William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

The three of them were quiet for several protracted moments. Only the crackling of wood in the fireplace disturbed their thoughts.

Travis walked out of the room and down the stairs. A few moments later he returned carrying Curran’s gun.

“Here,” he said, tossing it into Curran’s hands. “You can come.”

Curran’s eyes slowly rose to meet Travis’s. “You trust me with this?”

“You said you wouldn’t try to kill me. At least not for a while. Right?”

Curran nodded. “Right.”

Travis grabbed his own multistrike weapon and threw it over his shoulder. “Good enough for me.”

A tiny smile appeared on Curran’s face. “Maybe you’re not so bad after all, Byrne. For a lawyer.”

66

6:53 P.M.

KRAMER HAD BEEN SUSPICIOUS from the start. After all, less than twenty-four hours ago, Mario had fired him and said he was to have no further association with the family. Now Mario wanted him to come to his home immediately. Was this some kind of setup? In fifteen years of working for Mario, Kramer had never been invited to his home. He hadn’t even known where it was, and he suspected that his lack of knowledge was no accident. What the hell was going on?

To compound his suspicion, Kramer had seen a Jeep parked on the side of the private road leading to Mario’s home, about five hundred feet from the front gates. Odd parking place, and not a car he would expect Mario to be driving. As if that wasn’t enough, he found a green Hyundai parked not far from the Jeep. A quick call from his car phone told him the Hyundai was stolen.

Something unusual was happening at Mario’s house.

As he approached the front door Kramer heard voices. Two voices, maybe three. None of them was Mario’s. They were coming closer, approaching the front door.

Best to play it safe, Kramer decided. He’d fucked up too many times already; he wasn’t taking any more risks. He ducked behind some tall hedges lining the driveway and waited to see who came out the door.

“I’m familiar with that area,” Curran said as he, Travis, and Cavanaugh exited Mario’s house. “I’ll drive.”

“Wait a second,” Travis said. “I said you could come. I didn’t say you could take over.”

“I just thought it made sense, since I know my way around.”

“I’ve lived in Texas all my life.” Travis walked down the front steps and started across the large driveway fronting Mario’s home. “I also know what some of the people on my tail look like. I’ll drive.”

“Suit yourself. I was just—”

Curran’s voice suddenly faded away. Travis turned and saw that Curran had disappeared. One moment he was talking to Travis, and the next—

Cavanaugh pointed behind him. Travis whirled around just in time to see Curran dive over the hedge lining the driveway. What the hell did he think he was doing? Had he gone totally off the deep end?

A few seconds later Travis understood. Curran was rolling on the ground, wrestling with someone. Someone who must’ve been watching them.

Travis ran around the hedge. To his surprise, the man on the ground beneath Curran was not Moroconi. It was an older man, a tall man with a long, prominent scar on the side of his face. Travis had never seen him before.

Curran already had the upper hand. He was by far the stronger of the two, and he had pinned the man’s shoulders down on the well-trimmed lawn.

The man reached inside his jacket for a gun. Curran knocked it away with a quick, decisive slap of his hand. The man’s other hand dipped inside his pants pocket and returned with a cigarette lighter. The man flicked the lighter, then pressed it up against Curran’s face. Curran yelled, startled by the sudden burning sensation, but his hold did not diminish.

Travis ran forward and kicked the lighter out of the man’s hand; it flew off into the hedge. Curran leaned forward and braced his arm just under the man’s chin.

“I could kill you in three seconds,” Curran said in a guttural voice. “And if you try anything like that again, I will.”

The man relaxed. He stopped fighting.

“Who the hell are you?” Curran demanded. “Why were you watching us? And why are you carrying a gun?”

The man looked at Curran, then stared at Travis for a long moment. Then he glanced at Cavanaugh, who had just stepped behind the hedge. He didn’t answer.

Curran brought his fists down on the man’s chest. “I asked you a question! Who are you?”

The man gasped for air. He hesitated, then slowly formed the words. “I’m Inspector Henderson. With the FBI.”

67

7:00 P.M.

“HENDERSON?” TRAVIS SAID. “WHY the hell are you sneaking around behind the hedges?”

The man shrugged, as best he was able with his shoulders pressed into the mud. “My goal is the same as yours. Finding Moroconi.”

“And trying to recover your precious list, I’ll bet,” Travis said.

The man hesitated. Then: “That’s right.”

“How do we know you are who you say you are?” Cavanaugh asked. “Have you got any identification?”

“No, I’m undercover. I don’t carry ID.”

“So how can you prove you’re Henderson?” Travis asked.

“Do you remember the password, Mr. Byrne? On the business card you received?”

Travis did. He didn’t have the card anymore, but he definitely remembered the password.

“Good. Hickory dickory dock.”

Travis answered. “The mouse ran up the clock.”

“And the cow jumped over the moon.” He grinned, crinkling his vivid scar. ‘Tricky, huh?”

“Yeah, you guys are regular geniuses.”

“So he is who he says he is?” Cavanaugh asked.

“I guess so,” Travis said. “I don’t know how else he could’ve known the password. I called the FBI number in the directory, Henderson, and they said they’d never heard of you.”

“We were trying to confuse you. Disorientation. After all, we were told you were a dangerous killer.”

Curran did not relax his grip. “That still doesn’t explain why you were watching us. In hiding.”

“I didn’t know who you were,” he insisted. “I got a tip that something was going down at Mario Catuara’s place, but I had no idea who the players were, or who came out on top. For all I knew, you could’ve all been mob enforcers. I was playing it safe till I knew who you were. I was about to identify myself when George of the Jungle here leaped on top of me.”

Travis nodded. “Let him go, Curran.”

With obvious reluctance, Curran did as Travis instructed. The man brushed himself off and rose to his feet.

“Look, Henderson,” Travis said, “this whole affair is one gigantic mistake. I don’t have your list and I haven’t killed anyone. One of your own men killed that FBI agent.”

“I know.”

“You—” Travis stared back at him, stunned. “You know ?”

“Of course.” He recovered his lighter from where it had fallen. “I’ll admit I was confused at first, but I figured it out eventually. One of our men went bad. Probably behind your alleged murder at the West End, too. Why would you want to kill those people? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Travis felt a wave of release rush through his body. “Then why are you after me?”

“After you? I’m here to help you.”

Travis leaned against Cavanaugh for support; this was more good news than he could handle in a single sitting.

“I think we’re both after the same quarry—Moroconi. Am I right?”

Travis agreed. Quickly, he told the man everything they had learned inside Mario’s house, especially about where Moroconi was headed.

“We’re on our way there now,” Travis said. “Why don’t you come with us?”