Double Jeopardy Page 8

  “Nah. I’ve already got eight men on Byrne, diggin’ into his background, watchin’ him everywhere he goes. Listenin’, too.”

  “Good.”

  The phone rang. Mario answered it, then passed it to Kramer. “It’s for you.”

  Kramer took the phone. After a moment, he covered the receiver and whispered, “It’s one of my contacts at the jailhouse.” He listened for several more seconds. “What? Gone?”

  “What is it?” Mario asked. “What happened?” Kramer ignored him. After a few more minutes, he tossed the receiver back into its cradle.

  “Talk to me,” Mario demanded. “What happened?”

  “A hell of a lot, apparently,” Kramer said. “Two guards shot, one of them dead.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Kramer reached into his pocket and withdrew his lighter. “The holding cells,” he said quietly. “Our friend Al busted out.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “I’m afraid so.” He held the lighter between them and gazed at the orange flame. “You’d better lock your doors tonight, Mario. Al may show up on your doorstep. And he won’t be deliverin’ a candygram, either.”

  18

  7:10 P.M.

  TRAVIS LEANED AGAINST THE headboard of his bed. He was wearing his favorite woolly pajamas; he had the covers tucked under his arms and headphones clamped over his ears. He’d finally given up trying to prepare for the next day of trial, only to find he couldn’t sleep. Sure, it was early, but he’d barely slept at all the last two nights. He should’ve crashed the instant his head hit the pillow. Maybe he’d gotten his second wind; he just didn’t feel tired. He was probably too keyed up about everything that had happened the past few days.

  He decided to sample the stress-reduction tapes Gail had given him a few days ago. If stress reduction was supposed to be synonymous with mind numbing, the tapes were a smash success. As tedious as they were, he thought he’d surely drop off to sleep. But he didn’t. His mind kept wandering back to the case, those cruel assaults, those gruesome pictures. Mary Ann McKenzie. With her lovely red hair.

  He yanked the earphones off and stopped the tape. He resisted the temptation to throw the recorder across the room; it was Staci’s Walkman, after all, just on loan. He punched his pillow and stretched out across the bed, hoping the reclining position would induce sleep.

  It didn’t. What was wrong with him? He supposed he could check his blood pressure. Gail had insisted that he buy a blood-pressure monitor. And when he didn’t, she bought it for him. Her idea was that he could wear it all day long and check himself every fifteen seconds or so. If your blood pressure is up, she said, just stop whatever you’re doing and relax until it goes down. Travis delicately tried to explain that he wasn’t wearing that stupid monitor all day long and that he couldn’t stop a trial just because his blood pressure was up. And when she looked on the brink of tears, he strapped the contraption around his upper arm and started pumping.

  For that matter, he mused, why stop with blood pressure? Maybe he should purchase a home EKG monitor. And while he was at it, a home heart defibrillator, just in case he needed a cardiac massage some chilly evening. What could they cost—ten, fifteen thousand dollars? A small price to pay to avoid the specter of the heart attack that hadn’t happened. Yet.

  A bell rang. It took Travis a few seconds to identify it as his doorbell. He wrapped himself in a robe and plodded to the front door. He really needed a peephole, he reminded himself for the millionth time.

  He turned on the porch light and opened the door. “Yes?”

  The young woman standing outside was sixteen, maybe seventeen tops. She was dressed in a tight-fitting green tube top that clung to her flat breasts and revealed an ample expanse of flesh above the miniskirt hugging her hips. “You must be Travis Byrne,” she cooed with outstretched arms. “Tonight’s your lucky night.”

  Travis blinked. He hadn’t fallen asleep, had he? Then how could he be dreaming? “Do I know you?”

  She stepped through the door and curled her arms around his neck. “The question is—would you like to get to know me?” She planted a kiss on his lips.

  Travis twisted away. “Wait a second. What’s going on here?”

  She smiled. “Anything you want, darlin’. Absolutely anything.”

