William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

The man jerked open a drawer, searching for anything he could use as a weapon. He found a battery-operated carving knife. Damn Cavanaugh and her upscale kitchen appliances! In an instant the man had flicked the power switch. The knife roared to life.

Travis moved away as quickly as possible. An ordinary knife would be frightening enough—anything that made a noise like that he definitely did not want to come into contact with. The courier was waving the knife wildly back and forth, advancing like D’Artagnan, pressing Travis against the stove. Travis realized that he had run out of room to maneuver. The man with the knife was barely a foot away from his face.

Travis grabbed the teakettle he had put on to boil. Ignoring the heat radiating from the brass handle, he threw the boiling water at his assailant. The man ducked, but not quite fast enough. He cried out as the water scalded his face.

“Son of a bitch!” the man shouted. He clutched his face. “You’ll pay for that.” The man advanced again with the knife; Travis held out the kettle as a shield. He searched for a potential weapon, but there was nothing within reach more dangerous than a plastic place mat.

The courier forced Travis into the living room. Travis dodged the sofa but slipped on the papers he’d left lying out the night before. He plummeted onto the coffee table, shattering the glass top. The man grinned malevolently and lowered the knife. …

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Travis saw Cavanaugh swing her briefcase directly into the back of the man’s head. The carving knife took flight; Travis ducked as it soared over his head. The man fell to his knees, eyelids fluttering. Cavanaugh hit him again, then once more for good measure. He fell in a crumpled heap on the floor.

It took Travis several seconds to gain some semblance of his normal voice. “Good morning,” he said finally.

“ ’Morning,” Cavanaugh replied. She was wearing a shimmering blue nightie. “Sleep well?”

“Not bad. It was the wake-up call that was rough.”

“So I see.”

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I was, till you two started clattering around in the kitchen.”

“My apologies.”

“Well, under the circumstances, you’re forgiven.”

Just as Cavanaugh finished her absolution the courier jumped up and tackled her from behind, knocking her onto Travis. The man raced out the front door.

Travis felt Cavanaugh’s warm skin through the nightie as she lay on top of him. She was surprisingly soft for such a likely bulemia candidate. “I’m going after him.”

Cavanaugh grabbed his arm, pulling him back. “Don’t be a fool. If one goon found you, there could be others. And they might all be waiting outside.”

“If they know where I am, I’ve got to leave.”

“Granted. But let’s get organized before we make a break for it. If we run out half-cocked, we’ll get creamed.”

“We?” His eyebrows rose. “Does this mean—”

She rummaged through her closet and pulled out a duffel bag. “It means you’ve successfully dragged me into whatever the hell trouble you’re in.”

“I can’t let you come with me. It’s too dangerous.”

“What am I going to do, stay here and wait for the next hit man?”

Travis frowned. He didn’t like the conclusion, but her logic was incontrovertible. “All right,” he said. “Get dressed. The sooner we’re out of here, the better.”

40

9:45 A.M.

DONNY STROLLED INTO THE apartment parking lot, eyes twitching every which way at once. He didn’t see Kramer, but with a psychopath like him, it was best to exercise caution.

This was Donny’s big chance to prove himself to Mario. Kramer was on his way out; Donny would step forward as his replacement. A made man. A lieutenant. After he heard one of Kramer’s men had found Travis’s car, he never let Kramer out of his sight. He trailed him from a respectful distance; he was certain Kramer hadn’t spotted him.

He’d followed Kramer to the parking lot, then waited in his car for almost four hours until Kramer left. Fool. Kramer was probably planning some elaborate execution; Donny would nail Byrne before Kramer returned. It was simple, really. All he had to do was watch Byrne’s car, and when he returned to it, Donny would blow his face off. He patted the stolen gun in his coat pocket. Simple.

Donny tried the car door. To his surprise, it was unlocked. He crawled into the front seat and looked around. Nothing particularly unusual, except that it was a mess. Fast-food bags all over the floor, moldy french fries in the crevices of the seats. A briefcase, but nothing inside but the usual shyster paraphernalia. He looked for a car key but didn’t find one. Even Byrne was smart enough not to leave that lying around.

He crawled out of the car. As he emerged a yellow Dodge Omni whipped past him.

Whaaat? He crossed through the parked cars to catch another glimpse of the Omni as it passed down the other side. This time he saw him clearly. Travis Byrne was sitting in the passenger seat.

Damn! Some goddamn bimbo was driving; he must’ve hijacked a ride. Donny wanted to slap himself; he should’ve seen that coming. But there was no time for self-recrimination now. To salvage anything out of this mess, to prevent Mario from shipping him home to his mother, he was going to have to follow that car.

He had parked his own car a good distance away so it wouldn’t be seen. If he ran to it, he had no chance of catching Byrne. Instead he leaped back into Byrne’s car and started groping around under the steering wheel. Most of the technical aspects of criminal life eluded Donny, but the one thing he was able to do was hotwire a car. He’d been doing it since he was twelve. Most of his teenage income had derived from this lucrative pursuit.

He found the critical wires under the steering column, jerked the red wire free, and touched it to the green. The engine turned over like a dream.

Donny smiled. He hadn’t lost the old touch. He’d catch Byrne and the bitch before they passed through the entrance gate.

Still smiling, Donny thrust the automatic transmission into reverse, heard an odd clicking noise, and watched as the world turned into a haze of molten white. He never heard the explosion, and was spared the realization that he would never become a lieutenant.

41

9:55 A.M.

THE SHOCK WAVES THREW Travis against the dash of Cavanaugh’s car. Cavanaugh slammed on the brakes.

“What the hell was that?”

Travis clutched the passenger seat, trying to regain his bearings. “I dunno,” he said dully. He turned around and saw a cloud of smoke billowing from the parking lot, the same section in which he had parked. “But I’m suddenly very glad we’re in your car and not mine.”

Travis pulled his jacket close around him. He was feeling a distinct chill. How many more close shaves could he possibly hope to escape? He’d like to think he was surviving on his wits, bringing to bear years of police training, experience, and acquired wisdom. But he had a nagging suspicion that he had just been lucky. And this kind of luck wouldn’t hold out forever.

“We need to go someplace safe,” he said quietly.

“Such as? As far as I can tell, no place is safe as long as I’m with you. You need to figure out who the hell is trying to kill you.”

“Thanks, Einstein.”

“The way I see it, your link is Moroconi. He’s the one known factor. We know what he is, we know what he looks like.”

“True. But we don’t know where he is.”

“And that, my friend, is why you need a skip tracer.”

“What are you saying?”

“You’ve gotten me messed up in this but good. It’s only a matter of time before they figure out I’m with you and start looking for me. And my car. If they could find you at my place, somewhere you’ve never been before in your entire life, in less than twelve hours—well, it won’t take them long to find me.”