William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

32

5:30 P.M.

SPECIAL AGENT HENDERSON SAT at one end of a long conference table with Janicek, Holt, and three other agents.

“Status report,” Henderson said gruffly. “Why haven’t we located Byrne yet?”

“I think I can answer that, sir,” Holt said. “We haven’t located him because he’s smart, and because he knows he’s being hunted. Also, Dallas is a very large city, and we’re not entirely certain he’s still in Dallas.”

“Surely our combined forces can bring in one renegade lawyer.”

“Easy to say, sir. Tough to accomplish. We know he hasn’t gone to any of his usual places. If he’s smart, stays out of sight, and doesn’t drive his car much, it could be days before we track him down. Even weeks.”

“That’s unacceptable.”

“That’s reality. We’re focusing on the car. Logic suggests he’s going to stay close to it, at least until he has a chance to swap it for something else. We’ve got men combing every parking lot, every used-car lot, every public garage, and every other place a car might be left in the greater Dallas/Fort Worth area. But that takes time.”

“We haven’t got time. For all we know, he could be selling the names on that list one by one.”

“May I say something?” Janicek leaned across the table. “I think it’s essential that we instruct our agents to be careful and to take a defensive, shoot-on-sight posture.”

Henderson raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“The reality is,” Janicek continued, “he’s already suckered us once. I don’t want to lose any more men.”

Holt shook his head. “It’s hard to believe the man we saw stumbling around his office a few nights ago is in league with the mob. It’s contrary to everything I know about organized crime.”

“It’s possible Byrne’s now working on their behalf at this time,” Janicek suggested. “He may have used his connections to gain access to the list but is now acting for his own profit.”

“Then it would follow logically that Byrne engineered Moroconi’s escape. That’s equally difficult for me to believe.”

“Look,” Janicek said angrily, “Simpson will confirm that we barely got away from him alive. Byrne is a murderer.”

“I’ve already spoken to Simpson,” Henderson said evenly. “He did confirm your report. Where is he tonight?”

“I’ve got him … monitoring calls in the Austin office,” Janicek said quickly. “They, uh, had an absence on the switchboard.”

“I see.”

“Sir, I’m requesting Code Eleven alert status and top defensive posture. We can’t afford another screwup. We have to bring that list home.” Janicek paused decisively. “Byrne is expendable.”

Henderson nodded. “From what I hear, we’ll be saving the government a long protracted trial on a variety of complicated legal issues if we take Byrne out. But what if he doesn’t have the list on his person?”

Janicek shifted his weight uneasily. “That strikes me as unlikely.”

“Probably right,” Henderson murmured, eyeing Janicek carefully. “Very well, then. I’ll advance this to Code Eleven. Defensive posture, kill authorization. I’d rather it didn’t come to that, but …”

“We must recover the list,” Janicek repeated. “Lives are at stake. People are counting on us to protect them.”

Henderson nodded his head grimly. “You’re right, of course. Gentlemen, bring back our list. And if you have to kill Byrne in the process—do it.”

After the meeting ended, Janicek walked down the rear stairs, crossed through the basement, unlocked a door and entered a private room equipped with state-of-the art eavesdropping equipment.

Janicek patted Simpson on the shoulder. “You did a good job covering me with Henderson.” Simpson squirmed but did not twist away. “Hear anything of interest?”

“Not really. Byrne called his boss, but he didn’t say anything we didn’t already know.” Simpson tapped his right earphone, then pushed a few buttons on his computer console. “And the line disconnected before I could get a lock.”

“Damn! What happened?”

“Byrne hung up. And at the last possible moment, I might add. This guy knows what he’s doing. What is he, a fed? Spook?”

“Neither,” Janicek said. “Ex-cop.”

“I can get you a general region.”

“Don’t bother. He’s already left it. How’s the tape?’

“Crystal clear. For whatever it’s worth.” Janicek exited the room, carefully closing and locking the door behind him. Soon their entire team would be gunning for Byrne, but he couldn’t count on them to take care of his problem. He had to find Byrne and Moroconi before Henderson did. Otherwise there could be some very damaging revelations about Janicek’s role in Moroconi’s escape. And the leaking of the list. And Mooney’s murder.

No doubt about it—he had to be the first one to talk to Byrne. And the last.

33

8:10 P.M.

TRAVIS CREPT UP THE wooden stairs to apartment 13X, concealing a roll of industrial-strength duct tape under his windbreaker. Thank goodness these apartments were separate units, well off Forest Lane, amply spaced. They could make a lot of noise and still not be heard by any of her neighbors.

He pressed his ear against the door. He heard a steady drone inside. Television, probably, or maybe a radio. As gently as possible, he tried the doorknob. To his astonishment, it turned. Where did she think she lived, Smallville, U.S.A.? Imagine having an apartment in Piano, just a few miles from Dallas Metro, and not locking your front door. She was asking for trouble.

Yeah, he repeated to himself, she was asking for trouble—as if that might somehow assuage his guilt about what he was about to do.

As quietly as possible, Travis pushed the door open and poked his head through. He was right the first time; it was the television. John Tesh and Leeza Gibbons were rhapsodizing about the latest celebrity bio. “Unrestrained and relentlessly honest,” they said. “One of the great books of our time.”

Travis heard clattering noises from the kitchen. He shut the front door and tiptoed through the living room.

She was facing the stove, her back to him, stirring something in a copper pot with a wooden spoon. As gently as possible, he placed his hands on her shoulders and whispered, “Don’t be scared.”

Cavanaugh screamed. Frantically, Travis covered her mouth, just as they’d instructed him at the academy. It barely reduced the volume. He grabbed a dishrag and shoved it in her mouth. This did a considerably better job of muffling her, but in the meantime, she began fighting back.

She stabbed him in the side with her spoon. Travis winced, and as his grip loosened she whirled around and opened a drawer. She grabbed a two-tined barbecue fork and thrust it toward his abdomen. Travis grabbed her wrist and tried to force it down to her side. He was probably a hundred and twenty pounds heavier than she was but, by God, she fought like a champion. She grabbed his hair with her free hand, jerking his head back.

He knocked her hand away and stomped on her right foot. While she was still reacting to that blow, he grabbed her right hand and forced it down hard against the kitchen counter. She dropped the barbecue fork.

Straining with all her might, Cavanaugh reached across the counter for her battery-charged mixer. Travis tightened his grip on both her arms and slowly brought them down to her side.

He twisted her head around and forced her to face him. “What’s wrong with you?” he spat out. “You know who I am. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Her response sounded something like Mmmmhmphfrulummmmphmm.

Despite the restraint on enunciation created by the dishrag, he gathered the general tenor of her reply. “If I remove the rag, do you promise not to scream again?”