Authors: William Bernhardt
“Duty? Workin’ with you? What’d you do, send him into a cross fire for a can of beer?”
“As a matter of fact, he was killed by your former attorney Mr. Travis Byrne.”
“Byrne!” Moroconi sputtered into the phone. “You must be kiddin’. That wimp wouldn’t pull the wings off a butterfly. You set him up.”
“I don’t see any reason to discuss my business with you, Moroconi. Why did you call?”
“I got the word you were lookin’ for me.”
“You heard right I need the list back.”
“So why are you tellin’ me?”
“Because I think you’ve still got it. You might fool the mob, but I know damn well you’d never give that list to Byrne. I want it back.”
“No way.”
“This is serious, Moroconi. I have to have it. Have you made any copies?”
“Not yet.”
“Then don’t. Bring me the original.”
“You little turd. Have you forgotten we had a deal? You sure as hell took my money fast enough.”
“I’ll return it. It’s too risky now. I think Henderson is suspicious.”
“Well, isn’t that too bad for you?”
Janicek clenched the phone tightly. “It’ll be too bad for you, too, you bastard, if I decide to tell everything I know.”
There was an extended silence, interrupted only by Moroconi’s raspy breathing into the receiver.
“Goddamn list isn’t complete as it is.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it isn’t right!” Moroconi shouted. “I wanted Jack. Before I did anyone else, I was going to do Jack. But he isn’t there. The address on the list is wrong.”
“That can’t be. The list is checked and updated constantly.”
“Well, it’s goddamn true, you chickenshit.”
“If the list is incorrect, then you shouldn’t mind giving it back.”
“Wrong. That list is my insurance policy.”
“What do you need it for now? Just stay out of sight. They’ll never find you.”
“They already have, asshole. I got mail while I was holed up at the motel. Hand-delivered.”
“From … them?”
“You got it. Elcon, that’s what they call themselves. Pissants. Trying to scare me off, like I was some second-grader.”
“Don’t be a fool, Moroconi. You can’t beat them. The smartest thing you can do is keep a low profile and get the hell out of town.”
Moroconi seemed to consider. “Maybe you’re right. But I got some business to take care of first.”
“Revenge is for losers, Moroconi.”
“Not the way I do it.”
“You’re playing with fire. If you know what I mean.”
He laughed. “But I won’t be the one who gets burned.”
“Why don’t we meet somewhere and try to come up with a concerted plan of action? Two heads are better than one.”
Moroconi released a slow whistle. “You son of a bitch. You’re tryin’ to set me up, aren’t you? You’re gonna kill me!”
“Moroconi, you’re becoming paranoid—”
“Like hell. You’re tryin’ to lure me somewhere so you can off me just like you did that dick Mooney. Just to save your own sweet ass.”
“That’s ridiculous—”
“Don’t lie to me, you cheap motherfucker!”
“
I’m desperate
!” Janicek shouted, then checked himself. He looked outside his office door. No one appeared to have heard, thank God. “Henderson suspects. Do you know what will happen to me if he figures it out?”
“You should’ve thought of that before you got greedy. You knew the risks you were takin’.”
“I didn’t know you were going to shoot two guards! I didn’t know you were going to kill some hood at the West End!”
“Your escape plan was fucked. I had no choice.”
“My plan was flawless. The only thing that was fucked was
you
.”
There was another long pause. Janicek could hear Moroconi muttering under his breath, but he was fortunately unable to hear what he was saying.
“I won’t be callin’ anymore,” Moroconi said, finally. “Don’t come lookin’ for me.” He paused, then added: “If I see you, I’ll kill you.”
K
RAMER RUBBED HIS HANDS
together with expectation. The recent turn of events had been extremely promising. A successful capture last night, and now a positive ID on that damned yellow Omni. Who could ask for anything more?
Mario, probably, but that was beside the point. Mario would get everything he wanted—the end of Travis Byrne, the end of Alberto Moroconi, and his own personal copy of the list. And then, once the job was completed, Kramer had some settling up to do with Mario. This time he wouldn’t be satisfied with an invitation to the family picnic. No one treated him the way Mario had. No one.
