light began to shine in Jack’s eyes. “It was a perfect setup. Instead of being criminals, we were suddenly legit businessmen. Everyone got titles—you know, president, vice-president—that kind of shit. It was a riot.”
“That would be the Elcon Corporation.”
“Right. The hell of it was, the stuff we did in the corporation wasn’t any different from the stuff we did in the mob. Hell, some of it was worse, if you ask me. We still stole money and used whores and shit. Now all our new made men have MBAs and law degrees. And we get away with it!”
“Maybe they got away with it,” Travis said, “but I notice Moroconi is still on the outside, and Mario said you turned state’s evidence. What happened?”
“Al got greedy. He wanted a bigger cut—and threatened to screw the merger if he didn’t get it. Basically, he was trying to steal money that wasn’t his. The mob doesn’t put up with that. Al already had a huge private slush fund he’d squirreled away over the years. And now he wanted more. We had to do something. I wanted to turn him in to the feds, but Mario was afraid he’d squeal on us. We had to destroy his credibility—fix it so no one would believe anything he said.”
“Why not just rub him out?” Travis asked.
“Believe me, it was considered. But we came up with something sweeter. We were concerned that the FBI was still snooping around for the kingpin. But they didn’t know who he was. So I turned state’s evidence.”
“Why?”
“So I could tell the feebees—after a big show of not telling them—that the godfather was Alberto Moroconi.”
Travis slapped his forehead. “No wonder the FBI wanted to talk to him.”
Jack grinned. “It was perfect. The heat was off Mario, and Moroconi had to go deep undercover just to keep his butt out of jail. Killed two birds with one stone. I let the feds relocate me, and about a year after that, I let Mario—excuse me, Elcon—re-relocate me, so I’d be free of the feds and could cut myself back into the corporation.”
“Which you did.”
“True. A few months ago I got a tip from one of the boys about where Moroconi was hiding out. I spread some money around the police station and arranged for him to be hauled in on the first available major felony. Which turned out to be your rape case.”
“Son of a bitch,” Moroconi muttered.
“The mob shafted one of its own?” Travis said. “Whatever happened to loyalty for life? Family ties?”
“Horseshit,” Jack said. “Maybe you think the mob is about blood oaths and ring kissing, all that Hollywood shit. Let me tell you—in the real mob, the bottom line is always, ‘Where’s the money?’ When Al wasn’t profitable anymore, they cut him loose.”
“So that’s why Moroconi was out to get you,” Travis said.
“Well … that and—”
“He stole my fuckin’ money!” Moroconi shouted from the back of the room. Curran had tied him to a closet door.
Jack didn’t deny it. “Before I went to the feds, I liberated Al’s slush fund. Just to tide me over.”
“I had six hundred thousand dollars,” Moroconi yelled. “And he stole it!”
“It wasn’t half enough,” Jack said. “Pissant.”
“If you were fixed for money,” Travis said, “I’m surprised you didn’t stay with the feds longer.”
“Those assholes were totally incompetent. They couldn’t protect their own dicks. This list crap is proof. Thank God they didn’t have my address—I would’ve been dead days ago. I can take care of myself a hell of a lot better than they could.”
Travis thought over everything Jack had told him. The jigsaw pieces were finally beginning to come together in his mind. And he didn’t like the looks of the completed picture. “So when Moroconi broke out of prison, he came looking for you. Because you squealed on him.”
Jack snorted. “Don’t make him sound so noble. All he wanted was the money.”
“And your butt,” Moroconi added.
“In your dreams,” Jack replied.
“Mario wrote to me a couple days ago,” Moroconi said. “On his corporate stationery, no less. Threatening me, telling me to keep the hell away. I showed him.”
Travis decided not to give him the bad news—that Mario was still alive.
“Anyway,” Jack continued, “my men grabbed Moroconi when he burst in here, and I had some fun with him. When you fools burst in, I sent the boys downstairs. I heard the gunshots—I guess that explains how you got past them. Of course, this piece of shit Moroconi used that opportunity to take out his knife and rough me up a bit. Till he heard you three coming upstairs. That’s when he hit the lights. He was scared shitless.”
Travis noticed that Curran was peering out the corner of the window. “Has he just about brought this fascinating story up-to-date?” Curran asked.
“I think so,” Travis replied. “Why?”
Curran removed his gun from its holster. “We’re about to have company.”
73
10:11 P.M.
TRAVIS PRESSED CLOSE TO Curran and tried to look over his shoulder. “Who is it?”
“I can’t tell. But it’s a man, and he’s alone.” They both heard the sound of the front door opening. “He’s in the house.”
