William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

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 Moroconi 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.