William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

“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 best 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.”