William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

“Yeah, you probably should have,” Moroconi agreed. “You should have done something for me. But you didn’t. You fucked me over and hung me out to dry. And now you’re gonna pay for it.”

Moroconi pursed his lips and spat, missing Mario’s face by less than an inch. “How’s the temperature in there?”

Mario swallowed. “It’s … fine. Why?”

“Well, you still seem tense.” Moroconi bent down and checked the thermostat on the side of the hot tub. “Only a hundred degrees? And they call this a hot tub?” He placed his fingers on the dial. “Here—let’s crank it up to a hundred twenty, maybe one thirty. Oh, what the hell. Let’s just go all the way.” He turned the dial into the red zone.

“You crazy bastard! That’s scalding!”

“No,” Moroconi said. “One thirty would’ve been scalding. At this temperature, the flesh will peel off your bones.” He folded his arms across his chest. “This kinda confuses matters, don’t it? I’m not sure now whether you’ll die from the heat or from drowning.”

Mario felt his respiration increasing, his perspiration working overtime. Could it be that much hotter so soon? Or was he just losing his grip? He felt a drop slide down the side of his face and realized, to his utter humiliation, that it was not sweat. He was crying.

“Oh, poor little Mario,” Moroconi said in a baby voice. “He’s gettin’ all upset. Awwww.”

Mario tried to speak, but choked. “What do you want, Moroconi?”

“I’m sure you know already.”

“I don’t have any idea!”

“I wanna square the record. I wanna piece of what everyone else got. And I wanna get even for what you and Jack did to me.”

Mario could feel the water lapping at his cheeks. The temperature was definitely hotter. “If it’s money you want, help yourself. I don’t have much, but—”

“But Jack does? Goddamn right. He’s living high off my fuckin’ money!”

“Fine—get Jack! Let me out of here!”

Moroconi made a tsking sound with his teeth and tongue. He was savoring every minute of his sweet revenge. “That’s my problem, Mario. I don’t know where Jack is. But you do.”

“You’re wrong. I haven’t seen him since he turned state’s evidence. You’ve got the list. Or had it, at least. Can’t you find him?”

“The list is wrong. I went to the address on the list, and he wasn’t there. He’s relocated himself.”

“Maybe he has. What’s that got to do with me?”

“I think you’ve been in contact with him, Mario. I think you must’ve helped him relocate.”

“Me? Help that traitor? If I knew where he was, I’d cut his heart out.” The water was trickling around his neck, burning his throat.

“It pains me to say this, Mario, but I think you’re lyin’ through your goddamn teeth.”

“Al, if I knew where he was, I’d tell you. What do I care what happens to him?”

Moroconi leaned in close. “Don’t fuck with me, Mario.”

“I’m not! I wouldn’t do that to you, Al.”

“Liar.” Moroconi reached down and pressed Mario’s head beneath the water.

The steaming water flowed over Mario’s face, his eyes, his lips. It was hot, much too hot. It burned. It felt as if the water etched into his flesh. He wanted to scream, but he had to keep his mouth shut tight.

Moroconi jerked Mario’s head out by his thinning hair. “Enjoyin’ yourself, Mario? Ready to talk?”

“I’m telling you”—he coughed, sputtered—“I don’t know where—”

Moroconi lowered Mario’s face back into the boiling caldron. Mario tried to keep his eyes clenched shut, to prevent the water from burning the skin off his eyeballs. All he could do was grit his teeth and wait.

He waited, but Moroconi didn’t raise his head out of the water. Perverted bastard. This was just a scare tactic. He wouldn’t—

Mario’s lungs began to ache. He needed oxygen—now! He thrashed from side to side, trying to lift his head above the surface of the water. It was no use. Moroconi held his head down firmly. With his hands tied, there was nothing, absolutely nothing Mario could do. He felt himself growing faint.

Desperate for air, his lips parted, and the scalding water poured inside. Mario felt it burning his mouth, his tongue, coursing through his lungs. For the first shattering moment he realized he was going to die—

And then Moroconi lifted his head out of the water.

Mario came up coughing and throwing up water. Vomit spewed down his cheeks into the hot tub.

Moroconi laughed. “Gotcha worried that time, didn’t I?”

“It’s under the blotter. On my desk,” Mario gasped, as soon as he was able to talk. “Jack’s new address.”

“Thank you, Mario. Most cooperative of you.” He released Mario’s head. It splashed back into the hot tub.

The hot water rose to the level of Mario’s cheekbones. “Wait a minute. You said you’d let me go if I gave you Jack!”

Moroconi shook his head. “I said no such thing. You assumed I would let you go.” He grinned. “You were wrong. Bye-bye, Mario. Hope you can hold your breath for a long time. Like forever.”

He laughed again, even louder than before, and strolled upstairs.

62

5:15 P.M.

TRAVIS AND CAVANAUGH APPROACHED the front door of the home of the Elcon president, Mario Catuara. It was an elegant house, obviously expensive, not far from Fort Worth, but very secluded. If they hadn’t known exactly where they were going, they never would have found it.

Travis stopped when he got to the porch steps. The front door was open.

“Something’s wrong,” Cavanaugh said.

“I agree,” Travis replied. “Someone got here before us.”

“Moroconi? Or that creep from the library?”

Travis shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Why would Moroconi be looking for Catuara?”

“I don’t know. But that envelope we found in his hotel room tells me they’re connected somehow. Why don’t you stay out here while I take a look inside?”

Cavanaugh grabbed Travis by the collar. “Spare me the chivalry. If Moroconi is in there, you’re going to need someone who’s capable of firing a gun.”

Cavanaugh pushed the front door the rest of the way open and entered. Frowning, Travis followed close behind.

They made a quick sweep of the ground level of the house. Marvelously well furnished, but beyond that, they found nothing of interest. They did discover a staircase—nineteen steps going up, twenty steps going down.

“Let’s cover both floors at once so he can’t slip away,” Cavanaugh whispered. “You take the basement. I’ll take the upstairs.”

Travis didn’t argue. He tiptoed quietly down the carpeted steps and soon realized he had gotten the easier assignment. There was only one room downstairs.

The door was partly open and the light was on. Travis took a deep breath, then stepped through. He hit the deck, just in case someone fired at him. No one did. He crawled into the room on his hands and knees, then slowly rose to his feet.

It was a rec room—a high-class, state-of-the-art playhouse. Travis eyed the sophisticated exercise equipment, feeling a wave of envy he couldn’t suppress. If he could afford to put gizmos like these in his apartment, maybe he could lose those extra pounds around his gut. Scanning the room, he saw a pool table, several pinball machines, and in the far corner—a hot tub.

There was something floating in the hot tub. Approaching, he saw it was a body—Catuara, unless Travis missed his guess. He was tied down in the tub, and his face was covered with water. He was not moving.

“Cavanaugh!” Travis yelled.

He reached into the water, then instinctively withdrew his hand. The water was blisteringly hot. He grabbed a towel from a nearby rack and wrapped it around his hand. Steeling himself, he reached into the hot tub and pulled the man’s head above the water.