  “I don’t understand. How do you know my name? Did someone put you up to this?”

  “I came when called.”

  “Called? Who called?”

  “I assume you.”

  “You assume wrong.”

  “Then I must be a gift. Who cares? It’s all arranged. Take advantage, baby.” Her thin lips curled up to form a wicked smile. She snuggled closer, pulled open his robe, and began planting kisses on his chest.

  “Look,” Travis said, trying unsuccessfully to push her away, “I don’t know what your game is, but I don’t want any part of it.”

  She frowned. “What’s wrong? Is someone else here?”

  “No.”

  “You’re gay.”

  “I am not!”

  “Jaded? Getting too much?”

  “Well … look, lady, I don’t mean to be rude, but I want you to leave.”

  She uncurled herself from his neck. “It’s because of my tits, isn’t it?”

  Travis tried not to look. “I beg your pardon?”

  “My tits! I told Tony I’d do better if he’d pay for some implants. He says they’re not safe. I think he’s just cheap.”

  “Look, miss, I don’t care what size your, er …”

  “Sure, you say that now, but if I was a D-cup, you’d be slobbering all over me.”

  “Not true. I’m just not … interested.”

  “Oh?” She pressed herself up and down his thigh. “I guess that’s a roll of quarters in your pants then?”

  Travis whisked her around and steered her through the open door. “Either you’ve got the wrong address, or this is a perverse prank being played by someone with an extremely weird sense of humor. In any case, I have a big day ahead of me, I need my sleep, and I don’t need any more stress. So good night!”

  Her shoulders drooped. “But I can’t go back without finishing the job. You have no idea what kind of trouble I’ll be in.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  “I don’t mind dressing up.”

  “Good night, miss.”

  “I’m fluent in all twenty-six positions.”

  “Twenty—?” He pressed his hand against his forehead. “I said, good night!”

  “I brought my own gear!” She started to itemize, but it was too late. The door was firmly shut.

  19

  7:53 P.M.

  AL MOROCONI COULDN’T BELIEVE it—he was free! After weeks of stale air, staler food, and constant hassling by shit-for-brains guards, he was finally free.

  He’d never really thought it would work. Stupid FBI dickhead—what did he know? Moroconi was willing to give it a whirl—what did he have to lose? But it had worked!

  He raced down Commerce, trying to stay out of the light. Word must already be out; soon every cop in Dallas would be circling the area looking for him. He needed a car and he needed it fast.

  He veered into the parking lot of Orpha’s Lounge, a sleazy-looking bar with no windows, just a large neon sign that flashed BEER every other second. Lots of cars at Orpha’s, he noted happily.

  He looked around for a coat hanger, a heavy object, a sharp stick—anything. He searched for several minutes without success. It was too dark; even if something had been there, he wouldn’t have found it.

  He heard a shuffling noise coming from the bar. A tired, half-dead drunk was stumbling out of Orpha’s all by his lonesome. Moroconi grinned. Excellent—the answer to his prayers. Like taking candy from a baby.

  Moroconi circled around the parked cars and came up behind the drunk. Moroconi waited until the man walked to his car—a big black pickup truck with oversize tires. While the man groped clumsily for his keys Mor
oconi wrapped his arm around his throat and pulled him down hard. The drunk fell face first into the gravel and lay there dazed.

  Moroconi reached into the man’s pocket, took his keys, and started the truck. The tires squealed as he whipped the truck around the parking lot and headed toward Commerce.

  He briefly considered running over the drunk, just for the hell of it. What was it the kids said? Ten points for the old man! But he didn’t have time for that, fun as it might be, and besides, blood-spattered tires might catch a cop’s attention. It would be a long while before that drunk was able to file a police report, and Moroconi would have another car by then.

  He pulled onto Commerce and zoomed down the road. He had to get out of downtown before the cops got their act in gear. In fact, he needed to get out of Dallas altogether.

