Double Jeopardy

11

10:25 P.M.

TRAVIS SAT IN HIS office, the contents of his trial notebook spread all over his desk. The office was dark except for the lamp burning on his desk. Mary Ann McKenzie would take the stand soon, and Travis knew he would either win or lose the case depending on how he handled her. He nibbled at a stale Caesar salad and reviewed his cross-examination notes for the tenth time.

Or tried, anyway. He took another bite, then pushed the take-out container away with disgust. He was really learning to hate salads. And Caesar salads were the worst—cold, soggy, and slimy. Even when they claimed the anchovies were gone, Travis knew they were still there. What kind of weenie could survive on this hamster chow?

He knew the answer to that question well enough. The kind of weenie who gets pummeled in the men’s room by two ham-fisted thugs. He tried to concentrate on the case, but his mind kept drifting back to the day’s bizarre series of events. His interview with his client—the most revolting man he had ever met, much less represented. The pressure tactics from the victim’s family. Hagedorn’s version of a kangaroo court. Learning that Seacrest bought the farm. And the incident in the bathroom.

Damn! He slammed his fist down on the desktop. That shouldn’t have happened. Which was beside the point, or as the older lawyers said, “immaterial, inconclusive, and irrelevant.” It happened, whether he liked it or not. He should have told Dan what happened—he knew that—but somehow, he just couldn’t admit he’d been caught with his fly open by those two creeps.

What were they after? Surely there was more involved than a trial fix. All indications at this point were that Moroconi was well on his way to the big house. Assistance from outside forces seemed grossly unnecessary. Why take the risk? Unless they had a different objective in mind.

Travis’s head suddenly rose to attention. Behind him, in the lobby outside his office, he heard a shuffling noise.

He bolted from his chair and pressed himself against the wall. Was he imagining things again or …

No. He heard the shuffling again. Louder now. Footsteps—several of them. And they were drawing closer.

This time, by God, they weren’t going to get the drop on him. He grabbed the letter opener on his desk and whirled through the open office door.

“Freeze, punks! I’ve called the cops.” Travis spun through the lobby, trying to look in every direction at once. He stopped, pivoted, then whirled around the other direction. Unfortunately, his foot struck the coffee table. He stumbled, waved his arms madly trying to regain his balance, then fell flat on his back.

He lay on the floor for a second, dazed. When he finally opened his eyes, he saw two men in long overcoats staring down at him.

Instinctively, he covered his stomach. Please God, not again. “Who … are you?” he whispered.

One of the men reached into his coat and withdrew a badge. “I’m Agent Janicek. This is Mr. Holt. We’re with the FBI. The Joint Organized Crime Task Force, to be specific.”

“You’re … feebees—” Travis propped himself up on one arm. “Then you’re not going to …”

Janicek offered a hand and pulled Travis to his feet. “We’d like to have a word with you.”

“You’d like …” Slowly, Travis was getting a grip. “How did you get in here?”

“Does it really matter? We’re here, obviously. Let’s talk.”

Travis brushed off his suit. “I suppose this is about the McKenzie case.”

“Not exactly. We want to discuss your client.”

“Moroconi? What about him?”

Janicek was in his midforties, judging from the pronounced wrinkles around his eyes and the gray patches in his brown hair. “How much do you know about Mr. Moroconi?”

“Not much. I just met him this morning.”

“And you’ve made no attempt to investigate his … background?”

“I haven’t had much time, and the court-appointed-attorney retainer won’t pay for private investigations. Even if it did, I’d investigate the crime, or perhaps the victim. Not my own client.”

“Then you know little about Mr. Moroconi’s past.”

“Next to nothing.”

Holt, a dark man with a bug-eyed expression, looked harshly at Janicek. “I told you this wouldn’t work. He’s a lawyer; he’s not going to divulge anything voluntarily. We should’ve brought him in. Tried a few procedures.”

Travis had thought Holt looked like a class-A moron the first moment he saw him. It was nice to have his judgment confirmed so soon. “A few procedures? Is that a threat?”

