Double Jeopardy

72

9:41 P.M.

“IT’S YOU,” TRAVIS SAID breathlessly.

Jack turned away. “Shit. I was afraid you’d recognize me.”

“Recognize you? How could I forget you?” Travis wiped his hand across his brow. “They told me you were doing time.”

“They lied.”

“What’s going on?” Cavanaugh asked. “I don’t understand.”

“You and me both.” Travis swung Jack around to face him eye to eye. “What are you doing on the outside? What’s your connection to Moroconi?”

“Jesus T. Christ.” Jack shook his head in disgust. “You still don’t know?”

Travis grabbed him by his lapels. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Curran laid his hand on Travis’s shoulder. “Stay calm, Travis. Let’s just ask him some questions.”

“I won’t answer,” Jack said.

Curran clutched the man’s throat. “If you don’t, I’ll untie your buddy Al and give him back his knife. I don’t think he’s quite finished cutting you.”

Jack was visibly shaken. “Ask your stupid questions. What do I care?”

“What’s your real name?” Travis demanded.

“Who gives a flying fuck?”

Who did, actually? Travis realized he had only asked the question because that was standard police procedure. First line: Name. Next he would probably ask for the man’s Social Security number.

“What’s your connection to Moroconi and Mario Catuara and the rest of their gangland buddies?”

Jack sat in sullen silence. Curran grabbed him and shook him hard.

“Don’t you know what they do to squealers?” Jack shouted. “The penalty for violating the Omerta is death!”

Curran gritted his teeth. “Don’t you know what I’ll do to you if you don’t talk?” When that didn’t work, he slapped him several times with the back of his hand. The contemptuous expression melted into a what the hell.

“I was big in the Gattuso mob before the FBI shut it—” Jack smiled. “Before the FBI thought they shut it down. I mean, I was heavy-duty, locked in tight with the boys that mattered. The players. I got all the important jobs.” He glanced at Travis. “Like the one where I iced that bitch you were fuckin’.”

Travis’s fingernails dug into the palms of his hands. Stay in control. Stay in control. “I take it the mob wasn’t altogether eradicated?”

“Shit no.” He picked something black out from between his teeth. “See, we had us a contingency plan. Something to fall back on.”

“And what was the plan?”

“The FBI had the goods on most of the made men. But some of us had been smart. We kept a low profile.”

Lower than a rock, Travis suspected.

“We knew the feds were about to make their move. So we executed Escape Plan A. We merged.”

“Merged?”

“Yeah. We’d bought a small corporation a few years before. Limited business, single shareholder. Small-potatoes stuff. And totally legitimate. The guy who ran the thing had no idea he’d married the mob. At first.”

“He found out later?”

“He had to. Believe me, no one could write off the money that started pourin’ through that corporation to increased market penetration. But the original owner just took the money and kept quiet. We wanted to keep him happy, see. We needed a place to stash the dough, someplace it would be safely waiting when we needed it. It was our golden parachute, right? Our private retirement fund. By the time this schmuck knew enough to be really concerned, he was in too deep. Besides, he was making money, real motherfuckin’ money for the first time in his life. And he liked it.”

“So when the FBI clamped down on all the known mob members, you and the other faceless ones phased into the corporation.”

“Very smart.” A tiny light began to shine in Jack’s eyes. “It was a perfect setup. Instead of being criminals, we were suddenly legit businessmen. Everyone got titles—you know, president, vice-president—that kind of shit. It was a riot.”

“That would be the Elcon Corporation.”

“Right. The hell of it was, the stuff we did in the corporation wasn’t any different from the stuff we did in the mob. Hell, some of it was worse, if you ask me. We still stole money and used whores and shit. Now all our new made men have MBAs and law degrees. And we get away with it!”

“Maybe they got away with it,” Travis said, “but I notice Moroconi is still on the outside, and Mario said you turned state’s evidence. What happened?”

“Al got greedy. He wanted a bigger cut—and threatened to screw the merger if he didn’t get it. Basically, he was trying to steal money that wasn’t his. The mob doesn’t put up with that. Al already had a huge private slush fund he’d squirreled away over the years. And now he wanted more. We had to do something. I wanted to turn him in to the feds, but Mario was afraid he’d squeal on us. We had to destroy his credibility—fix it so no one would believe anything he said.”

“Why not just rub him out?” Travis asked.

“Believe me, it was considered. But we came up with something sweeter. We were concerned that the FBI was still snooping around for the kingpin. But they didn’t know who he was. So I turned state’s evidence.”

“Why?”

“So I could tell the feebees—after a big show of not telling them—that the godfather was Alberto Moroconi.”

Travis slapped his forehead. “No wonder the FBI wanted to talk to him.”

Jack grinned. “It was perfect. The heat was off Mario, and Moroconi had to go deep undercover just to keep his butt out of jail. Killed two birds with one stone. I let the feds relocate me, and about a year after that, I let Mario—excuse me, Elcon—re-relocate me, so I’d be free of the feds and could cut myself back into the corporation.”

“Which you did.”

“True. A few months ago I got a tip from one of the boys about where Moroconi was hiding out. I spread some money around the police station and arranged for him to be hauled in on the first available major felony. Which turned out to be your rape case.”

“Son of a bitch,” Moroconi muttered.

“The mob shafted one of its own?” Travis said. “Whatever happened to loyalty for life? Family ties?”

“Horseshit,” Jack said. “Maybe you think the mob is about blood oaths and ring kissing, all that Hollywood shit. Let me tell you—in the real mob, the bottom line is always, ‘Where’s the money?’ When Al wasn’t profitable anymore, they cut him loose.”

“So that’s why Moroconi was out to get you,” Travis said.

“Well … that and—”

“He stole my fuckin’ money!” Moroconi shouted from the back of the room. Curran had tied him to a closet door.

Jack didn’t deny it. “Before I went to the feds, I liberated Al’s slush fund. Just to tide me over.”

“I had six hundred thousand dollars,” Moroconi yelled. “And he stole it!”

“It wasn’t half enough,” Jack said. “Pissant.”

“If you were fixed for money,” Travis said, “I’m surprised you didn’t stay with the feds longer.”

“Those assholes were totally incompetent. They couldn’t protect their own dicks. This list crap is proof. Thank God they didn’t have my address—I would’ve been dead days ago. I can take care of myself a hell of a lot better than they could.”

Travis thought over everything Jack had told him. The jigsaw pieces were finally beginning to come together in his mind. And he didn’t like the looks of the completed picture. “So when Moroconi broke out of prison, he came looking for you. Because you squealed on him.”

Jack snorted. “Don’t make him sound so noble. All he wanted was the money.”

“And your butt,” Moroconi added.

“In your dreams,” Jack replied.

“Mario wrote to me a couple days ago,” Moroconi said. “On his corporate stationery, no less. Threatening me, telling me to keep the hell away. I showed him.”

Travis decided not to give him the bad news—that Mario was still alive.

“Anyway,” Jack continued, “my men grabbed Moroconi when he burst in here, and I had some fun with him. When you fools burst in, I sent the boys downstairs. I heard the gunshots—I guess that explains how you got past them. Of course, this piece of shit Moroconi used that opportunity to take out his knife and rough me up a bit. Till he heard you three coming upstairs. That’s when he hit the lights. He was scared shitless.”

Travis noticed that Curran was peering out the corner of the window. “Has he just about brought this fascinating story up-to-date?” Curran asked.

“I think so,” Travis replied. “Why?”

Curran removed his gun from its holster. “We’re about to have company.”