Authors: William Bernhardt
“That figures,” Kramer said with disgust.
“I thought that if Byrne took us for police, he’d surrender quietly.”
“Brilliant.” Kramer pulled out his lighter. “Unfortunately, Moroconi, who had busted out of jail a few hours before, had a slightly different reaction.”
“I couldn’t predict that!” Donny screamed. “He always blames me, Uncle Mario. It’s not my fault.”
“Of course it’s your fault, you little shit!” Kramer shouted back. “Your stupidity got one of my men killed!”
“Uncle Mario, make him stop!”
Mario covered his face with his hands. “Please, gentlemen. Must we always have this squabbling? No wonder we can’t accomplish anything. We’re our own worst enemy.”
“Our worst enemy is our blood relations,” Kramer muttered.
“Have there been any traces of Byrne since the West End incident?”
“Yes,” Kramer answered. “My agents have confirmed that he didn’t go to his apartment or his office, or the courthouse, or any of his other usual haunts. He’s on the run, probably feeling like a cat in a Doberman cage. He finally turned up at a shopping mall.”
Mario looked incredulous. “A shopping mall?”
“Yes. Northpark Mall. One of my contacts reported the incident.”
It was Donny’s turn to snicker. “Yeah, an hour after Byrne left.”
Kramer fired up his lighter and held it about an inch from Donny’s nose. The message was unmistakable.
“Look,” Kramer said, “I planted all the right info with my boys at the police station, and they fed it to those unquestioning vultures at the press. Byrne is a wanted man. He’s got nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, and he can’t run forever. Just gimme some more time. I’ll give you his fat ass on a silver platter.”
“Any thoughts on what this wanted man was doing at a public mall?” Mario asked.
“My source tells me he was running, like he was being chased. He thought there mighta been some gunplay.”
“The police?”
“So soon? Fat chance.”
“Then we must assume that the people who lost the list are now attempting to reclaim it.”
“I’d say that’s a fair conclusion.”
Mario spread his hands across his desk. “Mr. Kramer, I want that list. Bring it to me.”
“A tall order,” Kramer said.
“But one I feel confident you can fill.”
“It won’t be enough to just find Byrne, men. We have to find him before anyone else does.”
Mario nodded. “I concur. Do it.”
“And when I find him? What then?”
“You may do whatever you like with
him,
Mr. Kramer. Indulge yourself. Just bring me the list.”
“And what if he’s with Al when I find him?”
Mario smiled. “All the better. Shoot to kill.”
T
RAVIS SLIPPED INTO THE
phone booth and closed the glass door behind him. As he dialed he scanned in all directions, watching for suspiciously slow cars or anyone taking an unhealthy interest in his license plate number.
Gail picked up the phone. “Holyfield and Associates.”
“Put me through to Dan.”
“Omigosh! Travis! Is this you?”
“Shhh!” Travis hissed into the receiver. “Don’t say my name. Someone could be listening. Just act as if this is nothing out of the ordinary and put me through to Dan.”
“But, Travis, everyone is so worried—”
“Gail—”
“I don’t care what anyone says. I know you didn’t have anything to do with those murders.”
“Gail, transfer my call to Dan.”
“I just wanted you to know—”
“Gail,
do
it!”
“Right, right …” Travis heard a series of electronic beeps as his call was transferred.
“Hello?”
Travis recognized the voice at once. “Dan, are you alone?”
“Travis! Where are you?”
“Dan, please don’t say my name. We don’t know who might be listening.”
“What are you talking about? I’m alone.”
“Dan, just let me talk. I can’t stay on the line for long. They might trace the call.”
“They? Who on earth—”
“Dan, I’m not going to be able to finish the trial. Send Abigail or someone else over to make an appearance—”
“The trial has been suspended, Travis.”
He swore silently. “Because I didn’t appear in court.”
“Plus the fact that your client broke out of jail last night.”
Of course. How stupid of him. Normally, the voluntary disappearance of the defendant wouldn’t halt a trial (if it did, they’d all disappear), but when both the defendant and his attorney vanished, it could definitely gum up the works.
“Was Hagedorn angry?”
“What do you think? He held you in contempt and issued a bench warrant for your arrest. Which is convenient, because I understand the police are looking for you anyway. Charles didn’t have much choice under the circumstances. You haven’t been disbarred, Travis, but of course, the day isn’t over yet.”
