William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

“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.”

22

1:20 A.M.

TRAVIS EXITED STEMMONS FREEWAY and headed for the West End Historic District, just north of Commerce and west of Lamar. He pulled into the empty parking lot on the opposite side of the railroad tracks. It was the closest open parking; he hoofed it from there.

The streets were quiet; all the restaurants and boutiques were closed. The West End had been refurbished several years before and converted into a trendy upscale shopping and dining haunt. A less panoramic version of San Antonio’s Riverwalk. The yuppies were all in bed tonight, though, as any sensible person would be at this time of the morning.

Travis jogged over to the main cul-de-sac, the last of several smaller sequential culs-de-sac, just outside a glass-walled shopping mall. He tried to pretend the run didn’t bother him. It was barely a fourth of a mile. A sprint like that couldn’t tire a he-man like him, could it? He laughed bitterly. Of course it could. He was old and out of shape. A punching bag for bathroom bullies.

After weaving past several closed buildings, he arrived at the Butcher Shop. It was his favorite restaurant in the West End. Most of the other joints served prissy sculpted food in minuscule portions, usually topped with sun-dried tomatoes or asparagus tips. California food, he called it. The Butcher Shop was about the only place in the entire area you could get a decent steak, something you could sink your teeth into.

Steak—my God, he remembered that. Vaguely, anyway. A delicacy from his presalad days. He jogged back and forth outside the restaurant, swinging around an iron lamppost, trying to shake off the chill. It was a brisk night for April; downright cold, actually. He hoped Moroconi wouldn’t be late. He began to realize how nebulous his instructions had been. What exactly was their plan? If Moroconi was going to turn himself in, why didn’t they just meet near the police station? And where exactly were they going to meet? Should he be looking in the alley behind the building, in the trash bins, or what?

Fortunately, Travis didn’t have to anguish over these questions for long. He heard tires squealing in the distance; probably not all that loud, but jarring in the silence. Soon he could see the source of the commotion—a large black pickup truck. But these were pedestrian-only streets. How …?

He immediately saw the answer to his question. The truck exploded through a ground-level barricade without even slowing down. Splintered wood flew skyward, but the truck kept coming. From one of the smaller culs-de-sac, the truck roared up the curb and advanced along the main sidewalk. It burst through a sidewalk café, crushing white wire chairs under its wheels and sending tables flying. The truck passed through another small cul-de-sac, jumped another curb, then dropped into the main cul-de-sac.

Travis froze in his tracks.

The truck executed a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn, laid rubber with all four tires, and came to a squealing stop in front of the Butcher Shop.

Moroconi leaned out of the window. “Whaddya think? Am I ready for the Demolition Derby?”

Travis gripped the truck door. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I didn’t want to be late. Since you’re such a hot-shit lawyer and all.”

“Where’d you get the truck, Moroconi?”

“It’s a loaner from a buddy down at Orpha’s Lounge.”

“I’ll just bet.” Travis opened the truck door. “Get out of there, you moron. We’ll take my car to the station. No reason to volunteer additional felony charges.”

“Shee-it!” Moroconi shook his head. “You are some kind of stupid, aren’t you? Did you really think I was going to let you haul me back to the cops?” He thunked Travis in the center of his chest. “That I busted out just so you could drag me back?”

Travis’s forehead became one long furrow. “I don’t understand. If you’re not coming with me, then why—”

Travis never had a chance to finish his sentence. Suddenly, they were both engulfed by brilliant white light emanating from the other end of the cul-de-sac.

“Who is it?” Travis shouted, squinting into the light. “Who’s there?”

No response.

Without saying a word, Moroconi pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and shoved it into Travis’s hand.

“What’s this?” Travis asked. “I don’t want this. Who’s shining that light?”

Travis stared into the white sheen, his eyes watering. It had to be a supercharged searchlight, souped up to a couple thousand or so candlepower. He could make out the shadowy outline of the man holding the light, and at least one other man standing beside him. Each had his right hand extended. Travis assumed they were holding guns.

One of the men spoke. “If you hand over that piece of paper, Byrne, it’s just possible you’ll live to see the sunrise.”

“What, this ?” He held out the paper. “I don’t want this. What the hell is it?” Travis stared into the blinding light. “Who are you?”

There was no answer.

“Moroconi,” Travis spat, “what’s going on?”

Travis saw Moroconi ease back into the truck.

“Stay right where you are,” a second voice shouted. After a moment’s hesitation, the voice added: “Police.”

Police? Travis could understand why they might come after Moroconi. But this was hardly standard police procedure, unless a lot had changed since he left the force.

Moroconi gunned his engine. Travis whirled around. My God, what was he doing?

The first voice returned. “One more move and we start shooting!”

Moroconi leaned out the driver’s-side window. Travis’s heart sank when he saw Moroconi leveling a gun. Moroconi fired, and a nanosecond later, the bright light went out. Travis heard glass smash and clatter onto the sidewalk.

Moroconi threw the truck into first gear. Gunfire erupted almost immediately. Travis shoved the paper into his pocket and dove away from the truck. The hell with attorney-client loyalty; he was getting out of the line of fire.

Travis rolled back onto his feet and surveyed the action. Whatever else he might say about Moroconi, he couldn’t accuse him of being gutless. Instead of trying to escape, he was careening straight toward the shadow men on the sidewalk, who continued to fire off shot after shot. One of them hit the windshield, shattering it into a million pieces. Moroconi kept on coming.

At the last possible moment the men leaped away. The man on the right got clear of the truck; the other one didn’t. He screamed, his terror-stricken face transfixed in the headlights. The truck crushed the man against the red brick wall of the Butcher Shop. The impact was loud and sickening, a horrifying crunch of metal and flesh. Travis wondered if Moroconi had killed himself as well.

He didn’t have to wonder long. The truck jerked into reverse. It separated noisily from the brick wall and did an about-face in the cul-de-sac.

Travis rose to his feet and saw the remaining shadow man do the same. He was groping around on the pavement—must have lost his gun.