William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

He had to figure out what to do. Where to go. How to get himself out of this mess.

Before it was too late.

38

2:35 A.M.

KRAMER CRUISED INTO THE apartment-complex parking lot just off Forest Lane, lights dimmed. Sure enough, there it was—Travis Byrne’s car. The license plate and description were both perfect matches.

His broad smile made the scar on the side of his face crinkle. This would show Mario. He had been certain his men would find the car eventually, but in truth he had thought it would take longer than this. Sometimes you just get lucky, he supposed. Of course, some of the luck could be attributed to the time-tested technique of putting the fear of death into a group of men who were basically spineless bootlickers. Part of the luck was also attributable to Byrne’s own stupidity—why was he still in the Dallas metro area? If Kramer had been on the run, he’d be in Chicago by now. Maybe Paris.

Byrne’s car was empty. Kramer slid a thin, long sheet of metal between the window glass and the car frame, pushed it down about a foot and a half, then jerked it to the right. He heard a popping noise that told him the lock had been sprung.

He crawled into the car and began rooting around. Nothing particularly suspicious—a change of clothes, an overcoat, a briefcase. Kramer popped open the briefcase and examined the contents. A lot of boring documents written on long legal paper. Some pens, pencils, yellow Post-Its. And a business card.

Now, that was interesting—Kramer had heard of Special Agent Henderson and knew what the man really did. Who had contacted Byrne, he wondered, and why? He slipped the card into his pocket.

Nothing else in the car seemed particularly noteworthy. Nothing indicated in which of the apartments Byrne was hiding.

Kramer considered his options. He could set the car on fire. That would be fun. That would give him great pleasure. And that might bring Byrne out of hiding.

On the other hand, he considered, it might just tip Byrne off and send him scurrying out the back window. No, he should figure out which of these apartments Byrne was in. Once he knew that, he could use a more direct approach. And if that didn’t work, he thought, grinning, he could still blow the car to hell and back—with Byrne in it. That would be Plan B.

Yeah, that’s the ticket. He strolled across the parking lot, crisscrossing toward the main office building. He casually passed the front door, glancing at the lock. Piece of cake. And the office would undoubtedly have files identifying every, tenant. And from that list, he could likely deduce which apartment Byrne was in. He would just look for someone Byrne would be likely to know—a coworker, or a relative, or another lawyer. He’d start with the apartments nearest Byrne’s car.

Kramer returned to his car. He checked the trunk and found all his favorite tools—cans of gasoline, lighter fluid, an incendiary blowtorch, cord. He examined a small brown box, barely three by four inches. Everything was there—a tiny triggering mechanism, a smidgen of plastic explosive, and four hundred nails. Ready to go. He crawled under Byrne’s car and locked the box into place.

He’d get Byrne in the apartment, or later when he ran to his car. Either way Kramer would get him, and have a little fun in the process. And then he’d be in a position to make that fat fucker Mario regret talking to him like he did.

There were going to be a few surprises for Mr. Travis Byrne in the morning.

39

9:30 A.M.

TRAVIS ROLLED OVER, GROANING, and untangled his body from the living-room furniture.

“Pffst—wha—?” He had carpet hair in his mouth. He was lying on the floor in a twisted knot between the coffee table and the sofa. He stretched his legs and tried to remember when he had finally conked out. His neck and back were stiff; pins and needles shot through his legs. He might be awake, but his legs weren’t.

He tiptoed into the kitchen, careful not to wake Cavanaugh. The cabinets were still littered with utensils and ingredients for the bell-pepper soup.

He wondered if Cavanaugh had anything for breakfast. He opened the refrigerator and found it well stocked: milk, orange juice, eggs, bacon. Much more than he could have found in his own kitchen. He congratulated himself for holing up with someone who cooked.

He decided to start with coffee. He couldn’t find a coffeemaker, but he did locate a jar of instant. He pulled a brass teakettle out of the cupboard, filled it with water, and turned the heat up high.

The doorbell rang. He frowned. Who would be here at this time of—

He checked his watch. It was already nine-thirty. How could he have slept so late?

He rushed to the door, hoping he could get rid of whoever it was before Cavanaugh awoke. If she was aroused too early, she was certain to be grumpy. Come to think of it, she was certain to be grumpy in any case, but the less provocation the better.

He peered through the peephole. The face was unfamiliar—which was good. A tall, medium-sized white male in a spiffy-looking blue suit and tie.

“Package,” the man said.

Why would someone be delivering a package? Then it dawned on him—Cavanaugh had said she was going to work on a new case. She probably had the files couriered to her apartment to save herself the trouble of lugging them.

He shook his head; he really was getting paranoid. No one could possibly know he was here.

He opened the door. “Hello.”

The man smiled politely. “Good morning. I’m delivering some documents for”—he glanced at the label—“Laverne Cavanaugh.”

Travis grinned. No wonder everyone called her by her last name. “I’ll take it.”

“I’m afraid I need a signature.”

“But she’s still asleep.”

“That’s all right. You can sign for her.” He handed Travis a pen.

Travis took the pen and started to sign Cavanaugh’s name. “Uh-oh.” He turned the pen upside down and shook it, but nothing happened. “Out of ink.”

“Hell,” the courier said. “I’ll have to go back to my car and get another one.”

“That’s all right. There must be another pen somewhere around here. Let me look.”

“Hey, thanks,” the man said.

“No problem.” Travis returned to the living room. The courier stepped inside and closed the door.

Travis tried to find the pen he had been drawing diagrams with last night, without success. Probably lost somewhere in the depths of Cavanaugh’s shag carpet, he mused. He went into the kitchen and began opening drawers—everyone had a few thousand pens in a slovenly kitchen drawer, didn’t they?

Travis returned to the living room. “I found—” The courier was gone. Come to think of it, why did the man come inside? And why did he shut the door? Unless—

Travis whirled around, much too late. He took a sucker punch in the soft part of his stomach, exactly where he had been hit a few days before in the men’s room.

Travis fell to his knees, struggling to maintain consciousness. The courier’s knee rose sharply and struck him under the chin. Travis fell backward, striking his head on the floor. He peered up blurry-eyed at his attacker. The man reached inside his attaché and withdrew a medium-sized gun with a silencer.

Travis commanded his fog-filled head to clear. By God, he wasn’t going to let another two-bit bully get the drop on him. He caught the man’s foot just before it struck his rib cage. He pulled, sharp and hard; his assailant lost his balance and fell back into the kitchen. The man clutched the counter to keep from falling. Travis crawled after him and punched him in the side.

Travis grabbed the hand holding the gun and pressed his thumbs down on the pressure points. The courier screamed and dropped the gun. Travis kicked it into the living room.