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  “He must’ve said something when the two of you were together.”

  “Mostly it was just grunting noises.”

  Travis pressed his fingers against his temples. “If Moroconi isn’t coming back, why are you still here?”

  The girl shrugged. “Checkout time’s not until three o’clock, and the room’s paid for. It’s a decent place. Lot nicer than where I usually stay.”

  To say the least. Travis silently swore. Sometimes, Travis Byrne, you are an insensitive son of a bitch. She was obviously just a pawn in this scenario. And how could he help but feel sorry for anyone who thought the Million Dollar Motel was a pleasant change of scenery?

  “Look,” he said more quietly, “are you sure you can’t think of anything that might help us find … Al?”

  She shook her head.

  “One more question. Who sent you to me the other night?”

  “I dunno. Someone had the money delivered, then called on a pay phone and gave me your address. I assumed you were calling the shots, till you started acting so strange.”

  “So you just go to any address someone phones in, without checking first?”

  She drew her shoulders back. “Most people are delighted to see me. Most normal people.”

  “You don’t ask your employers many questions.”

  “My employers prefer it that way.”

  “Okay, okay. Why don’t you collect your belongings and leave.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yeah. We’re not the only ones looking for your buddy Al. But we’re the only ones who don’t carry big guns.”

  “Oh. Okay. I’ll go.” She jumped off the bed, then hesitated. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a quick date?”

  Travis stammered incoherently.

  “If you’d like,” Cavanaugh said dryly, “I could step outside.”

  “We could do whatever you like,” the girl added.

  Travis shook his head. “No, really …”

  “I could call a friend. You know, two at once.”

  “Uhh, no …”

  “We could use this.” She reached under the bed and withdrew a foot-long wooden handle with long gossamer-looking angel hair dangling beneath.

  A profound line creased Travis’s brow. “What on earth is that?”

  “It’s the Cosmic Spider.” She leaned forward and whispered the rest into his ear.

  “Good Lord! That’s … that’s …”

  She giggled. “It’s kinda fun, actually.”

  “Look, miss, you really need to get out of here.”

  “You like guys, don’t you? I should have known. The only time I get turned down is when the trick likes boys better.”

  “I do not like boys better. I mean, I don’t like them at all. I mean—”

  Cavanaugh stepped between them. “I hate to break up this beautiful moment, but why don’t we let the teenager report back to her boss? You and I can search for any clues Al might’ve left behind.”

  “Right, right.” Travis reached for his wallet. “Look, here’s sixty bucks. I’m sorry it’s not more, but I’m tight on cash right now and I may need—”

  “Oh, no,” the girl said. “I never accept handouts. I’m a working girl.”

  “It’s not a handout. It’s compensation for your illuminating information. And an apology for the rough stuff on the bed.”

  “That’s all right,” she said, snatching the cash from his hand. “I’m used to it.”

  44

  3:00 P.M.

  THE MAN IN THE black stocking cap slowly approached the yellow Dodge Omni, shielding himself from the view of the desk clerk in the front office. If his contacts back at Orpha’s Lounge were right, and Moroconi had stayed here, he was gone now. Using his binoculars, he scanned the parking lot. No black pickup.

  There did appear to be someone in Moroconi’s room—someone who wanted to be there badly enough to break down the door. A barely dressed teenage girl had just left the room. He didn’t recognize her—hotel whore, probably. But who was inside?

  He crept closer and listened to the voices in the room. It sounded as if they were searching; probably trying to determine where Moroconi had gone. He didn’t recognize the female voice, but he was certain the man was Travis Byrne.

  He touched the shoulder holster attached to his Kevlar vest. He slowly removed the gun, keeping it out of sight inside his jacket. He could slip inside the room, take care of Byrne, and slip out again. No one would be the wiser. Perhaps this mission would be easier than he had anticipated.