  And then, once he was safe, he was going to make a few phone calls to some old friends. …

  20

  8:58 P.M.

  “HELLO?”

  “How’s my friendly neighborhood FBI traitor?”

  “Christ! Al!” The agent covered the receiver with his hand. Thank God he wasn’t using the speakerphone.

  He quickly scanned the office. No one was around, except, of course, Mooney, who was walking toward him with a notepad. Efficient little twerp. He’d seen the light flash on his monitor board. Might’ve known Al would call when that squid was on duty.

  “Should I take the call, sir?” Agent Mooney asked.

  “No, thanks. I’ll handle it. It’s one of my informants.”

  “I see. I’ll monitor on the extension.”

  “No! I mean, I’m perfectly capable of taking my own notes. Continue with what you were doing, Mooney.”

  Mooney eyed him oddly, but returned to his desk in the next room. Mooney had just been assigned to this special team; he was the typical asskissing backstabber. Just waiting for you to make a mistake he could ram down your throat. He didn’t care much for the look Mooney gave him as he left. If someone even suspected what he was doing … Well, he’d have to watch Agent Mooney very carefully.

  He uncovered the receiver. “Al?” he whispered.

  “In the flesh. Free as a bird. Can you believe it? Your plan actually worked, you dumbass son of a bitch!”

  “Of course it worked. I told you it would. Why are you calling me here?”

  “We got some business to conduct.”

  “I told you we would—”

  “Screw that plan, compadre. It takes too long, and I don’t have time to jack around.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He heard Moroconi plug another quarter into the pay phone. “Haven’t you heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “There were some complications. People got hurt.”

  “Hurt! How bad?”

  “I didn’t have time to take their pulse. I think one of them’s dead, though—I shot him in the fuckin’ neck. The other one might pull through.”

  The agent was stunned silent. That stupid, vicious—

  “Don’t bother askin’ if I’m okay,” Moroconi said. “I know you’re real concerned. I’m fine.”

  “Oh, my God. This is awful. Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You’ve ruined everything. And—my God! You shouldn’t have called me here.”

  “Why? ’Fraid someone might be listenin’?”

  “Who the hell knows? This changes everything. Hang up the damn phone.”

  “What about our rendezvous?”

  “Fuck the rendezvous! It’s too risky. You could be caught any second.”

  “We made a deal, you chickenshit. I want the list.”

  “Look, as soon as things calm down, I’ll get back in touch with you.”

  “No way, asshole. We do it tonight.”

  “I can’t possibly—”

  “Do you want to do this deal or not? I can always take my business somewhere else. There must be others like you.”

  There was an extended pause. “Fine. Have it your way. Where do we meet?”

  “I’m not going to tell you over your might-be-bugged line, chump. Call me from a pay phone.”

  “What’s the number?”

  “Ready to play a little baseball?”

  “Oh, Christ.” He rustled through his desk drawers, groping for a pad of paper and pencil. “All right. Ready.”

  “It’s the top of the fifth and Tucker’s three-and-two with two outs. The man on third had seven hits on the eighth day of the ninth month and two strikeouts with all three bases loaded. Are you gettin’ this?”

  He grunted as he scribbled down the proper numbers in the proper order.

  “There’s a change-up. Jones pulls a slider and two men slip by. That’s six since the relief pitcher left at four o’clock. At the top of the seventh, it’s three up, three down, eight points behind. He decides to reverse it. Plan B. Got it?”

  He reversed the numbers, added carefully, and examined the resulting phone number. “Got it.”

  “Guess you learned somethin’ in crime school after all. I’ll be waitin’ for you. Don’t dawdle. Send the little woman my best.”

  Before the agent could spit back his reply, the line went dead.

  THURSDAY

  April 18

  21

  12:52 A.M.