Travis held his breath and listened to the soft footsteps crossing the living room downstairs. The intruder was undoubtedly surveying the scene, examining the dead men. Slowly, the footsteps moved toward the staircase.
Curran pressed himself flat against the wall beside the door. He raised his gun and held it suspended in the air.
“Is anyone up there?” The voice seemed harsh, authoritative.
“Who wants to know?” Curran fired back.
“I do
. My name is Janicek. I’m with the FBI.”
“Let him in,” Travis advised Curran.
Curran frowned but obeyed. “All right,” he shouted, “you can come up. But keep your hands in the air. If you go for a weapon, I’ll shoot you dead.”
Travis listened as the soft footsteps floated up the stairs. He pulled Cavanaugh closer to him. They both held their breath.
Travis recognized the man who stepped through the doorway, arms raised in the air. “I’ve met this man before,” he said. “He visited my office and scared the hell out of me. He’s FBI.”
Curran slowly lowered his gun.
Janicek smiled. “I’m glad you remembered, Byrne. Your pal looks like he has an itchy trigger finger.”
“Just cautious,” Curran murmured.
“Why the hell did the FBI try to kill me at the shopping mall?” Travis demanded.
“We were acting on some … confused intelligence,” Janicek said.
Travis noticed Moroconi, still tied to the closet door. He was being strangely silent. For the first time his obnoxious overconfidence seemed to have drained away. He almost looked scared.
“You’ve caught Moroconi. That’s great,” Janicek said.
“Yeah. And we recovered your goddamn list.”
“That’s wonderful. Can I see it?”
Travis hesitated. There was no reason not to hand the list back to the people who lost it, but something about this situation struck him as … odd. What was it?
Paranoia, he told himself. It’s finally getting to me. He shrugged and handed over the list.
“Thank God it’s safe again,” Janicek said, shoving it into his pocket. “For all we know, Moroconi may have been planning to knock each witness off one by one.”
“I suspect blackmail was more what he had in mind,” Travis replied. “I have a lot of questions—”
“There’ll be time for that later. I need to take this man into custody.”
Janicek advanced toward Moroconi. Moroconi immediately moved away from him, as far as he could go while tied to the closet. “Don’t let him near me,” he said. “Please. Keep him offa me!”
Travis was puzzled. He hadn’t expected Moroconi to go willingly, but he hadn’t expected this reaction either. There was pure fear in Moroconi’s eyes.
Janicek grabbed Moroconi roughly by the arm. “Don’t give me any trouble.”
“I’m serious!” Moroconi said. He was practically pleading. “This guy ain’t what he seems.”
That caught Travis’s attention.
“Don’t listen to him,” Janicek said. “He’s desperate. He’s trying to confuse you.”
“You mean he isn’t with the FBI?” Travis asked Moroconi.
“No, he’s with the FBI, but he’s playing both ends against the middle. He’s the one who gave me—”
Janicek’s fist smashed into Moroconi’s nose. Moroconi’s head flew back and pounded against the closet. He tried once more to speak, and Janicek hit him again.
“What the hell was that for?” Travis demanded.
“He was getting out of hand,” Janicek said gruffly.
“Out of hand? He’s tied to the closet. What did you think he was going to do?”
Janicek proceeded to untie Moroconi. “Just stay out of my way, Byrne. Leave this to the professionals.”
“You’re not going anywhere until I get some answers.”
“I don’t have time to play twenty questions. Interfering with a federal officer in the execution of his duty is a felony offense!” He finished untying Moroconi and grabbed him by the arm. “I have to get this man into custody. I have to secure the list.”
“Secure the list!” Moroconi said, blood dripping from his nose. “He’s the one who gave me the list!”
“What!” Travis pushed Janicek away from Moroconi. “Is that true?”
Almost instantaneously, Janicek had his gun out of his shoulder holster. “Get out of my way, Byrne.”
Travis stepped back cautiously.
Janicek jerked Moroconi toward the door, only to find Curran was blocking the way, gun raised. “You are obstructing an officer of the law!”
“Maybe so,” Curran said. “But something about this smells.”
“What do you care what happens to this piece of shit?”
“Not much, but I’m not going to let you execute him,” Curran said.
“Stupid son of a—” Before Curran realized what was happening, Janicek swung Moroconi around between himself and Curran’s gun. Curran almost fired, then stopped when he realized Moroconi had become the man’s shield. Janicek shoved Moroconi into Curran, knocking him off balance, then clubbed Moroconi with his gun butt. Moroconi dropped to the ground like a rock. A second later Janicek pointed his gun at Curran’s head and pulled back the hammer.
The sound of a gunshot electrified the room. Janicek screamed and fell to his knees. Clutching his chest, he tumbled to the floor.