  He started toward the door, then hurriedly retreated to the shadows. Someone was leaving the front office and walking briskly toward Room 14. He shouldn’t have procrastinated; he should’ve just gone in there and—

  Well, it was too late now. The desk clerk was probably investigating the gaping hole in the door. He’d call the cops soon, if he hadn’t already. It wasn’t safe to be here any longer.

  He eased his gun back into the holster, then opened one of the compartments on his Sam Browne belt and removed the tiny SSI tracer. He quickly crept into the backseat of the Omni. It would be better to hide the tracer among their personal belongings; they might be tempted to switch cars later. He opened a black leather briefcase and slipped the device inside.

  The tracer had a range of twenty miles. Now he’d be able to follow them from a distance, with no risk of being spotted. Never mind this temporary setback—his time would come.

  And when it did, Travis Byrne’s time would come to an end.

  45

  3:15 P.M.

  AFTER THE GIRL LEFT, Travis and Cavanaugh searched every cranny of Moroconi’s motel room. They tried to be as thorough as possible while still remembering that their entrance had been less than subtle and was bound to attract attention, possibly from the police.

  Travis ransacked the bathroom while Cavanaugh rummaged through the closets. “So,” she said, “last night when you gave me the story of your recent life, you somehow omitted your encounter with that cute little tartlet.”

  Travis made an indistinct coughing noise.

  “Care to explain how you ran into the juvenile jailbait?”

  “A criminal attorney comes into contact with people from all walks of life. …”

  “Don’t tell me she’s a client, Byrne. Dan Holyfield wouldn’t let her through the office door. I somehow got the feeling you and she had a more prolonged, intimate acquaintance.”

  “Well, you were wrong. It was a very brief, bizarre acquaintance.” He reflected for a moment. “Although, in light of what’s happened since, it’s beginning to make more sense.”

  Cavanaugh wriggled under the bed and grabbed something soft and rubbery. “Perhaps Moroconi hasn’t gone too far,” she said. “He left his tennis shoes.” The well-worn tennies were filthy and riddled with holes; she held them at arm’s length by the tips of her fingers.

  Travis emerged from the bathroom. “He left a half-empty shampoo bottle, too, but I hardly think we can expect him to return for it. Especially after he sees what I did to the front door.”

  “Here you go, Byrne.” Cavanaugh tossed the tennies to him. “They look like they might be your size.”

  Travis caught them, then grimaced. “These are disgusting. I’m dumping them.” He dropped the shoes into the trash can. They plopped in with a clang.

  In addition to the clang, Travis heard a crinkling noise. He bent down on his knees and began rummaging through the trash can. “There’s something in here.”

  “I know,” Cavanaugh said. “Mostly Big Mac wrappers and used condoms. I for one feel better about this whole situation now that I know Moroconi practices safe sex.”

  Travis continued digging through the disgusting contents of the trash can. He found a strip of cotton, apparently torn from an undershirt. It was stained with blood. He had found traces of blood around the shower drain, too. Was Moroconi hurt? Perhaps by that crash into the wall at the West End?

  A moment later Travis
withdrew a torn and crinkled envelope.

  “I didn’t see that,” Cavanaugh said, walking toward him.

  “It was wrapped up in one of the McDonald’s bags.” He shot her a pointed glance. “Police officers are trained to be thorough.”

  He flattened the envelope on the dresser. There were no markings on it, except for a corporate logo in the upper left corner that identified the letter as being sent by the Elcon Corporation. There was no return address.

  “Mean anything to you?” Cavanaugh asked.

  “Not offhand, but if we—”

  Travis stopped when he heard footsteps outside the room. He sprang back and positioned himself beside the door, waiting to club whoever stepped through.

  “Heavens to Betsy,” the man outside the door said. His hands were pressed against his face. “Who has done this terrible terrible thing? My boss, he will kill me.”

  Travis slowly emerged from behind the door. The speaker was a diminutive gentleman of Indian descent, or perhaps Pakistani. The badge on his lapel said that he was the front desk clerk and that his name was Bob.

