William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

No one was going to help him. Who could? No one else had managed to locate his prey so far. His buddy at the police station said the man was being tracked by the FBI—or someone calling themselves the FBI—as well as the police and some heavy-duty criminal types. But so far, no one had found him. Not that that meant anything. He had a few tricks up his sleeve that the others did not.

He had spent years at this kind of work; it was what he did best. Finding someone others couldn’t—someone who didn’t want to be found. Some jobs took longer than others, but he never failed.

He didn’t really need all this high-tech paraphernalia, but he was accustomed to it, and there was a certain comfort in it. As he had been told by his superiors so many times in the past: your best weapons are your eyes, your ears, your hands. Two skilled hands can kill more quickly, more efficiently, and with less chance of detection than all the electronic gizmos in the world.

He slid noiselessly out the door. Time to begin, before the trail became even colder. He had no actual clues to his target’s location; but he had contacts. Not much, but it would have to be enough. He had to find the man before the others did. If he got there last, or even second, it would be too late.

He slid behind the steering wheel of his Jeep and turned the ignition. He felt exhilarated to be back in action, doing something important. Perhaps more important than anything he had ever done before. He would complete this mission. Successfully.

And when he did, Travis Byrne would get exactly what he deserved.

35

9:45 P.M.

TRAVIS SMILED AT CAVANAUGH, who was securely taped to a kitchen chair. He dipped her wooden spoon into the pot he had taken from the stove and tasted the contents.

“Mmm,” he murmured appreciatively. “What do you call this?”

Cavanaugh’s reply was something like blmflkmbtk. It was the most the dishrag duct-taped in her mouth would allow.

“Bell-pepper soup? Whatever it is, it’s good.”

Cavanaugh bowed her head in acknowledgment.

“Who would’ve guessed that the tough lady prosecutor would be a great cook?” His eyebrows bounced up and down. “I wonder what other talents you’ve been hiding?”

Her reply was muffled but nonetheless forceful. Upon reflection, Travis was grateful that he couldn’t understand what she was saying.

“Oh, I found your dog in the back room, hiding in the closet. Don’t worry, I fed him. He’s cute. Not exactly a Doberman, but cute.”

Cavanaugh’s eyes narrowed.

“I don’t hate toy poodles the way some guys do. You know, some people would rather have a pet rat than one of those yippy yappers. Not me. I like them just fine.”

He grinned, hoping she might return some indication of amiability. He was sorely disappointed.

“Maybe you’re bored. Is that it? Look.” He withdrew two large blue marbles from his coat pocket, placed them in his right palm, and held out his hands, knuckles up. He swirled his hands back and forth, over and under, up and down. “Okay, which hand are the marbles in?”

Cavanaugh’s expression did not change.

“Look, I’m sorry about taping you up. You left me no choice.”

Cavanaugh did not appear sympathetic.

“I’m not kidding. I didn’t want to bother you. Really. I just wanted your help. If anyone can figure a way out of this mess, I thought, Cavanaugh can. Got any suggestions?”

Her only response was communicated through angry, glaring eyes.

Travis sighed. He dipped the spoon back in the pot and slurped more soup. “I feel guilty eating in front of you. Can I get you some milk or something? I promise not to poison it.”

Cavanaugh kicked with both feet, then twisted from side to side, straining against her bonds. It was no use. She was securely fixed in place.

“If you agree not to scream, or call the police, or try to get away, I’ll untie you. You wouldn’t have to be civil to me. What d’ya say?”

No reaction.

“Oh well.” He finished the soup, then sat on the floor, his arms folded across his lap. “I’m going to tell you everything that’s happened to me since Moroconi busted out of jail. Maybe you can come up with some ideas. Okay?”

Cavanaugh glared at him with stony eyes. “Okay. Good. Well, it began when I got this phone call in the middle of the night. …”

36

10:10 P.M.

THIS TIME KRAMER MET Donny in the corridor outside Mario’s office. He snuck up behind him, grabbed a suspender, then let it pop.

“ Owww! ” Donny cried.

Kramer grabbed Donny by the throat. “Whatcha been up to, Donny-boy?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” His eyes looked as if they were about to pop out of his head. “You’re hurting me.”

“I know,” Kramer replied. “That’s why I got this shit-eatin’ grin.” He reached into his pocket with his free hand and removed a fistful of handwritten notes. “Look what I found.”

“Hey! Those are mine! What were you doing in my desk?”

“Looking for backstabbing crap like this!” He threw the notes on the floor. “You’ve pushed your ass into my affairs once too often, Donny-boy.”

Donny struggled futilely against Kramer’s grip. “You can’t hurt me. I’m family.”

“So?”

“So you’re nothing. You’re just a sick bastard Uncle Mario uses to clean up shit too dirty for any normal—”

He never finished the sentence. Kramer’s fist brought it to a premature conclusion. Donny fell to his knees, his hand pressed against his face, tears in his eyes.

“What is the meaning of this?”

It was Mario, standing just behind them.

“Just handlin’ a little discipline problem,” Kramer replied. “Nothin’ important.”

“He hurt me!” Donny cried, rubbing his jaw. “He’s just mad because—”

“Silence!” Mario bellowed. “I’ve had all the petty bickering I can bear. Mr. Kramer, if I ever decide to hire you to enforce discipline within the family, I will let you know.”

Kramer muttered something under his breath.

Mario bent down and retrieved the notes, glanced at them, then dropped them in a trash can. “Donny, surely you didn’t think I needed you to set me straight?”

“I just wanted to keep a record. So you’d know why Kramer keeps screwing up.”

Kramer’s eyes widened, enraged. “You candy-assed son of a—”

Mario cut Kramer off with a wave of his hand. “If you ever hope to become a lieutenant, Donny, you must learn to follow instructions and observe the chain of command.” He turned to face Kramer. “I must admit, however, that to a large extent I share Donny’s concerns. Mr. Kramer, you have a reputation for efficiency that knows no bounds. As a result, you have been trusted with matters of great delicacy.” His voice swelled in volume. “So why the hell can’t you take care of one third-rate crook and one fucking lawyer?”

Kramer stuttered uncertainly. Mario interrupted before he could complete a word. “I don’t care to hear your excuses.” He placed his hand roughly against Kramer’s chest, shoving him back. “One more chance, Mr. Kramer. That is all that remains to you. One more failure, and you will no longer have any association with this family. You will be invisible to us. Transparent. A ghost. Do you understand?”

Kramer didn’t answer. His teeth were clenched tightly together.

“I said, do you understand ?”

Kramer nodded his head slowly. “I understand.”

“Perfect.” Mario extended his hand to help Donny up, who was still lying on the floor.

“Thanks, Uncle Mario. I told you what a screwup he was—”