In fairness, he supposed he had to give Mario his due. His carefully choreographed displays of temper had produced the desired result. Kramer had stepped up his efforts—doubled them, to be exact. And Donny had been inspired right into oblivion. Kramer had sent every available thug in Dallas after that yellow Dodge Omni. This had increased his expenses a thousandfold; he probably would be hard-pressed to make a profit off this deal now. Bottom line, though: he wanted Byrne—and Byrne’s new bitch lawyer assistant. And now he had them.
He was on a high grassy ridge overlooking the Black Angus Inn with the five best sharpshooters he knew. Five rifles were trained on the yellow Omni in the parking lot.
And just in time. Even from this distance, Kramer could see two heads, one above the driver’s seat, one above the passenger’s. Soon they would back out and try to become invisible on the LBJ Expressway. Kramer didn’t intend to give them the chance.
Kramer brought his hand down and his men opened fire. An uninterrupted cascade of bullets rained down on the Omni. The windows shattered; glass flew everywhere. The car lurched and shuddered as its small frame was riddled with lead. The heads above the seats fell over.
One of his men tapped Kramer on the shoulder. “The gas tank?”
Kramer resisted the temptation. That would be beautiful. But premature. “Not yet. Let me confirm the kills and take a few photos for Uncle Mario. Then you can blow the thing sky high.”
Kramer scanned both sides of the ridge. So far the shooting didn’t appear to have attracted any attention. He climbed down and crossed the parking lot. Smoke was still rising from the shattered hull of the Omni. Its tires had gone flat; it drooped over the asphalt like vehicular roadkill. Pleased, Kramer strolled up to the car and peered into the front seat.
Pillows. They were pillows. Well-dressed pillows, but pillows, nonetheless. Pillows wrapped in shirts and coats, propped up so that a head-shaped circlet of fluff appeared just above the seat cushions.
They were way ahead of him. They had ditched the car and left nothing but the pillows behind. They had fooled him.
Kramer pounded his fist on the hood of the car.
Goddamn them!
They had played him for a fool.
Kramer glanced up the ridge. Already his men were headed this way. Soon they would know he had been tricked, and then, within hours, everyone else would know. Travis Byrne had already tarnished his reputation. Now he had caused irreparable damage.
Kramer strode resolutely out of the parking lot. His men called to him, but he ignored them. He didn’t need them, he didn’t need Mario—he didn’t need anyone. This wasn’t an assignment anymore. This was personal.
This was a score to settle, a score between Vincent Kramer and Travis Byrne. No more fake couriers, no more firebombs, no more plugged pillows. Next time it would be just him and Byrne.
Byrne was going to die. Slowly. And Kramer was going to enjoy doing it, too.
So what if Byrne and that bitch had gotten away again? It didn’t matter. After all, he still had the girl.
T
RAVIS FUMBLED WITH THE
shift stick in their newly acquired Hyundai. He rarely drove a standard and barely remembered how.
Cavanaugh was staring out the passenger-side window. Something was on her mind. He’d have given a million dollars to know what she was thinking, what she thought about him. About them. But so far, no clues.
They had scarcely spoken all morning. And neither had made any reference to the night before.
“I think this was a good idea,” Travis said tentatively. “Stealing a car, I mean.”
Cavanaugh continued staring out the window. “Does that mean you won’t be turning me in?”
“Definitely. How long do you think this car will be safe?”
“Hard to say. I assume the owner will report it stolen as soon as he notices. Certainly we shouldn’t drive it longer than twenty-four hours.”
“And then?”
“Assuming you still haven’t straightened out this mess, or that we haven’t been killed? I suppose we’ll steal another one.”
“Isn’t that risky?”
“Oh, in a remote sort of way. You know, there are teenagers who steal eight or ten cars every weekend and never get caught. Of course, they know what they’re doing.”
Something about Cavanaugh’s manner bothered him. She was definitely acting different this morning. Perhaps that was only natural—things had changed. Still, he had hoped she wouldn’t be too awkward or … regretful.
“Cavanaugh,” he said quietly.
“Yes?”
“There’s … something I want to tell you. Especially after last night.” He took a deep breath. “I have a confession to make.”
Her head slowly turned. “You’re married.”
“What? Oh, no—”
“You’re living with someone.”