  “Uh, we don’t know how this happened,” Travis said. He hated to lie, but the circumstances left him little alternative. “We just thought we’d come inside and see if anyone was hurt.”

  “What in the holy moley has happened?” the desk clerk cried. “Was there an explosion of a small nuclear device?”

  “Like I said, we just showed up.” Travis grabbed Cavanaugh’s hand and tugged her toward the door.

  “Are you the gentleman who called about Room 14?”

  Travis stared at the carpet “Nah. I was just in the neighborhood. …”

  “Oh, my. This time I shall be fired for certain. It is the cracks.”

  Travis blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “The cracks. They all have it up their noses. They take one whiff and they think they are invincible. They say, I can handle it and then powie! They go through a door.”

  Travis decided to play along. “Yeah, this probably is the work of some drug-crazed fiends.” He tugged Cavanaugh more emphatically. “We’d better get out of here.”

  “Wait,” the clerk said. “You must fill out forms, report to the police.”

  “Sorry,” Travis said. “No time.”

  “Stop!” The clerk followed close behind them. “You must stay. I am not kidding with you.”

  They piled into the Omni and Cavanaugh backed away, ignoring Bob’s protests.

  “Back out without turning around,” Travis muttered. “So he can’t get your license-plate number.”

  Cavanaugh followed instructions. The desk clerk followed them all the way out of the parking lot, never quite catching up.

  Once there was sufficient distance between them, Cavanaugh turned the car around and accelerated out of sight. She never noticed the Jeep waiting for them on the side of the highway, much less the blinking red light inside her briefcase.

  46

  4:30 P.M.

  TRAVIS HUNG HIS HEAD low as a patrol car whizzed by them on Belt Line Road.

  “Ten to one that cop is headed to the Million Dollar Motel to investigate a reported break-in,” Cavanaugh said.

  “That shouldn’t attract too much interest.”

  “Not until the clerk describes the suspects who sped from the scene of the crime. Then every available officer on the force will descend on the place.”

  “And the press can add breaking and entering to their list of my alleged crimes,” Travis mused. “Oh well. At least I really committed this one.”

  Cavanaugh checked traffic on all sides for more police cars. “Incidentally, Byrne, where am I driving?”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “Yes. I’m tired of running this third-rate Bonnie and Clyde outfit. I got us to Moroconi—his room, anyway. Now you tell me what we do next.”

  “Well, we need to figure out what the Elcon Corporation is, and what its connection is to one Alberto Moroconi. Unless I’m missing something, it’s the only clue we have.”

  “Sound reasoning.” She barreled into the fast lane and switched over to I-365. “But that doesn’t tell me where to drive.”

  “Don’t feel bad. It doesn’t tell me anything either.”

  She punched Travis in the shoulder. “Snap out of it, Byrne. Show some of that resourcefulness you’ve been using to undeservedly win all those trials.”

  “This is different.”

  “I don’t see why. Pretend you’re a client with a problem. Where does the superstar lawyer go to unearth information about the mystery corporation?”

  “I’d probably check the records in the secretary of state’s office.”

  “In Austin? Nothing personal, Byrne, but I don’t think we’d make it alive. Got anything closer to home?”

  “You don’t have to go to Austin. The secretary of state’s records can be accessed by computer.”

  “Excellent. How do you do that?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

  “Well, what would you normally do when you need corporate records?”

  “I’d ask my secretary to get them.”

  “The pampered life of the private practitioner. You do half as much work and make twice as much money.” She fumbled with the console between the seats and withdrew Crescatelli’s blue box. “Looks like we get to try this gizmo out early, Byrne. You’re going to call your secretary.”

  “I’d rather not get Gail involved.”

  “The call can’t be traced.”

  “Nonetheless, I don’t want to run the risk.”

  “Then what do you suggest?”

  “Let’s use one of the legal on-line services. Lexis, or maybe Information America.”

  “This is all gibberish to me, Byrne. We lowly prosecutors have to use the books in the library.”