Janicek shook his head. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary. Mr. Byrne will be happy to help us. Won’t you?”

“That depends on what you want.”

“Of course it does. Let me tell you about Alberto Moroconi. A few years ago he was a bagman for the Outfit.”

“The Outfit?”

“You know. The boys. The mob. La Cosa Nostra.”

“Moroconi was with the mob?”

“Right. The Gattuso mob, to be exact.”

“Gattuso?” Travis’s forehead creased. He might not be on the force anymore, but he still followed cases of that magnitude. “I thought you whiteshirts shut down the Gattusos a few years back.”

“We did,” Janicek said proudly, as if he took personal satisfaction in the Bureau’s success. “For the most part, anyway. It was one of the great success stories of the Joint Task Force, a demonstration of what could be achieved when the feds and the locals work together and centralize our databases. Instead of trying to get criminal convictions, we used the asset-forfeiture provisions in the RICO Act. Civil verdicts are much easier to get than criminal convictions; after a prima facie RICO case is made, the burden of proof shifts to the crooks. We seized all property that might have been used or obtained in connection with a crime. Which with these guys was virtually everything they had. When we took away the toys, we cut the heart out of the mob. Pretty soon we had all the informants we needed to shut them down permanently. There were just a few loose threads, a few fish that slipped through the net. Al Moroconi was one of them.”

Travis still couldn’t believe it. “Moroconi used to be with the mob? The real-life, honest-to-God mob?”

“There’s no such thing as used to be with the mob,” Holt said. “Once you’re in, you’re in for life.”

“Agent Holt would know,” Janicek said. “He’s our resident guru on mob activities. He’s one of those obnoxious pricks who acts like he knows everything—except that Holt actually does.”

“I have an eidetic memory,” Holt said, displaying a touch of pride himself. “I never forget anything. I could tell you about dozens of illegal deals in which Moroconi is believed to have been involved. He was a made man—a member of one of the highest levels of the organization.”

“Then you’re not interested in the pending trial at all,” Travis said, finally catching the drift.

“Correct. It’s Moroconi we want. We’ve been specially sent on this errand by the head of our department. We’ve been looking for Moroconi for years, ever since an informant clued us in to his importance. But he disappeared when the Gattusos went down, and he’s kept a low profile ever since. Until he was stupid enough to get arrested on this rape charge.”

Stupid enough? Travis wondered. Or, as Moroconi suggested, framed. “So you want to talk with my client in connection with this Gattuso case.”

“The Gattuso case is closed,” Janicek said. “History. But we still need to interview him. Just to clear up a few details. A stolen slush fund, a witness who disappeared. That’s all.”

Sure it is. What aren’t you telling me, Janicek? “Are you offering immunity?”

“Well, let’s just say that if—if—he spills something we like, a deal might develop.”

Travis shook his head. “No dice. If you want to negotiate, we do it up front. Otherwise I’m advising my client to remain silent.”

Holt pursed his lips. “We could agree that nothing Moroconi tells us can be used against him in the current trial.”

Hardly a sacrifice, Travis thought, since the current trial looked like a sure conviction already. “Sorry, boys, but I can’t advise my client to relinquish something that might be of value to you unless you reciprocate.”

Janicek glanced at his associate. An unspoken message seemed to pass between them. “I’m afraid we’re not prepared to offer immunity at this time.”

Travis shrugged. “Then I guess we have nothing to discuss.”

He saw Holt grit his teeth and ball up his fists. Janicek reached inside his coat and withdrew a card. “This is my boss’s card, Mr. Byrne. If you change your mind, just dial that number and ask for Special Agent Henderson. See the password at the bottom of the card? That’ll get you through. Call anytime, night or day. We monitor the phone constantly.”

Travis took the card. “I don’t think I’ll be calling.”

“Keep the card anyway. You never know.” He opened the front door, then paused. “There are any number of reasons why a guy like you might need the FBI.”