“No, I—”
“Oh God! You have some kind of disease.”
“No, no!” Travis wiped his brow. “It’s nothing like that. It’s just that … well, it’s about why I broke into your apartment. I know I said I chose you because I trusted you. And that was true. But I also knew that you used to be a skip tracer, and it seemed to me that since I needed to locate someone who had disappeared …”
There was a painful silence in the car. “You used me.”
“It wasn’t like that. …”
“You’ve been soft-soaping me the whole time,” she said. “You came to me so I would find Moroconi for you!”
“Please, Cavanaugh—I know it sounds awful, but it really wasn’t like that—”
“You used me to trace Moroconi’s call, and you used me again last night in bed!”
Travis was horrified. “Cavanaugh—
no
!”
Cavanaugh suddenly burst out laughing. She pressed her hand against her mouth, trying to quiet herself, but the laughter continued. Several moments later she gained sufficient control to speak. “Travis,” she said, gasping for air, “I figured that out about ten minutes after you showed up.”
“You did?”
“Of course I did. What do you take me for?”
“Then you’re not angry?”
“I was just toying with you. You are kind of a stuffed shirt sometimes.”
A wave of relief passed over him. “I was afraid you hated me.”
“Well, I wasn’t too keen on being taped to a chair. But the circumstances were rather extreme, so I’ve decided to forgive you.”
“And … last night?”
“That, Travis, was entirely mutual. And extremely pleasurable.”
Travis wrapped his hand around hers and squeezed.
“Let’s pull over and buy the morning paper,” he suggested.
“Why? You’ll only become more depressed.”
“What else can possibly be said about me? That I wear panty hose under my business suits? That I sleep with chickens?”
“They’ll think of something.”
“Someone is working double time to slander me, and I want to stay on top of the latest developments.”
He pulled into a nearby convenience store, then jumped out of the car and bought a paper.
When he returned to the car, less than a minute later, his face was ghostly white.
“See?” Cavanaugh said. “I told you not to read that crap. What did they—” She stopped in midsentence. She could see that there was something else involved, something more than character assassination.
She took the paper from his limp hands. At the top of page one, she saw the expected story on the Moroconi-Byrne manhunt. Scanning quickly, she learned that the police had received an anonymous note from someone who claimed to have been at the West End the night of the shoot-out. The note contained a message—for Travis Byrne. Although it was believed to be a threat of some sort, police were uncertain of its precise meaning.
The message on the front side of the note was only four words long:
We have the girl.
On the flip side, in small, scribbled letters, someone had written:
Moroconi’s motel room by midnight. Or she dies.
And in the same box with the note, the police found a charm bracelet bearing tiny gold figurines of various Disney characters. Inquiries were proceeding.
Cavanaugh laid down the newspaper. “It’s Staci, isn’t it?”
“Newspapers frequently receive threats like that,” Travis said evenly, “but they almost never print them.”
“Maybe they thought it would persuade you to turn yourself in.”
Travis shook his head. “Someone with the police or the paper is involved in this. Or is controlled by someone who is.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t have any choice.”
“Travis, you can’t turn yourself in to these fiends. They’ll kill you!”
“If I don’t, they’ll kill Staci.”
“Maybe not. Maybe they’re just bluffing.”
“Given all the people who have been killed so far, I think that’s unlikely.”
She grabbed him by the shoulders. “Travis, I won’t let you do this. It’s suicide.”
He turned away. “What else can I do?”
Cavanaugh reread the note as reported in the paper. “You’ve got until midnight. That gives us about sixteen hours.”
“To do what?”
“To locate Moroconi. To find out who’s behind this. And stop it!”
“That’s an impossible deadline.”
“We have to try!”
“I suppose.” Travis’s face was tight and grim. “But if we haven’t found them by—no. If we haven’t found
Staci
by midnight, I will turn myself in to them.”
“They’ll kill you, Travis.”
Travis nodded. “I know.”
T
RAVIS PARKED THE HYUNDAI
in the parking garage for Reunion Tower, the high-rise home of the Elcon Corporation. He backed into the space so the car’s license-plate number wouldn’t be easily visible. If they were going to find him again, by God, they were going to have to work for it.