  “My condolences. Dan has all the state-of-the-art research toys.”

  “So you want to go to your office?”

  “Are you kidding? We’d be killed, as would probably everyone else there.”

  Cavanaugh exited from the highway, turned left, and pulled into the parking lot of a 7-Eleven. “Well, I refuse to continue driving around aimlessly. Until you give me a destination, I’m not budging.”

  Travis eyed the suspicious and sleazy characters waiting to use the pay phone. A beefy man with multiple tattoos was arguing with a man in a motorcycle gang jacket. “I’m not sure this is an ideal hangout. …”

  Cavanaugh’s arms were folded firmly across her chest. “Then suggest something better.”

  Travis watched the argument escalate. Switchblades would be flying any minute. “What about SMU? At the law library. They have all the on-line computer services, and they usually get free access. It should be relatively quiet if we go tonight.”

  Cavanaugh considered. “I don’t think we should go anyplace quite that public. Too many chances of being seen by the wrong persons.”

  “I agree it’s risky, but as you said, we have to do something. SMU sounds like the best option.”

  “All right. SMU it is.” She started to turn the ignition.

  Travis laid his hand on hers. “Wait a minute.” He opened the car door.

  “Good God, you’re not going to try to break up that fight, are you?”

  “No.” He left the car, carefully avoiding the fracas, and approached a row of coin-operated newspaper stands. Something had caught his eye—something disturbingly familiar. He plugged thirty-five cents in and removed the afternoon paper.

  After scanning it quickly, he returned to the car. “Take a look at this.” He tossed the paper to her.

  Cavanaugh examined the photograph plastered on the bottom half of page one. “Travis …” she said eventually, “that’s you.”

  “No kidding. Nice profile, huh?”

  “And you’re with that girl. The one we found in Moroconi’s room.”

  Travis snatched the paper back. The two of them were standing just inside his apartment; her scantily clad
arms and legs were wrapped all around him. The article discussed new evidence discovered about “lawyer on the lam” Travis Byrne, his associations with organized crime, his repeated use of courtroom trickery to return career criminals to the streets and, of course, his known fraternization with prostitutes.

  “How did that get into the paper so quickly?” Cavanaugh asked.

  “This was taken two nights ago,” Travis explained. “Plenty of time.”

  “But—why?”

  “Someone’s trying to smear me,” Travis said bitterly. “Not content to put my life in danger, now they’re going after my reputation as well.”

  “Any idea who might be behind it?”

  “The article indicates that the press is getting its info from the police. Probably the same informant that fed them the last batch of false information about me.”

  Travis turned to the continuation of the story on page two, read for a while, then gasped. “Oh my God.”

  “What? What is it?”

  Travis passed the paper back to Cavanaugh. “The remains of my car, that’s what it is. The explanation for the explosion and the cloud of smoke we saw as we left your apartment.”

  The picture showed the wreckage of a green compact car that looked as if it had been ripped apart from the inside out. The roof was blown off and flung to one side. The frame was punctured by hundreds of tiny nail holes. Shattered glass lay in a ring all around the wreck. The car was destroyed, its remains blackened by fire.

  And the caption identified the wreckage as an automobile registered to Travis Byrne.

  “Thank God you weren’t in it,” Cavanaugh said quietly.

  “Yeah.” Travis pointed to the relevant paragraph of the article. “I wasn’t. But someone else was.”

  47

  7:00 P.M.

  TRAVIS AND CAVANAUGH SAT before a computer terminal in the back of SMU’s Underwood Law Library. He had chosen this terminal deliberately—it was tucked away behind the stacks and shielded by a private carrel. Just the thing for a lawyer on the lam with a yen for research.

  On-line legal services often made their databases available to colleges for free; they hoped lawyers in training would learn how to use them, become dependent upon them, and pay big bucks for them when they were out in the real world. Travis and Cavanaugh were able to get a terminal without any problem.