Double Jeopardy

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?”

A slow smile spread across the man’s face. For some strange, inexplicable reason, the smile made Travis shudder.

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” he replied.

“Good,” Cavanaugh said. “Maybe you could call for some FBI backup.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible. All my men are out on assignment. And by the time I got men reassigned from other departments—”

Travis completed his sentence. “Moroconi would’ve flown the coop.”

The man tilted his head in assent.

“Well, at least you can join us.” Travis glanced at Curran. “Any problems?”

Curran didn’t say anything.

“Cavanaugh?”

“No. I like the idea of having a trained FBI agent along for the ride. As long as he doesn’t shoot Moroconi before we can talk to him.”

“I won’t,” the man replied. “I’d like to ask that gentleman a few questions myself.”

“Good,” Travis said. “Let’s not waste any more time. Moroconi has almost an hour’s lead on us as it is.”

He agreed, still smiling. “Your car or mine?”

Kramer walked back to their cars with them. Not a bad recovery from a near-fatal blunder. He had been so intent on eavesdropping that he hadn’t seen that idiot commando until he was flying over the hedge.

He had to think hard and fast if he was going to make this masquerade fly. At least he had managed to come up with the Henderson bluff, using the name and password he found in Travis’s car. It was a calculated risk. He wasn’t absolutely positive Byrne had never met Henderson, although it seemed unlikely. Henderson was a desk jockey—someone more likely to send flunkeys out to put the fear into a two-bit criminal attorney.

Apparently, Mario had blown it. Crumbled like a cracker. Gave away Jack’s address. If Jack went down, he’d take the rest of the corporation with him. Byrne had to be stopped.

Of course, he’d been planning to take Byrne out anyway. Now he could be more than a paid assassin. He could be a hero. It wouldn’t matter what Mario said about him, or what Mario tried to do to him. Mario would be the traitor, the weasel, the one who talked. Kramer would be the knight in shining armor, the mastermind who saved the family after Mario’s blunder.

As they approached the Jeep Kramer noticed that the kid—Curran, they called him—remained a few steps behind him. Come to think of it, he was watching Kramer very carefully. Apparently the punk had some doubts about this alleged FBI man who dropped in out of the blue. Smart punk.

It was a perfect setup. He would stick to these people like glue, and let them lead him to Moroconi. Once that was done, he would simply wait for the right moment and blow Byrne’s head off. On second thought, a bullet through the kneecap might be better—extremely painful and not immediately fatal. Then he would fire another bullet into an extremity every few minutes or so. Then set fire to his clothes. Slowly. It might take Byrne hours to die. Good. He wanted that shithead lawyer to suffer for what he had put him through. He wanted him to hurt.

He would just wait for the right moment, when this Curran punk was out of the way and not in a position to retaliate. Or he would kill Curran first. Whatever. He would probably have to kill them all, come to think of it, now that they had seen his face. Not that that particularly bothered him.

“We have to find Moroconi before midnight,” Travis said. “Otherwise—” He didn’t finish the sentence, but Kramer knew what he meant. He knew all about Staci’s midnight deadline—since he’d created it himself and leaked it to his pigeon at the paper.

Byrne was holding the gun Curran had knocked out of Kramer’s hand. He was obviously uncertain what to do with it.

“If it makes you more comfortable,” Kramer bluffed, “you keep the gun.”

“No,” Travis said. “You’re going to need it.” He returned the pistol.

Kramer had to exert extreme control, but he managed to suppress his strong desire to laugh.

Thanks for the murder weapon, Byrne. Yours.