William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

“I’d ask my secretary to get them.”

“The pampered life of the private practitioner. You do half as much work and make twice as much money.” She fumbled with the console between the seats and withdrew Crescatelli’s blue box. “Looks like we get to try this gizmo out early, Byrne. You’re going to call your secretary.”

“I’d rather not get Gail involved.”

“The call can’t be traced.”

“Nonetheless, I don’t want to run the risk.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Let’s use one of the legal on-line services. Lexis, or maybe Information America.”

“This is all gibberish to me, Byrne. We lowly prosecutors have to use the books in the library.”

“My condolences. Dan has all the state-of-the-art research toys.”

“So you want to go to your office?”

“Are you kidding? We’d be killed, as would probably everyone else there.”

Cavanaugh exited from the highway, turned left, and pulled into the parking lot of a 7-Eleven. “Well, I refuse to continue driving around aimlessly. Until you give me a destination, I’m not budging.”

Travis eyed the suspicious and sleazy characters waiting to use the pay phone. A beefy man with multiple tattoos was arguing with a man in a motorcycle gang jacket. “I’m not sure this is an ideal hangout. …”

Cavanaugh’s arms were folded firmly across her chest. “Then suggest something better.”

Travis watched the argument escalate. Switchblades would be flying any minute. “What about SMU? At the law library. They have all the on-line computer services, and they usually get free access. It should be relatively quiet if we go tonight.”

Cavanaugh considered. “I don’t think we should go anyplace quite that public. Too many chances of being seen by the wrong persons.”

“I agree it’s risky, but as you said, we have to do something. SMU sounds like the best option.”

“All right. SMU it is.” She started to turn the ignition.

Travis laid his hand on hers. “Wait a minute.” He opened the car door.

“Good God, you’re not going to try to break up that fight, are you?”

“No.” He left the car, carefully avoiding the fracas, and approached a row of coin-operated newspaper stands. Something had caught his eye—something disturbingly familiar. He plugged thirty-five cents in and removed the afternoon paper.

After scanning it quickly, he returned to the car. “Take a look at this.” He tossed the paper to her.

Cavanaugh examined the photograph plastered on the bottom half of page one. “Travis …” she said eventually, “that’s you .”

“No kidding. Nice profile, huh?”

“And you’re with that girl. The one we found in Moroconi’s room.”

Travis snatched the paper back. The two of them were standing just inside his apartment; her scantily clad arms and legs were wrapped all around him. The article discussed new evidence discovered about “lawyer on the lam” Travis Byrne, his associations with organized crime, his repeated use of courtroom trickery to return career criminals to the streets and, of course, his known fraternization with prostitutes.

“How did that get into the paper so quickly?” Cavanaugh asked.

“This was taken two nights ago,” Travis explained. “Plenty of time.”

“But—why?”

“Someone’s trying to smear me,” Travis said bitterly. “Not content to put my life in danger, now they’re going after my reputation as well.”

“Any idea who might be behind it?”

“The article indicates that the press is getting its info from the police. Probably the same informant that fed them the last batch of false information about me.”

Travis turned to the continuation of the story on page two, read for a while, then gasped. “Oh my God.”

“What? What is it?”

Travis passed the paper back to Cavanaugh. “The remains of my car, that’s what it is. The explanation for the explosion and the cloud of smoke we saw as we left your apartment.”

The picture showed the wreckage of a green compact car that looked as if it had been ripped apart from the inside out. The roof was blown off and flung to one side. The frame was punctured by hundreds of tiny nail holes. Shattered glass lay in a ring all around the wreck. The car was destroyed, its remains blackened by fire.

And the caption identified the wreckage as an automobile registered to Travis Byrne.

“Thank God you weren’t in it,” Cavanaugh said quietly.

“Yeah.” Travis pointed to the relevant paragraph of the article. “I wasn’t. But someone else was.”

47

7:00 P.M.

TRAVIS AND CAVANAUGH SAT before a computer terminal in the back of SMU’s Underwood Law Library. He had chosen this terminal deliberately—it was tucked away behind the stacks and shielded by a private carrel. Just the thing for a lawyer on the lam with a yen for research.

On-line legal services often made their databases available to colleges for free; they hoped lawyers in training would learn how to use them, become dependent upon them, and pay big bucks for them when they were out in the real world. Travis and Cavanaugh were able to get a terminal without any problem.

Travis pushed buttons on the keyboard and watched the screen glow blue. “I’ve accessed the secretary of state’s files. Now let me see what I can pull up.” He typed Elcon Corporation and hit Enter.

“Now this is interesting,” Travis said. “I’m not the first attorney to probe into the Elcon Corporation recently.”

“Really? Who else?”

Travis moved the cursor to the indicated line. “Thomas J. Seacrest. Moroconi’s first attorney. He did the exact same thing.” Travis checked the date. “And later that same day, he disappeared. Until he turned up murdered.”

“I can’t imagine that any great secrets are going to be revealed in documents filed with a government agency.”

“Corporations are required by law to submit certain information,” Travis replied. “For instance, the corporate charter, the articles of incorporation, and the name of the registered service agent. See? I’m pulling up the corporate charter now.”

“I’m tingling with excitement.”

Travis scanned the paragraphs of legalese that composed the charter. “Seems to be your basic garden-variety Texas corporation. No unusual clauses or provisions. Formed about thirty-five years ago. Merged with another Texas corporate entity a few years ago.”

He depressed the Page Down button, scanning as the pages passed. “Here’s the name of the corporate president. Apparently there’s a managing board of directors, although I can’t find the name of the CEO. Ever heard of this president?”

Cavanaugh read the name on the screen. “Mario Catuara. Doesn’t ring any bells with me.”

“Me neither. Here, take down his office address. I think we should check him out.”

Cavanaugh didn’t respond.

Travis glanced up at her. “Did you get the address?”

Cavanaugh placed a finger across her lips. She was looking over the top of the carrel toward the other side of the library.

“What is it?” Travis whispered. “What do you see?” He sat up and craned his neck.

Cavanaugh pushed his head down. “Stay out of sight.”

“What are you looking at?”

“A man who came in about five minutes after we did. He’s been sitting in the same chair ever since. A chair equidistant between our carrel and the front door.”

“So?”

“Maybe nothing. But that’s where I’d sit if I wanted to keep an unobtrusive eye on us and ensure that we couldn’t leave without his knowing about it.”

Travis dropped a pencil and, under the pretense of recovering it, took a look under the carrel. He saw the man right away; there weren’t that many people in the library, and the man appeared to be reading a Southwestern Reporter page by page. It was a dead giveaway. No one read case reports; someone might look up a case, but no one sat around reading them like they were Agatha Christies. He might as well be holding the book upside down; it was just a prop.