Travis whirled around. “Henderson!”
He was standing in the doorway, gun drawn. “Thought you’d been inside too long,” he said, entering the room. “Especially after I saw this clown go in. I got worried.”
“Damn good timing,” Travis said. “But did you have to use your gun again?”
“What did you want me to use? Harsh language?”
“Right.” Travis picked up the phone on Jack’s desk. “I’ll call an ambulance.”
Yet another voice echoed through the room. “Don’t bother.”
Travis looked up and saw an older man in the doorway, his hands in the pockets of a long overcoat.
“And who the hell are you?” Travis asked.
“I’m with the FBI,” the man replied.
“Isn’t everyone?” Travis said. “Or so it seems today.”
“I’d be happy to show you my ID.”
“Why don’t you start by telling us your name?”
“As you wish,” the man answered calmly. “My name is Special Agent William Henderson. You may have heard of me.”
74
10:49 P.M.
THE OTHER MAN—THE man they believed to be Henderson—whirled around to face the newcomer. Curran raised his gun and covered both Hendersons.
“Wait a minute,” Travis said. “If you’re Henderson, who the hell is he?”
“One of them is lying,” Curran growled. “The question is which.” Curran pointed at their first Henderson. “I’ve been suspicious of this one since he entered the picture. He doesn’t look or act like any fed I’ve ever met.”
“No, it’s him!” shouted the first Henderson, pointing at the newcomer. “He’s with the mob!”
“He’s lying,” the new Henderson said calmly. “Believe me, I’ve known who I am for years.”
“How did you find us?”
“I followed Agent Janicek. When I arrived, I spotted this man hiding in the brush.” He indicated the first Henderson. “When he made his move, I followed him in.”
“You’re with Janicek?” Travis said. “Janicek just tried to kill Moroconi.”
“That can be explained.”
“I called the FBI,” Travis said. “They said they’d never heard of anyone named William Henderson. Either one of you.”
“What did you expect them to do? Give you my phone number? My men and I work for a special subdivision called Bureau 99. It’s kind of an FBI within the FBI. My work is extremely sensitive; I have one of the highest security clearances in the Southwest. After all, if the mob can get to me, they can get to any of the federal witnesses I’ve relocated.”
“Our first Henderson knew the password,” Cavanaugh reminded them.
“True,” Travis said. He addressed the newcomer. “What’s the password?”
“Which one? I know a dozen of them.”
“See?” the first Henderson insisted. “He doesn’t know it. That proves he’s the imposter.”
Curran grabbed the newcomer by the neck. “I don’t trust anyone connected with this Janicek creep.”
>
While they were talking no one noticed Moroconi pulling himself off the carpet and wiping a smear of blood from his face. He quickly surveyed the situation. “Him!” Moroconi shrieked, pointing.
The first Henderson glared at him.
“He’s not the FBI! His name is Kramer. He’s a fuckin’ hit man!”
Kramer slammed into Henderson like a linebacker, square in the stomach, knocking him into Curran. Henderson doubled over and went reeling onto the floor; Curran fumbled for his gun. Kramer kicked Henderson’s head against the desk. Henderson’s eyelids fluttered, then closed.
“Grab him!” Travis shouted.
It was too late. Kramer was out the door. Moroconi started after him; Curran grabbed Moroconi around the waist. Moroconi swung his arms back and clubbed Curran on the shoulders. They both fell to the floor, struggling.
Travis didn’t have time to help. Curran would eventually recapture Moroconi and Cavanaugh could look after Henderson. He wanted this killer Kramer.
Travis bounded downstairs and hit the first floor just in time to see Kramer fly out the front door. He leaped over the sofa, ran through the door, and hit the grass running. Kramer was making a beeline for the northern grove of trees, trying to disappear in the thick, dark brush. Travis couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him. If he let Kramer get too far ahead, he would lose him.
Damn! Travis ran as fast as he was able. Damn these stupid shoes, and damn me for getting so badly out of shape. He was doing the best he could, but Kramer was getting away from him. His lead had already doubled; soon Travis wouldn’t be able to see him at all.
A sudden cry up ahead told Travis he had gotten a lucky break. Kramer must’ve tripped over a stump or something; Travis saw him fly into the air, then crash to the ground. It was just the chance he needed to catch up.
Kramer was lying prostrate in the mud when Travis reached him. Travis unstrapped his multistrike gun and aimed. “Don’t move.”
Kramer did not freeze. He lurched forward, grabbing at the gun. Travis managed to shove him back to the ground. This time he held the gun against Kramer’s face. “Don’t move or I’ll shoot.”
Double Jeopardy Page 27