Double Jeopardy

26

9:40 A.M.

AFTER CHANGING CLOTHES IN his car, Travis followed a serpentine route downtown. He wanted to ensure that if someone stumbled across him, he couldn’t be traced back to Staci. After he had taken enough random turns to lose even himself, he pulled over to a pay phone. He opened his briefcase and withdrew the object he’d wanted out of his apartment most of all: the business card for Special Agent William Henderson.

Before entering the phone booth, he plugged thirty-five cents into a street-side newspaper stand. Both page-one stories in the Dallas Morning News attracted his immediate attention. The paper announced that Alberto Moroconi, criminal defendant on trial for the rape-beating of Mary Ann McKenzie, had escaped from the detention room of the federal courthouse last night. One guard had been wounded during the escape, another was killed. Police were unsure how he eluded the marshals, but said that he must’ve had help from someone on the inside.

Another story reported that the West End was hit by a spree of vandalism, destruction, and murder. Again, police were uncertain what exactly had occurred, but the paper cryptically indicated that they had reason to believe escapee Moroconi was involved. For undisclosed reasons, the police were withholding all information regarding the murdered man.

A boxed item at the bottom of the second page disclosed that the police were searching for Moroconi’s attorney, Travis Byrne, in connection with both incidents. A photo of Travis, probably clipped from the Dallas County Bar Directory, accompanied the notice. According to the article, an ongoing police investigation indicated that Travis was intimately involved in both crimes, and maybe several more besides.

Travis crumpled the paper in his fist. Someone had gotten to the police. And the press. How did they learn about the West End shoot-out in time to make the morning edition? Travis knew from a previous libel case he had handled that the morning edition was put to bed around three A.M.—only shortly after last night’s incident occurred. There was only one explanation: someone at the newspaper was in close contact with Moroconi—or the men behind the searchlight.

Travis plunked a quarter into the pay phone and dialed the number on Henderson’s card. It rang twice before it was answered.

“Hello. American Exports.”

Travis blinked. “I’m—I’m calling for Agent Henderson.”

“One moment.”

Travis heard several clicks on the other end of the line, then a computerized beep that indicated his call had been transferred. “Hello?”

“Agent Henderson?”

“Henderson is unavailable at the moment. Who’s calling, please?”

Blast! Where’s the Special Agent when you need him? “This is Travis Byrne. I want to talk to Henderson. This is important.”

“As I said, Henderson is unavailable, but I’m familiar with your situation. Please tell me what happened.”

Travis was perplexed. Where the hell was Henderson, and who was this chump on the other end of the line? Holt? Janicek? Travis couldn’t tell. The voice sounded weird; he was probably using one of those mechanical gizmos to distort his voice. Travis knew only one thing for certain—he needed help, and he needed it quick.

“Okay,” Travis said, “get out your pencil. This ordeal began sometime after midnight, when I got a phone call from a client who’s supposed to be behind bars. …” He told the story as briefly as possible—including the shoot-out at the West End and the stakeout of his apartment.

“Mr. Byrne,” the man on the other end of the phone said, “listen to me carefully. You said Moroconi shoved a piece of paper into your hands. Have you looked at that paper?”

“No, I haven’t had time to think about it. Should I?”

“Absolutely not. Under no circumstances should you look at that list. This is a matter of grave importance.”

List? How did he know it was a list?

“Mr. Byrne, we need to bring you in.”

“Bring me in? What does that mean?”

“It’s obvious that you’ve become involved with the Outfit.”

He recalled his conversation with Agent Janicek. “Gangsters?”

“Quaint, but accurate. They’ll be trying to obtain what you now have, and if they believe you’ve read what’s on that paper, they’ll try to kill you as well. You need to be placed in protective custody.”

“Excellent suggestion. Where do I meet you?”

A pause. “My computer indicates that you’re currently at a pay phone near the intersection of Abrams and Mockingbird.”

Travis felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He didn’t think he’d talked nearly long enough for a trace to be completed.

“Why don’t we pick you up in the alley behind the grocery store on Abrams?” the man continued. “So as not to attract attention.”

So as not to attract attention? Something about that phrase bothered him. “Nothing personal, but I’d rather meet somewhere in the open. I haven’t had much luck with clandestine meetings lately.”

“That would raise the possibility of detection by the persons who are looking for you, Mr. Byrne.”

“I’ll take that risk. How about the Northpark Mall? Just off Central Expressway. Say, in the package-pickup alley behind Sears.”

Travis heard the scratching of a pen on the other end of the line. “Got it. The recovery team will be there at eleven hundred hours. Stay out of sight until then.”

Travis checked his watch. More than enough time. “Okay. I’ll be there. Will Henderson be coming?”

“Unlikely. He probably will not have terminated his current engagement.”

“How will I know you?”

“Do you recall the password on Agent Henderson’s business card?” Travis said that he did. “Be prepared to use it.” The line disconnected.

Travis hung up the phone and shoved his hand into his pocket. He knew he shouldn’t look, but he couldn’t resist the temptation. The FBI agent had definitely pricked his curiosity. Besides, if he was going to remain alive, he needed to have as much information as possible.

List? Travis examined the paper top to bottom, back and front. He held it up to the sun and watched the light seep through.

List, huh? He felt his confidence in the friendly neighborhood FBI seeping away.

The paper was blank.