William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

“Okay,” Travis said, “get out your pencil. This ordeal began sometime after midnight, when I got a phone call from a client who’s supposed to be behind bars. …” He told the story as briefly as possible—including the shoot-out at the West End and the stakeout of his apartment.

“Mr. Byrne,” the man on the other end of the phone said, “listen to me carefully. You said Moroconi shoved a piece of paper into your hands. Have you looked at that paper?”

“No, I haven’t had time to think about it. Should I?”

“Absolutely not. Under no circumstances should you look at that list. This is a matter of grave importance.”

List? How did he know it was a list?

“Mr. Byrne, we need to bring you in.”

“Bring me in? What does that mean?”

“It’s obvious that you’ve become involved with the Outfit.”

He recalled his conversation with Agent Janicek. “Gangsters?”

“Quaint, but accurate. They’ll be trying to obtain what you now have, and if they believe you’ve read what’s on that paper, they’ll try to kill you as well. You need to be placed in protective custody.”

“Excellent suggestion. Where do I meet you?”

A pause. “My computer indicates that you’re currently at a pay phone near the intersection of Abrams and Mockingbird.”

Travis felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He didn’t think he’d talked nearly long enough for a trace to be completed.

“Why don’t we pick you up in the alley behind the grocery store on Abrams?” the man continued. “So as not to attract attention.”

So as not to attract attention? Something about that phrase bothered him. “Nothing personal, but I’d rather meet somewhere in the open. I haven’t had much luck with clandestine meetings lately.”

“That would raise the possibility of detection by the persons who are looking for you, Mr. Byrne.”

“I’ll take that risk. How about the Northpark Mall? Just off Central Expressway. Say, in the package-pickup alley behind Sears.”

Travis heard the scratching of a pen on the other end of the line. “Got it. The recovery team will be there at eleven hundred hours. Stay out of sight until then.”

Travis checked his watch. More than enough time. “Okay. I’ll be there. Will Henderson be coming?”

“Unlikely. He probably will not have terminated his current engagement.”

“How will I know you?”

“Do you recall the password on Agent Henderson’s business card?” Travis said that he did. “Be prepared to use it.” The line disconnected.

Travis hung up the phone and shoved his hand into his pocket. He knew he shouldn’t look, but he couldn’t resist the temptation. The FBI agent had definitely pricked his curiosity. Besides, if he was going to remain alive, he needed to have as much information as possible.

List? Travis examined the paper top to bottom, back and front. He held it up to the sun and watched the light seep through.

List, huh? He felt his confidence in the friendly neighborhood FBI seeping away.

The paper was blank.

27

9:50 P.M.

THE FBI AGENT PRESSED his fingers against his throbbing temples. Thank God Henderson wasn’t in. That would have screwed everything up. Although that was about the only complication that hadn’t occurred yet. First, Moroconi botched his flawless escape plan, then he intentionally dragged Byrne into this mess just for spite. He didn’t have much doubt about who was having Byrne’s apartment watched, either. Everything that could possibly go wrong was going wrong.

And of course there was the goddamn list. Did Moroconi really give it to Byrne? After all his trouble to get the damn thing, would he give it away just to sign Byrne’s death warrant?

He realized he made a major-league mistake when he got into bed with Alberto Moroconi. If he just hadn’t needed the money …

There was only one solution. He would handle this rendezvous himself. He’d take Simpson along. Simpson was a new, fresh-faced recruit—eager to please, unquestioning. He’d do what he was told. And if Simpson needed any help keeping his mouth shut afterward, he’d haul out those pictures he had of Simpson with his male roommate. Most feds wanted to follow in the footsteps of J. Edgar Hoover, but Simpson took it a bit too far.

“Excuse me, sir. Are we going to log that call?”

He snapped out of his reverie. It was Mooney again, no surprise. The same sniveling idiot who got in his way every time he turned around.

“I was listening on the extension, sir,” Mooney added.

The FBI agent maintained a calm, even demeanor while silently calling Mooney every swear word he knew. This definitely complicated matters.

“I believe standard procedure is to log the call and fill out a report,” Mooney continued. “Then I would recommend a staff meeting to consider our options and assemble a field team to deal with this situation.”

“Would you indeed?” And if I don’t, you’ll file a report accusing me of incompetence. Or dishonesty. Or both. You need to be taken care of, Mr. Mooney. “I’m afraid we don’t have time for a meeting.”

“This is very unorthodox, sir.”

“You can’t always play by the book, Mooney. A good agent knows that.”

“We should at least wait for Henderson to return. He’s due back shortly.”

“Sorry, that’s impossible.”

Mooney looked at him strangely. Did he suspect? “If you won’t wait for Henderson, sir, then I feel I should accompany you. As an independent observer.”

“You? Why—” He bit down on his tongue. On second thought, yes, that was a splendid idea. That would work out perfectly. “Fine, Mooney. Get your gear. We leave in five minutes.”

Mooney departed for the locker room. Excellent. With any luck, the whole affair would be resolved before Henderson even knew about the phone call.

He had to recover that damn list before it was traced back to him. He had to pin the rap for everything on Byrne. And with Mooney along, he could accomplish both goals at once.

Agent Janicek took his gun out of the desk drawer and slid it into his shoulder holster. He would get that list back. No matter what he had to do.

28

10:55 A.M.

TRAVIS WALKED CAUTIOUSLY DOWN the package pickup driveway of the Northpark Sears and positioned himself behind a trash dumper. He wasn’t sure why, but this rendezvous made him nervous. Something about the situation didn’t click. At the moment, however, he didn’t seem to have any other options.

After a few minutes, a long black sedan with leaded-glass windows pulled sideways across the driveway. Sideways, Travis observed—preventing any other cars from coming in or going out.

Another minute passed. What on earth could they be doing in there? Travis felt himself tensing up. Why don’t they get this show on the road?

At last three men in tan overcoats, much too heavy for the season, stepped out of the car. They looked like FBI agents; all they lacked were gray fedoras. Unfortunately, they were too far away for Travis to identify them.

They did not approach. They stood outside the car, conferring.

Travis wiped the sweat from his brow. My God, what were they waiting for?

Finally one of the men took a step forward. “Travis Byrne?” the man said, not too loud, not too soft.

Thank God. “Present,” Travis said, stepping out from behind the trash bin. “Over here.”

The man’s gun was out from under his overcoat before Travis even realized he had moved. Travis ducked instinctively, and the bullet whistled over his right shoulder and ricocheted off the back wall. He flattened himself on the gravel just before the second bullet flew over his head. Crawling like a baby, Travis scrambled back behind the dumper. What the hell was going on here?