“I had to stay away, Dan. Someone’s looking for me. Someone who wants to kill me.”
“What could be safer than a courthouse?”
“Dan, I got the hell beaten out of me in the courthouse a few days ago.”
“Come into the office, then. I’ll see that you get every possible protection.”
“Sorry, Dan. I’ve already driven by the office. Someone’s parked across the street from the front door, and there’s a thug pacing up and down the steps. I’m certain they’re watching for me.”
“I’ll personally escort you upstairs.”
“I’m not putting you in danger.”
“Travis. The police think you were involved in a shooting at the West End.”
“It isn’t true, Dan. I mean, I was involved, but only as a target. You’ve got to believe me. People are trying to
kill
me.”
“Travis …” Dan inhaled slowly, choosing his words with care. “I know you’ve been under a lot of stress lately. We’ve all been trying to get you to slow down. You’ve been working much too hard.”
“I haven’t gone bonkers, Dan.”
“No, of course not. You’re just a little … stressed. Paranoia sets in. …”
“You wouldn’t think I was paranoid if you’d lived my last twenty-four hours. People
are
trying to kill me, Dan. And it appears to involve both the police and the FBI, so don’t suggest that I turn myself in to either one.”
“Where did you get the idea that—”
“I don’t have time to go into it Just relay a message to Judge Hagedorn. Tell him I apologize, that I regret the inconvenience to the court, and that I would’ve appeared if it had been at all possible.”
“I will, Travis, but I don’t see what good it’s going to do.”
“Thanks. Bye.” He disconnected the line.
There was one more call Travis wanted to make. He looked the number up in the directory dangling beneath the pay phone. Sure enough, it was not the number on Henderson’s business card. He dialed.
“Good afternoon. Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Yes.” Travis tried to muffle his voice with his hand. “Could I speak to Special Agent William Henderson?”
“Extension, please.”
“Uh … I’m sorry, I don’t know it. Can you look it up?”
He heard an annoyed
hmmph
on the other end of the line. After a few moments the voice returned. “I show two Hendersons—a George and a Phoebe. No William.”
“Perhaps he’s located in an office outside Dallas.”
“Sir, I’m looking at the directory for the entire FBI. All offices.”
“Perhaps I have his title wrong.”
“I show no William Henderson with any title.”
“Are you certain?”
A long exasperated sigh. “Yes, sir, I’m certain. Will there be anything else?”
“How about an agent named Janicek?”
She checked. “I’m sorry. No Janicek.”
Travis felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. “What about Holt? Check for Holt.”
“I show a Clara Holt in Seattle.”
“No, this was a man.”
“Strike three,” the woman said. “Does this mean you’re out?”
“Yeah,” Travis murmured. “As a matter of fact, it does.” He hung up the phone.
Travis stood in the booth, utterly clueless about his next move. If they weren’t FBI, who the hell were those people? How could he fight them when he didn’t even know who they were?
He jumped back into his car and floored it. He had no idea what to do. The only thing he knew with clarity was what he couldn’t do. He couldn’t go to the police, or the alleged FBI agents, or his friends—at least not without taking a serious risk of getting killed, and maybe getting others killed as well. What was left?
S
PECIAL AGENT HENDERSON SAT
at one end of a long conference table with Janicek, Holt, and three other agents.
“Status report,” Henderson said gruffly. “Why haven’t we located Byrne yet?”
“I think I can answer that, sir,” Holt said. “We haven’t located him because he’s smart, and because he knows he’s being hunted. Also, Dallas is a very large city, and we’re not entirely certain he’s still in Dallas.”
“Surely our combined forces can bring in one renegade lawyer.”
“Easy to say, sir. Tough to accomplish. We know he hasn’t gone to any of his usual places. If he’s smart, stays out of sight, and doesn’t drive his car much, it could be days before we track him down. Even weeks.”
“That’s unacceptable.”
“That’s reality. We’re focusing on the car. Logic suggests he’s going to stay close to it, at least until he has a chance to swap it for something else. We’ve got men combing every parking lot, every used-car lot, every public garage, and every other place a car might be left in the greater Dallas/Fort Worth area. But that takes time.”
