William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

Staci sulked but nonetheless climbed into the bus. A few moments later she descended with her two tall friends.

“It’s okay,” she said to the bus driver, who was eyeing Travis suspiciously. “He’ll take us to school. He’s one of the family.” The driver tipped his hat and drove away. “Practically,” she added, after the bus was gone.

Travis extended his hand to the two boys. Smirking, they took his hand and shook.

“Staci says you got a job for us,” Jameel said.

“That’s right,” Travis replied. “I want you to break into an apartment.”

“Hoo-ee!” Doc exclaimed. “Boy, when you cops turn, you turn bad .”

“It’s nothing like that,” Travis said. “This job isn’t even illegal.”

The boys’ faces fell, crestfallen.

“It is, however, dangerous,” Travis added.

They perked up. “What we looking for? TVs, VCRs?”

“You can take whatever you want for yourself,” Travis said. “I need some clothes, and a wallet—with the cash intact—and a briefcase.”

Doc and Jameel poked one another in the ribs. “No problemo,” Doc said. “Whose place we gonna hit?”

Travis scrawled an address on a scrap of paper. “Mine.”

25

8:30 A.M.

DOC AND JAMEEL STRUTTED down Walnut Hill Lane, bouncing a basketball, chanting a Hammer rap lyric. They pointedly took no notice of the dull green Chevrolet or the men seated inside. The men in the Chevy, however, noticed them. The driver emerged from the car, crossed the street, and met Doc and Jameel at the foot of the front steps to Travis’s apartment building.

“You boys live here?” The man from the Chevy was younger than they expected, pasty-faced and obviously nervous.

“Maybe,” Doc bluffed. “Who wants to know?”

“I’m lookin’ for a man named Byrne. Travis Byrne. Short, thick, on the heavy side. You know him?”

Jameel’s eyes twinkled. “What if we do? What’s in it for us?”

Grudgingly, the Chevy man shoved his hand into his pocket and extracted two twenties. After reading the boys’ expressions, he dipped back into the pocket and extracted four more. “That’s all I got.”

Jameel snatched the money from him. “Then it’ll have to do.”

“So how about it? You know Byrne?”

“Not me,” Doc said, grinning. “How ’bout you, Jameel?”

“Never heard of him,” he said. “Sorry, chump.”

“Now look here—”

“Was a dude like that here a while back,” Jameel added. “Ain’t seen him for some time, though. Like weeks maybe.”

“Damn. I figured we had the wrong address.”

“Anything else we can do for you?” Doc inquired.

“I guess not.” The Chevy man headed back toward his car, and Doc and Jameel walked up the front steps of the apartment building. In the reflection in a window, Doc saw the man return to his car, wake his companion, and talk agitatedly into a cellular phone. A few seconds later, he started the car and drove away.

Grinning, Doc and Jameel scrambled up the stairs.

The housebreakers returned to the bus stop about an hour later with two garbage bags draped over their shoulders.

“What happened?” Travis asked. “Did you get in?”

“No problemo.” They tossed the garbage bags to Travis.

“You seem disappointed.”

“Easy pickins,” Jameel explained. “Breakin’ into a guy’s apartment with his permission. Ain’t no challenge.”

Travis grinned. “I’m sorry there wasn’t more excitement.”

Doc chimed in. “It got a little hairy when that nervous dude in the Chevy stopped us.”

“What? What did you tell him?”

“Told him you moved away, bro. What else?”

“Was he someone who might be … well, a professional criminal?”

“If he be in the mob, he must’ve been drafted.” Doc laughed. “He was some kind of pansy.”

Travis wondered if he was the same man who was in the courthouse men’s room. It would help if he knew. “Maybe I should’ve gone myself.”

“No way, bro. Even a pansy can be deadly if he’s packin’. And this one was. ’Sides, there was another dude slumped down in the front seat and they were both barkin’ at someone else on a car phone. Sendin’ us was the smartest thing you ever did.”

“I really appreciate this, guys. How can I thank you?”

Jameel looked out the corner of his eyes. “Well … you could help dee-fray our expenses.”

“Right, right.” Travis took his wallet out of the garbage bag and handed them six twenties. “Will that do?”

“Superfine,” Jameel said, snatching the bills. “Been a good long time since we’ve seen that much cash. Right, Doc?”

26

9:40 A.M.

AFTER CHANGING CLOTHES IN his car, Travis followed a serpentine route downtown. He wanted to ensure that if someone stumbled across him, he couldn’t be traced back to Staci. After he had taken enough random turns to lose even himself, he pulled over to a pay phone. He opened his briefcase and withdrew the object he’d wanted out of his apartment most of all: the business card for Special Agent William Henderson.

Before entering the phone booth, he plugged thirty-five cents into a street-side newspaper stand. Both page-one stories in the Dallas Morning News attracted his immediate attention. The paper announced that Alberto Moroconi, criminal defendant on trial for the rape-beating of Mary Ann McKenzie, had escaped from the detention room of the federal courthouse last night. One guard had been wounded during the escape, another was killed. Police were unsure how he eluded the marshals, but said that he must’ve had help from someone on the inside.

Another story reported that the West End was hit by a spree of vandalism, destruction, and murder. Again, police were uncertain what exactly had occurred, but the paper cryptically indicated that they had reason to believe escapee Moroconi was involved. For undisclosed reasons, the police were withholding all information regarding the murdered man.

A boxed item at the bottom of the second page disclosed that the police were searching for Moroconi’s attorney, Travis Byrne, in connection with both incidents. A photo of Travis, probably clipped from the Dallas County Bar Directory, accompanied the notice. According to the article, an ongoing police investigation indicated that Travis was intimately involved in both crimes, and maybe several more besides.

Travis crumpled the paper in his fist. Someone had gotten to the police. And the press. How did they learn about the West End shoot-out in time to make the morning edition? Travis knew from a previous libel case he had handled that the morning edition was put to bed around three A.M.—only shortly after last night’s incident occurred. There was only one explanation: someone at the newspaper was in close contact with Moroconi—or the men behind the searchlight.

Travis plunked a quarter into the pay phone and dialed the number on Henderson’s card. It rang twice before it was answered.

“Hello. American Exports.”

Travis blinked. “I’m—I’m calling for Agent Henderson.”

“One moment.”

Travis heard several clicks on the other end of the line, then a computerized beep that indicated his call had been transferred. “Hello?”

“Agent Henderson?”

“Henderson is unavailable at the moment. Who’s calling, please?”

Blast! Where’s the Special Agent when you need him? “This is Travis Byrne. I want to talk to Henderson. This is important.”

“As I said, Henderson is unavailable, but I’m familiar with your situation. Please tell me what happened.”

Travis was perplexed. Where the hell was Henderson, and who was this chump on the other end of the line? Holt? Janicek? Travis couldn’t tell. The voice sounded weird; he was probably using one of those mechanical gizmos to distort his voice. Travis knew only one thing for certain—he needed help, and he needed it quick.