William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

The tracer had a range of twenty miles. Now he’d be able to follow them from a distance, with no risk of being spotted. Never mind this temporary setback—his time would come.

And when it did, Travis Byrne’s time would come to an end.

45

3:15 P.M.

AFTER THE GIRL LEFT, Travis and Cavanaugh searched every cranny of Moroconi’s motel room. They tried to be as thorough as possible while still remembering that their entrance had been less than subtle and was bound to attract attention, possibly from the police.

Travis ransacked the bathroom while Cavanaugh rummaged through the closets. “So,” she said, “last night when you gave me the story of your recent life, you somehow omitted your encounter with that cute little tartlet.”

Travis made an indistinct coughing noise.

“Care to explain how you ran into the juvenile jailbait?”

“A criminal attorney comes into contact with people from all walks of life. …”

“Don’t tell me she’s a client, Byrne. Dan Holyfield wouldn’t let her through the office door. I somehow got the feeling you and she had a more prolonged, intimate acquaintance.”

“Well, you were wrong. It was a very brief, bizarre acquaintance.” He reflected for a moment. “Although, in light of what’s happened since, it’s beginning to make more sense.”

Cavanaugh wriggled under the bed and grabbed something soft and rubbery. “Perhaps Moroconi hasn’t gone too far,” she said. “He left his tennis shoes.” The well-worn tennies were filthy and riddled with holes; she held them at arm’s length by the tips of her fingers.

Travis emerged from the bathroom. “He left a half-empty shampoo bottle, too, but I hardly think we can expect him to return for it. Especially after he sees what I did to the front door.”

“Here you go, Byrne.” Cavanaugh tossed the tennies to him. “They look like they might be your size.”

Travis caught them, then grimaced. “These are disgusting. I’m dumping them.” He dropped the shoes into the trash can. They plopped in with a clang.

In addition to the clang, Travis heard a crinkling noise. He bent down on his knees and began rummaging through the trash can. “There’s something in here.”

“I know,” Cavanaugh said. “Mostly Big Mac wrappers and used condoms. I for one feel better about this whole situation now that I know Moroconi practices safe sex.”

Travis continued digging through the disgusting contents of the trash can. He found a strip of cotton, apparently torn from an undershirt. It was stained with blood. He had found traces of blood around the shower drain, too. Was Moroconi hurt? Perhaps by that crash into the wall at the West End?

A moment later Travis withdrew a torn and crinkled envelope.

“I didn’t see that,” Cavanaugh said, walking toward him.

“It was wrapped up in one of the McDonald’s bags.” He shot her a pointed glance. “Police officers are trained to be thorough.”

He flattened the envelope on the dresser. There were no markings on it, except for a corporate logo in the upper left corner that identified the letter as being sent by the Elcon Corporation. There was no return address.

“Mean anything to you?” Cavanaugh asked.

“Not offhand, but if we—”

Travis stopped when he heard footsteps outside the room. He sprang back and positioned himself beside the door, waiting to club whoever stepped through.

“Heavens to Betsy,” the man outside the door said. His hands were pressed against his face. “Who has done this terrible terrible thing? My boss, he will kill me.”

Travis slowly emerged from behind the door. The speaker was a diminutive gentleman of Indian descent, or perhaps Pakistani. The badge on his lapel said that he was the front desk clerk and that his name was Bob.

“Uh, we don’t know how this happened,” Travis said. He hated to lie, but the circumstances left him little alternative. “We just thought we’d come inside and see if anyone was hurt.”

“What in the holy moley has happened?” the desk clerk cried. “Was there an explosion of a small nuclear device?”

“Like I said, we just showed up.” Travis grabbed Cavanaugh’s hand and tugged her toward the door.

“Are you the gentleman who called about Room 14?”

Travis stared at the carpet “Nah. I was just in the neighborhood. …”

“Oh, my. This time I shall be fired for certain. It is the cracks.”

Travis blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“The cracks. They all have it up their noses. They take one whiff and they think they are invincible. They say, I can handle it and then powie ! They go through a door.”

Travis decided to play along. “Yeah, this probably is the work of some drug-crazed fiends.” He tugged Cavanaugh more emphatically. “We’d better get out of here.”

“Wait,” the clerk said. “You must fill out forms, report to the police.”

“Sorry,” Travis said. “No time.”

“Stop!” The clerk followed close behind them. “You must stay. I am not kidding with you.”

They piled into the Omni and Cavanaugh backed away, ignoring Bob’s protests.

“Back out without turning around,” Travis muttered. “So he can’t get your license-plate number.”

Cavanaugh followed instructions. The desk clerk followed them all the way out of the parking lot, never quite catching up.

Once there was sufficient distance between them, Cavanaugh turned the car around and accelerated out of sight. She never noticed the Jeep waiting for them on the side of the highway, much less the blinking red light inside her briefcase.

46

4:30 P.M.

TRAVIS HUNG HIS HEAD low as a patrol car whizzed by them on Belt Line Road.

“Ten to one that cop is headed to the Million Dollar Motel to investigate a reported break-in,” Cavanaugh said.

“That shouldn’t attract too much interest.”

“Not until the clerk describes the suspects who sped from the scene of the crime. Then every available officer on the force will descend on the place.”

“And the press can add breaking and entering to their list of my alleged crimes,” Travis mused. “Oh well. At least I really committed this one.”

Cavanaugh checked traffic on all sides for more police cars. “Incidentally, Byrne, where am I driving?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Yes. I’m tired of running this third-rate Bonnie and Clyde outfit. I got us to Moroconi—his room, anyway. Now you tell me what we do next.”

“Well, we need to figure out what the Elcon Corporation is, and what its connection is to one Alberto Moroconi. Unless I’m missing something, it’s the only clue we have.”

“Sound reasoning.” She barreled into the fast lane and switched over to I-365. “But that doesn’t tell me where to drive.”

“Don’t feel bad. It doesn’t tell me anything either.”

She punched Travis in the shoulder. “Snap out of it, Byrne. Show some of that resourcefulness you’ve been using to undeservedly win all those trials.”

“This is different.”

“I don’t see why. Pretend you’re a client with a problem. Where does the superstar lawyer go to unearth information about the mystery corporation?”

“I’d probably check the records in the secretary of state’s office.”

“In Austin? Nothing personal, Byrne, but I don’t think we’d make it alive. Got anything closer to home?”

“You don’t have to go to Austin. The secretary of state’s records can be accessed by computer.”

“Excellent. How do you do that?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

“Well, what would you normally do when you need corporate records?”