Double Jeopardy (27 page)

“Yes?” he snapped, snatching the phone.

“Sir, it’s Madeline. From the office.”

Right. Madeline. Lucky she identified herself. Madeline—nice legs, big butt. He’d screwed her a few times after he hired her, then forgot about her. Why hadn’t she been fired yet? Just another administrative detail he was going to have to deal with himself. If you want something done right …

“Why are you calling me at home, Madeline?”

“I just wanted to ask you—”

“Forget it, Madeline. It’s over between us. And I told you never to use this number unless it’s an emergency.”

“No, you don’t understand.” There was a protracted pause on the other end of the line. Mario could imagine her dense wheels spinning in their grooves, throwing sparks into a vast void. “Something very … strange happened in the office today.”

“Strange?” Mario put his feet down on the floor. “What do you mean, strange?”

“My Rolodex went blank.”

Another imbecile. Even stupider than Donny. “Look, you know the procedure for ordering office supplies—”

“And then I found the real one outside my door.”

“Madeline, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Start at the beginning and tell me what happened!”

“First, this guy I’ve never seen before enters the office and starts coming on to me like a ton of bricks. I told him to take a hike. I’m not cheap, Mario, you know that. He wanted to get close to me in a bad way. In the office! Can you believe that?”

The only thing Mario couldn’t believe was that the man was unsuccessful. “Is this some stupid ploy to make me jealous, Madeline?”

“Of course not. The thing is, he acted like he was interested in me, but the whole time he kept looking at my desk. Then he started pumping me for your home address. And then, later on, I notice my Rolodex has been replaced by a brand-new blank one, and about ten minutes after that, when I’m on my way to the ladies’ room, I find my Rolodex in the hallway outside the door.”

Mario was finally getting the drift. “Does this Rolodex contain my address?”

After a pregnant pause, Madeline confessed. “It did. The card is missing.”

Mario’s hands tightened into little fists. “And what about our esteemed CEO? Is his address in there?”

“Oh no,” Madeline said hurriedly. “I don’t have his address written down anywhere.”

“Thank God for that.” Mario felt a sudden throbbing between his temples. “Are you sure you don’t know who this stranger was?”

“Sorry. I’ve never seen him before.”

“Have you been reading the newspapers lately? For instance, the articles about Travis Byrne and Alberto Moroconi?”

“Oh no, I don’t read the papers. Don’t watch the TV news either. It’s too depressing.”

Not as depressing as you, you worthless cunt. “Was the man medium-size, dark-haired, rat-faced?”

“Oh, no. That wasn’t him at all.”

So it wasn’t Moroconi. Unfortunately, Mario didn’t know what Byrne looked like well enough to describe him. “All right, Madeline. You did right by calling me. If anything else unusual happens, or if you see that man again, phone me immediately. Understand?”

“Sure. If you like, I could come by the house—”

“That won’t be necessary.” Mario hung up the phone before she had a chance to say another word.

He ground his cigar out on the desk blotter. The holiday was over.

He paced back and forth across his den. Who the hell could it have been? Byrne? The FBI? Even if it hadn’t been Moroconi in the office, he could have sent an accomplice. Come to think of it, if Moroconi asked enough of the old boys, he could probably find Mario’s house. …

This is intolerable, Mario thought. He would not be threatened, especially not in his own home. He hated to give Kramer an entry back into the organization, but … he needed someone he could count on. Someone ruthless. He could always ditch him again later.

Kramer wasn’t in, but Mario left a message with his point man and told him to send Kramer over immediately. As soon as he hung up the phone, he wondered if that was enough. Kramer had been slipping lately. Maybe he should call Tony and tell him to come out with a full security contingent.

Yeah. They could lay a trap and, when his visitor arrived, blow him to kingdom come. Mario would take this minor annoyance and turn it to his own advantage. That’s what his father would’ve done. Damn straight.

He felt his confidence reasserting itself, just as he heard a click that told him the door to the den had been opened.

Mario whirled around and saw Al Moroconi standing not five feet away, a grin smeared across his face, and a snub-nosed revolver clutched in both hands.

“Surprise,” he said.

T
RAVIS AND CAVANAUGH WERE
in the Big-D Pawn Shop, a barred-window emporium in one of the seediest parts of downtown Dallas.

