Double Jeopardy

71

9:20 P.M.

TRAVIS AND CAVANAUGH STOOD outside the closed door at the top of the stairs. Curran made a quick sweep of the other upstairs rooms and found nothing. Unless their targets had somehow escaped, they were behind that door.

Travis pointed toward the hallway corner, just below the ceiling. “Security camera.”

Curran ignored it. “After a rollicking brawl and three gunshots, I have a hunch they know we’re here.” He gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”

Travis blanched. “What? Just open the door and stroll in?”

“What did you want to do? Sneak in through a ventilation shaft? You watch too much TV.” Curran placed his hand on the doorknob. “Ready?”

Travis braced himself. He glanced at Cavanaugh, who was standing just to his side. She crossed her fingers and smiled. What a trooper. At least he had his police experience to fall back on. She was untrained but unafraid, steeling herself to plunge into almost certain danger. Hard not to feel strongly about someone like that.

The door swung open and they rushed inside. Travis had half expected to be greeted with gunfire. Instead he heard nothing.

The room was totally dark. Travis literally could not see his hand when he held it before his face.

He sensed movement beside him. Curran was pushing forward, exploring the darkness.

“Freeze,” he heard a familiar voice say.

“Moroconi,” Travis said. “Is that you?”

“Guilty as charged. For once. Nice to see you again, counselor.”

See? Travis couldn’t see a thing.

“That’s right. I can see all three of you. You’re outlined in the doorway, in the light from downstairs. But you can’t see me, can you? What a goddamn pity.” He laughed in his customary revolting manner. “I guess that gives me kind of an advantage.”

“What’s this all about, Moroconi? Why did you attack those people at the West End? Why did you set me up?”

“Because you’re a self-righteous turd, Byrne. My mistake was leaving you eating gravel after I shook you off the back of my truck. I should’ve turned around and run over you five or six times.”

Travis heard just the slightest shuffling noise on his immediate left. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what Curran was doing. He was sliding his infrared glasses off his belt. Evening the score.

Travis tried to keep Moroconi distracted. “What about the list? Why did you have to drag me into that?”

Moroconi chuckled contemptuously. “You still haven’t figured it out, have you, Byrne? What a fool.”

“I was trying to help you, Moroconi. I still am. I haven’t resigned from the case. Turn yourself in and we’ll finish the trial. I promise I’ll do the best job for you I can.”

“Goddamn mouthpiece. You’ll say anythin’, won’t you? What do you take me for?”

Travis took a tiny step forward. “I’m serious—”

“Don’t move another step,” Moroconi warned. “If you do, I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off.”

Travis didn’t doubt it. He had successfully managed to distract Moroconi, though. Even in the darkness, Travis could tell Curran was strapping the glasses over his eyes.

“Did you have anything to do with kidnapping Staci?”

“Staci? Who the hell is she? What am I bein’ framed for now?”

“I’m just trying to figure out what the hell is going on.”

“You and me both.” Moroconi brushed up against something in the dark. A chair? “And I had a damn hard time gettin’ my old chum Jack to talk to me.”

So Jack was in the room. Funny that he hadn’t said anything. Assuming he was still able to say anything.

Travis was sure Curran was getting ready to make his move. He fell silent and waited for a signal. He didn’t have to wait long.

Curran’s voice pierced the dark room. “Get down!”

Travis ducked, and he could hear Cavanaugh doing the same. A shot rang out from Moroconi’s gun, but he had no idea where it went. Nowhere near him, anyway. He jumped to his feet, ran back to the door, and flipped on the lights.

The room was flooded by bright overhead bulbs. Moroconi stood behind a desk, squinting, waving his gun. Curran was already on top of the desk, and a moment later he knocked the gun out of Moroconi’s hand. Curran brought his fist squarely into Moroconi’s neck. Moroconi went reeling back against the windowsill.

“Are you all right?” Travis asked Cavanaugh. She nodded. Wherever Moroconi’s wild bullet had gone, it hadn’t been into her, thank God.

Travis ran to see if Curran needed help. He didn’t. He had Moroconi pinned firmly facedown on the floor. Travis watched as Curran patted Moroconi down, then systematically pulled knives, condoms, and rolled-up wads of money out of his pockets. And a single sheet of paper.

Travis scanned the typewritten sheet. Names, aliases, addresses. This had to be the list. The real one.

Travis noticed red ink checkmarks beside four of the names on the list, the four geographically closest to Dallas.

“Blackmail,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “Not content to extract money from Jack, I’ll bet Moroconi was planning to bleed bucks out of every ex-mobster on this list.”

Speaking of Jack—where was he? The desk chair was facing the window. Travis swiveled it around … and found a man’s body slumped in the chair, blood trickling down his face, a gag tied in his mouth. His face seemed familiar, but it was so contorted and smeared with blood it was difficult to see it clearly.

“Jack?” Travis said under his breath.

“That’s him,” Moroconi answered, twisting his neck around. Curran rammed his face back into the carpet.

Cavanaugh pushed Travis aside. She was holding two wet washcloths and a bottle of antiseptic. He had no idea where they had come from—probably the bathroom down the hall.

“You shouldn’t have done this,” Cavanaugh said, glaring at Moroconi as she dressed the wounds.

“The bastard deserved it.”

“No one deserves to be tortured.”

“What do you know about it, bitch?”

Cavanaugh turned away from him in disgust. “This isn’t fatal,” she told Travis and Curran as she wiped off the coagulated blood. “In fact, the cuts are minor. Moroconi was probably just scaring the man in his own sick way. I think he’s in mild shock. It looks awful, but the blood is principally coming from just two superficial facial slashes.”

“I had to!” Moroconi protested. “Fuckin’ asswipe wouldn’t talk.”

Curran twisted Moroconi’s arms painfully behind his back and tied them.

Jack was beginning to come around. Cavanaugh laid a cool washrag on his face and let it soak. The color gradually returned to his face. About five minutes later Travis decided he had waited long enough. He lifted the washrag off the man’s face.

Yes. Now that the man had been cleaned up, there was no doubt in Travis’s mind. He had seen him before.

He was the man who had created the disturbance in front of the warehouse four years ago. The man who had acted like a crazed religious lunatic. The man who had stolen his gun.

The man who had killed Angela.