“We haven’t got time. For all we know, he could be selling the names on that list one by one.”
“May I say something?” Janicek leaned across the table. “I think it’s essential that we instruct our agents to be careful and to take a defensive, shoot-on-sight posture.”
Henderson raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“The reality is,” Janicek continued, “he’s already suckered us once. I don’t want to lose any more men.”
Holt shook his head. “It’s hard to believe the man we saw stumbling around his office a few nights ago is in league with the mob. It’s contrary to everything I know about organized crime.”
“It’s possible Byrne’s now working on their behalf at this time,” Janicek suggested. “He may have used his connections to gain access to the list but is now acting for his own profit.”
“Then it would follow logically that Byrne engineered Moroconi’s escape. That’s equally difficult for me to believe.”
“Look,” Janicek said angrily, “Simpson will confirm that we barely got away from him alive. Byrne is a murderer.”
“I’ve already spoken to Simpson,” Henderson said evenly. “He did confirm your report. Where is he tonight?”
“I’ve got him … monitoring calls in the Austin office,” Janicek said quickly. “They, uh, had an absence on the switchboard.”
“I see.”
“Sir, I’m requesting Code Eleven alert status and top defensive posture. We can’t afford another screwup. We have to bring that list home.” Janicek paused decisively. “Byrne is expendable.”
Henderson nodded. “From what I hear, we’ll be saving the government a long protracted trial on a variety of complicated legal issues if we take Byrne out. But what if he doesn’t have the list on his person?”
Janicek shifted his weight uneasily. “That strikes me as unlikely.”
“Probably right,” Henderson murmured, eyeing Janicek carefully. “Very well, then. I’ll advance this to Code Eleven. Defensive posture, kill authorization. I’d rather it didn’t come to that, but …”
“We must recover the list,” Janicek repeated. “Lives are at stake. People are counting on us to protect them.”
Henderson nodded his head grimly. “You’re right, of course. Gentlemen, bring back our list. And if you have to kill Byrne in the process—do it.”
After the meeting ended, Janicek walked down the rear stairs, crossed through the basement, unlocked a door and entered a private room equipped with state-of-the art eavesdropping equipment.
Janicek patted Simpson on the shoulder. “You did a good job covering me with Henderson.” Simpson squirmed but did not twist away. “Hear anything of interest?”
“Not really. Byrne called his boss, but he didn’t say anything we didn’t already know.” Simpson tapped his right earphone, then pushed a few buttons on his computer console. “And the line disconnected before I could get a lock.”
“Damn! What happened?”
“Byrne hung up. And at the last possible moment, I might add. This guy knows what he’s doing. What is he, a fed? Spook?”
“Neither,” Janicek said. “Ex-cop.”
“I can get you a general region.”
“Don’t bother. He’s already left it. How’s the tape?’
“Crystal clear. For whatever it’s worth.” Janicek exited the room, carefully closing and locking the door behind him. Soon their entire team would be gunning for Byrne, but he couldn’t count on them to take care of his problem. He had to find Byrne and Moroconi before Henderson did. Otherwise there could be some very damaging revelations about Janicek’s role in Moroconi’s escape. And the leaking of the list. And Mooney’s murder.
No doubt about it—he had to be the first one to talk to Byrne. And the last.
T
RAVIS CREPT UP THE
wooden stairs to apartment 13X, concealing a roll of industrial-strength duct tape under his windbreaker. Thank goodness these apartments were separate units, well off Forest Lane, amply spaced. They could make a lot of noise and still not be heard by any of her neighbors.
He pressed his ear against the door. He heard a steady drone inside. Television, probably, or maybe a radio. As gently as possible, he tried the doorknob. To his astonishment, it turned. Where did she think she lived, Smallville, U.S.A.? Imagine having an apartment in Piano, just a few miles from Dallas Metro, and not locking your front door. She was asking for trouble.
Yeah, he repeated to himself, she was asking for trouble—as if that might somehow assuage his guilt about what he was about to do.
As quietly as possible, Travis pushed the door open and poked his head through. He was right the first time; it was the television. John Tesh and Leeza Gibbons were rhapsodizing about the latest celebrity bio. “Unrestrained and relentlessly honest,” they said. “One of the great books of our time.”