Cavanaugh returned from a back office, her arms loaded with weapons of all shapes and sizes. “I’ve brought a vast assortment so you can have your pick of the lot.”

“Aren’t there registration requirements for handguns? Permits? Waiting periods?”

“Not here. Not for us, anyway. It pays to have friends in low places.”

Travis glanced at the wiry man in the sky-blue leisure suit standing behind the counter. “I’m surprised a prosecution type such as yourself knows about a place like this,” Travis remarked.

“I’m surprised you don’t,” she replied. “You’re the one who represents the scum of the earth on a regular basis. Where do you think your clients get their guns? Kmart?”

“I never ask questions. It’s better that way.”

“I met Floyd back when I was a skip tracer,” she explained. “ ’Bout the same time I met Crescatelli. I did him a favor, too—found a hood who’d stuck him with a lot of fake jewelry. Nothing crooks hate worse than crooks. He couldn’t afford to pay me, so I let it slide. He owed me.”

“You seem to have a lot of outstanding debts.”

“Yeah. Lucky for you, huh?” She spread the array of weaponry across a counter. “Take your pick, Byrne.”

Travis felt a hollow pounding in his heart. “Are you sure we should carry guns?”

“You want to bust in on this probable mobster unarmed? It’s an incredibly stupid, life-threatening idea
with
guns. Without them, it’s suicide.”

“I don’t … like guns.”

“You don’t—You used to be a cop, for Pete’s sake!”

“That was before—” Travis leaned against the glass counter. It was all surging back. Everything he had worked so hard to suppress.

Cavanaugh placed her hand on his shoulder. “Travis, it wasn’t your fault:”

“If I hadn’t had a gun … it wouldn’t have happened.”

“You’re not thinking straight. If there hadn’t been a crazy man who attacked you, it wouldn’t have happened. If there hadn’t been a crowd, it wouldn’t have happened. If you didn’t care about other people, it wouldn’t have happened. It was a tragic juxtaposition of circumstances. But it wasn’t your fault.”

The aching in Travis’s chest was almost more than he could bear. “I’m sorry, Cavanaugh. I don’t think I could fire a gun. Ever again.”

Cavanaugh sighed. “Okay. Could you at least
carry
a gun? That might keep someone from pulling one on you. For at least a second or two.”

Travis reached for the nearest pistol and felt a tidal rush of nausea sweep over him. In a flash, the entire scene played out before his eyes—the frantic struggle, the report of the gun, Angela’s face on the pavement, eyes dark. He shook his head and turned away.

“Okay,” Cavanaugh said. “How about this multistrike weapon? It looks more like a toy than a gun. And it shoots red paint pellets.”

Travis glanced at the weapon. It had two barrels, one mounted over the other, both oversized. She was right, it didn’t look real—more like a Nerf gun.

He pointed to the second barrel. “More paint pellets?”

“Well … no. That one spews bullets.”

“Paint pellets
and
bullets?”

“That’s why it’s a multistrike weapon. You have your choice.”

Slowly, Travis reached out and picked up the weapon. His stomach was still churning, but not nearly so badly as before. It seemed so harmless. Maybe he could pull it off.

“Okay. I’ll try,” he said quietly.

“Great.” She set aside a .44 Magnum and several rounds of ammunition. “I prefer something a bit stronger myself. Someone has to be ready for the bad guys.”

She peered out the storefront windows and saw the orange sun beginning its descent. “It’ll be dark in a few hours. Shall we wait till all the villains are snoring soundly in their beds?”

“No,” Travis said. “Not while Staci’s in danger. The longer we wait, the greater the chance that … something will happen to her. Let’s go now.”

He had been driving the streets for over twenty-four hours, trolling like a psychotic serial killer in search of his prey. He had covered every district in metro Dallas, and then covered them all over again. It was boring, mind-numbing. But necessary.

It was his own fault. If he hadn’t been such a stupid fool, if he hadn’t allowed that amateur Byrne and his girlfriend to get away from him at the library, it would all be over now. But he had hesitated. He had been careless. And during that momentary lapse, they had managed to get away. He would not let that happen again.

He drove all morning, his eyes bouncing back and forth between the road and the tracing beacon scanner, until finally he saw what he was looking for. A red blip on the scanner. The homing tracer was on the same highway moving in the opposite direction.