  TRAVIS WAS HAVING A wonderfully weird Daliesque dream. He fantasized that he was in court, but it wasn’t Dallas County Court, and it wasn’t federal court—it wasn’t even the Supreme Court. It was the Court of Celestial Appeals. Travis was arguing with great passion and persuasion, pleading with the jury not to spare someone’s life, but to return a life—to grant Angela a second chance. He was really on a roll; he had the jury in the palm of his hand. He was winning, and in just a few seconds it would all be over and Angela would be back. …

  And then the phone rang.

  Travis fumbled in the dark and knocked the phone onto the floor, mercifully silencing the bell. He fell out of bed and crawled around till he found the receiver. “Geez,” he mumbled, “do you know what time—”

  “Ain’t you lawyers on call for your clients whenever we need you?”

  “Moroconi?” Travis stared at the phone, disbelieving. “How can you—where are you?”

  “I’m out, Byrne.”

  “You’re out! How the hell can you be out?”

  “How do you think?”

  “I assume the President didn’t grant you a pardon while I slept.”

  “You got that right.”

  “Did you bust out?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  Travis turned on the lamp on his nightstand. The harsh light made him squint, but it was just as well—he had to clear the cobwebs out of his brain somehow. “Listen to me. You’ll never get away with this. You need to turn yourself in.”

  Moroconi snorted into the phone. “You must be kiddin’.”

  “Think about it. What are you going to do, run for the rest of your life? Sooner or later you’ll be caught. Probably sooner. It would be smarter to let the judicial process run its course. We were making real headway in court today—”

  “Aw, cut the bullshit, shyster. You know damn well the fix is in. The police can put a schmuck like me behind bars anytime they want to. And they want to. Someone got to them. Hell, most of those jurors assumed I was guilty the minute I walked into court.”

  “That isn’t always true—”

  “Besides, I can’t turn myself in. If I go anywhere near a police station, they’ll blow my head off and ask questions later.”

  Travis pondered for a moment. There was some truth in that. Especially if anyone had been hurt during the breakout. “All right, how about if I pick you up? We’ll go in together.”

  “What’s to say they won’t kill you, too?”

  “They won’t,” Travis assured him. “They’ll listen to me.

  “What if they want me to do extra time for the attempted escape?”

  “You’ve already brought that on yourself, Al. The bes
t I can do now is see that you don’t aggravate matters.”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Travis could tell he was thinking—but what was he thinking? “All right,” Al said at last. “If you come meet me, I’ll go in with you. If you promise you won’t tip off the cops first.”

  “I promise. This is the wisest course of action, believe me.”

  “Meet me at the West End. In front of the Butcher Shop.”

  Travis nodded. “I know the place. It’s near my office. I’ll be there in half an hour. See you then.”

  Travis hung up the phone and began dressing. He didn’t relish the prospect of being alone in the dark with Al Moroconi, but he didn’t see any workable alternative. He tried to imagine what the bar association would advise, but the Rules of Professional Conduct didn’t cover bizarre situations like this one.

  He considered calling the police—but no. He had made a promise. A promise given in the course of legal counseling, no less. That was sacred. He’d do exactly what he had promised—he’d pick up Al and drive him to the station.

  Besides, what did he have to fear from Al Moroconi? After all, the man was his client.

  The brown-haired technician wearing the headphones smirked. “Did you get all that?”

  His boss nodded. “West End. The Butcher Shop. Half an hour.”

  “Maybe sooner. It won’t take Byrne half an hour to get there.”

  “Depends on how long it takes him to get his head together. Did you get a trace on Moroconi?”

  “No. But he was calling from a pay phone. He’d be gone before we could get there. Doesn’t matter. We know where he’ll be in half an hour.”

  “True.” He walked to the back of the truck. “Better keep monitoring. Just in case.”

  “Your wish is my command.” The technician changed the tape on the reel-to-reel recorder and reactivated the machine.

  The other man buttoned his overcoat and stepped into the bracing night air. “By the way, if I haven’t mentioned it lately, you do damn fine work.”

  The technician smiled. “That’s why you pay me the big money, Mr. Kramer.”