William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

“Well, then, listen to me for a change. I’m sick and tired of seeing you squirreled away in your office every night.” Dan was dressed in his usual manner—brown suit with a bolo tie. Old-guard Dallas, but very classy. “You need to get out more. Visit some friends.”

Travis didn’t say anything. It was embarrassing to admit that, bottom line, he really didn’t have any friends.

“Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m fine. Just a little stomach stress.”

“Uh-huh.” Dan’s voice had just the slightest hint of a Dallas drawl, although Travis suspected it was an accent more cultivated than natural. Dan had always been a master at fitting in. “Have you had anything for dinner? Or did that slip your mind?”

“I ate, in a manner of speaking.” Travis pointed to the empty take-out container. “Gail brought me a salad from Sprouts.”

Dan chuckled. “Sounds delightful.” He picked up the container and tossed it into the trash. “You know, Gail is a fine girl. She’s had a tough time of it, raising Susan all by herself. I betcha she’d leap at a dinner invitation from a promising young attorney.”

Travis shifted uncomfortably. “No one would want to go out with a tub of lard like me.” Travis knew he wasn’t that overweight, but because he was only five foot seven, every extra pound looked like three.

“You need to get out more,” Dan grumbled. “I don’t care if it’s Gail, but you hear what I’m saying—it’s time to start dating again.”

Travis pressed his lips together. “I’m … not ready for that yet, Dan.”

Dan laid his hand on Travis’s shoulder. “I don’t mean to seem unsympathetic, Travis, but it’s been over four years. When you were in law school, it was understandable—you were busy. You didn’t have time to deal with it. But now you have a good job, a steady income. It’s time.”

“I said I’m not ready. Okay?” Travis hoped he sounded forceful, but not rude. He would never intentionally offend Dan Holyfield, the one bona fide hero he had ever known. Dan had put in thirty-five years as a criminal defense attorney, taking unpopular clients, defending unpopular causes, representing the poor and elderly for free long before it became trendy. Most important, Dan had been there when Travis needed someone—in fact, he was the only person who was. Travis didn’t have any living relatives, and he didn’t have any inside connections to the rich or powerful. Dan Holyfield made it possible for him to attend law school. When Travis received his J.D. and hit the streets, he was an ex-cop, already in his midthirties, with mediocre grades. Not what most of the blue-chip firms were looking for. Or anyone else for that matter. But Dan Holyfield was willing to give him a chance. That meant something to Travis. That meant a lot.

“All right,” Dan said, “have it your way. But don’t be surprised if you come in some night and find I’ve locked you out of your office.” He smiled, almost as an afterthought. “I hear you won your trial today.”

“Yup. Jury was out less than an hour.”

“Talk about turning a sow’s ear into a silk purse. Congratulations are in order, I suppose. You’ve become a mighty fine defense attorney, Travis.”

“I learned it all from you.”

“That’s a crock of bull, but it’s nice to hear, anyway. What are you working on now?”

“New case. Forcible rape, aggravated assault. Pretty grisly stuff.”

Dan thumbed through the photographs on the desk. “Grisly is an understatement. I thought you were going to take on more civil work.”

“Didn’t have any choice about this one. Judicial appointment.”

“I see. Hagedorn punishing you for having the audacity to win?”

“Something like that. I don’t suppose you’d like to second-chair this loser?”

“No thanks, Travis. That’s why I hired you, remember? So I wouldn’t have to try slop like this. When I said I was retired, I meant it.”

“That decision was a monumental loss for the Dallas criminal justice system.”

“Travis, if this flattery is your way of campaigning for a Christmas bonus, forget it.”

Travis grinned. “Sorry, Dan.”

“My retirement was way overdue. I’ve been staying plenty busy running my parents’ food-distribution business since they died. Conrad and Elsie Holyfield may not have been college graduates, but they made a fine little company—and I’m not going to let it go down the tubes.”

Actually, Travis was glad Dan had slowed down, though he’d never tell Dan that. Dan was one of the few who deserved retirement; he’d fought the good fight and lived to tell the tale. Looked remarkable for his age, too, which had to be near sixty. The clerks down at the courthouse called him Dorian Gray.

“You’ll be impossible to replace in the courtroom, Dan.”

“Nonsense.” Dan walked to the door. “Don’t stay up too late.”

“Sorry, but I may have to pull an all-nighter. The trial starts tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning? Man alive, Hagedorn stung you but good.”

“Yeah.”

“Going straight from one trial to another like this will kill you, Travis, and that’s a certainty. Promise me you’ll take a break sometime tonight.”

“That I can do. I promised Staci I’d visit.”

“I’ll let you get back to work then. But seriously, Travis, don’t ruin yourself. You’ve got a loser here, and you’re tackling it under extremely adverse circumstances. Every now and then it’s all right to let the scum sink.”

After Dan left, Travis returned his attention to Exhibit A, the first color photograph of Mary Ann McKenzie taken after her attack.

He drew the photo closer to the light. His eyes were drawn to her shattered rib cage, her scraped, bloody face, her bruised breasts. He choked; his eyes began to sting.

“My God,” he whispered to himself.

She was a redhead. Just like Angela.

6

8:45 P.M.

MARIO SAT BEHIND THE large oak desk in his downtown office, his hands resting atop a green blotter. A gooseneck lamp illuminated his two visitors, but left Mario in shadow. He liked it that way.

He gazed across the desk at Kramer, Mario’s most dependable enforcer, and Donny, Mario’s idiot nephew. Mario and his nephew wore sport coats, Ban-Lon shirts, and patent-leather oxfords. Kramer tried to dress like them, but, as always, it didn’t quite ring true. And what was that jacket made of anyway— polyester, for God’s sake? Christ, it wasn’t as if the man didn’t have enough money. He’d been drawing sizable chunks of change for years.

Mario and Donny both wore gold, too—Donny around his neck and Mario on his pinky. But Kramer put them to shame; he wore three chain necklaces and two nugget-size rings. He even had a gold tooth. That was so like Kramer—always trying to look like a member of the family. Trying too goddamn hard. Mario should’ve dumped him years ago, and he would’ve, too—if the man didn’t scare him shitless.

Kramer had come in to report. He was pacing alongside Mario’s desk. Donny lounged on the sofa by the door, biting his nails like a five-year-old. Jesus T. Christ, Mario thought. Donny wants to be a made man, and he sits there biting his nails, barely paying attention. What a worthless piece of crap. Donny would never learn the business. Or anything else.

“You have news to report, Mr. Kramer?” Mario asked.

“Yeah. Matter of fact, I do.” Kramer was a thin man—quick, wiry, elusive. Like a snake. His most prominent feature was a long ugly scar that stretched down the left side of his face. “The job was completed accordin’ to plan.”

“Can you provide a few more details?”