He whirled his Jeep around and crossed over the white stone median. The bottom of his Jeep scraped, making a hideous noise and sending sparks flying. Not good for the vehicle, but he had no time to waste.

He pulled into the fast lane and floored the accelerator. The blip returned to his scanner, clear as a bell. His prey was maybe two miles ahead of him, moving fast. Excellent. Wherever the blip went, so would he.

He lightly fingered his pistol, his ammunition, his Puukko knife. Noting that the sun was setting, he checked his infrared glasses. Still operational. He was ready. All he had to do was tag along and wait for the right moment.

This time Travis Byrne would not get away from him.

M
ARIO AWOKE IN A
flash of panic. His body was suspended horizontally, but he couldn’t tell where or how. He couldn’t feel anything beneath him or above him. It was as if he was floating in midair. But that was impossible. If he was still alive.

He opened his eyes, but couldn’t seem to get his bearings. Everything was black; he couldn’t see anything, or touch anything, or hear anything. He was totally disoriented. He tried to move, but found his hands and feet were locked tightly in place. He was helpless, pinned down like a bug in the middle of … nothing.

What had happened to him? He remembered thinking he should call Tony to guard his home. But before he could lift the phone, his worst nightmare walked into the den—Al Moroconi, back from the dead. Moroconi had clubbed him over the head with his pistol, and Mario had awakened here. But where the hell was here?

Mario felt beads of sweat dripping down his face. If this was supposed to frighten him, it was working. He was terrified. And he was sweating profusely. It was extremely hot, especially beneath him.

He swung his body back and forth, as much as the restraints on his hands and feet would allow. He heard a rushing sound. Something trickled inside his shirt and down his shorts. Water?
What the hell?

Suddenly the overhead lights burst on. Mario squinted, trying to shut out the offending light. His head began to throb. He heard a shuffling noise, then a soft, horrifying chuckle.

Mario slowly opened his eyes. He knew where he was. He should—it was his own basement rec room. He could see the pool table, the sauna, the high-tech exercise equipment. Of course—he was in the hot tub! Moroconi had tied him down in the goddamn hot tub!

“Get me out of here, you sick motherfucker!” Mario bellowed.

He saw Moroconi’s leering face emerge over the edge of the Jacuzzi. “You ain’t in a position to give orders.”

“After my boys get here—and that won’t be long—you won’t be in a position to walk, you slimy bastard.” That was it, Mario told himself, keep it rolling. His bluff had worked on Kramer; maybe he could cow Moroconi, too. “Get me the hell out of here!”

“Hot tubs are supposed to be relaxing, Mario. You don’t seem relaxed at all. Here, lemme add some, more water.”

Moroconi disappeared momentarily from view. Mario heard the squeak of the faucet as Moroconi turned up the water flow. Twisting his head around as much as possible, Mario saw that he was stretched clean across the hot tub, floating atop the water, tied down to the jet hooks on the bottom. His head was already much higher than his hands. Soon the water would rise and stretch his arms to their full length.

The horrible truth struck him like a blow to the head. That was Moroconi’s plan, of course. Once Mario couldn’t rise any higher, the water would rush over his head—and he would drown. In his own hot tub.

“I called my boys just before you arrived, Moroconi. They should be here in five minutes. Ten at the outside. If you’re still here, you’ll be dog meat.”

“Izzat so?” Moroconi’s grin was sickening; yellow teeth were visible between his lips. “Lemme tell you somethin’, Mario. You’ve been out cold for over an hour. Your boys are runnin’ late. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were lyin’ to me.”

Mario put on his nastiest sneer. “You’re a dead man, Moroconi. Might as well go buy your coffin. When my boys are done, you’ll be less than a smear on the carpet. We should’ve taken you out four years ago—”

“Yeah, you probably should have,” Moroconi agreed. “You should have done
something
for me. But you didn’t. You fucked me over and hung me out to dry. And now you’re gonna pay for it.”

Moroconi pursed his lips and spat, missing Mario’s face by less than an inch. “How’s the temperature in there?”

Mario swallowed. “It’s … fine. Why?”

“Well, you still seem tense.” Moroconi bent down and checked the thermostat on the side of the hot tub. “Only a hundred degrees? And they call this a hot tub?” He placed his fingers on the dial. “Here—let’s crank it up to a hundred twenty, maybe one thirty. Oh, what the hell. Let’s just go all the way.” He turned the dial into the red zone.