Double Jeopardy (26 page)

He and Cavanaugh entered the office building together, Travis still disguised with sunglasses and fishing hat. They checked the office directory and rode the elevator to the twenty-fourth floor.

The Elcon offices were small and low-key; they didn’t look as if many visitors were expected. As Travis peered through the glass in the front door, he saw a small reception area with a slender brunette secretary presiding. She wasn’t swamped with work; in fact, she was concentrating on a crossword puzzle. Oh, well, Travis mused. It’s Saturday. In the back, he saw a large door that led to an inner office. Travis had to assume that was the lair of Mario Catuara.

“Think she’ll let us see him?” Cavanaugh asked.

“Hard to say. He may not be in.”

“Maybe we should concoct some kind of plan.”

“You complicate things too much, Cavanaugh. The direct approach is usually best. Let me take a stab at her.”

“So you can turn on your animal magnetism?”

“I just think I might have more success with her than you.” Before Cavanaugh could reply, Travis pushed the door open and strolled inside.

The secretary was humming something: Travis thought it was “
Qué Sera Sera
,” but it was hard to be certain when she had the eraser end of a pencil in her mouth. He approached, smiled, and sat down on the edge of her desk. She was in her late thirties at least and, he noted, she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

“Hi there,” Travis said cheerily. “My name’s Sam Jones. I’d like to see Mr. Catuara. I’m an old family friend.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I’m afraid not. But he’ll want to see me.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“In a way.”

“That’s odd,” she said, “since he isn’t even here.”

“Well … do you expect him in later?”

“No.” She batted a pencil against her desk.

“Well … do you know where he is?”

“Of course I do,” she replied.

“Well … would you like to tell me where he is?”

She seemed to be considering at great length. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. Since you’re an old family friend. He’s at his home.”

“Oh. And where is that?”

“You’re an old family friend, and you don’t know where he lives?” Her voice carried more than a hint of suspicion. “I’m not authorized to release that information.”

“Maybe you could give me his phone number.” With which Crescatelli could obtain his address, Travis thought.

“No.”

“Aw, what could it hurt?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “And I don’t plan to find out.”

“Mr. Catuara will be mighty disappointed if he finds out I was in town and he didn’t get to see me.”

“I’ll take that risk.”

“Look, it’s vital that I talk with him today. As soon as possible. Can I at least make an appointment?”

“I’m not authorized to make appointments for Mr. Catuara. He does that for himself. I can take a number, though, and ask him to call you.”

“No, that won’t work.” Travis searched his brain for a different approach. He leaned across her desk, hovering precariously over the out box, and stroked her chin. “Are you sure you can’t help me out here?”

“I’m afraid not,” she replied frostily.

“I bet you have his home address right there in your Rolodex,” Travis continued. “You could just sort of … look away for a moment. I’d be very appreciative.” He ran his fingers across her cheek and down her neck.

The secretary removed his hand from her face. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Mr. Jones. Or whatever your name is.”

“There must be some way you can help me.”

“I can help you out the door. That’s it.”

“But surely—”

She picked up her phone. “I’m calling Security. They take a dim view of office mashers.”

“But I didn’t—”

“Five more seconds, then I cry rape.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” Travis slid off the desk. “I’m gone.”

Cavanaugh was waiting for him in the hallway outside. “Good work, Casanova.”

“You were watching?”

“From a respectful distance. You should’ve let me go. Your act isn’t exactly subtle.”

“How was I supposed to know she would be—”

“What? Offended by your heavy-handed pseudosexual advances? You were supposed to get into her Rolodex, not her pants.”

“Pseudosexual? What’s that supposed to mean? I can’t tell if you’re mad or just jealous.”

“
Jealous
? Why, you insufferable—” She swung her fist around and socked him on the shoulder.

He rubbed his arm vigorously. “All right, since I’m such a loser, let’s hear your brilliant plan for getting Catuara’s address.”

“Well, the easiest methods are all gone now because she’s going to be suspicious of anyone who comes near that Rolodex. We need a diversion.”

“And so you’re going to … what? Do a striptease in the lobby?”

“Just stay out of the way and watch, pig.”

She marched back toward the elevators and directed Travis’s attention to the fire alarm.

“You’re not going to set that off, are you?”

“Why not?” Cavanaugh responded. “It’ll ring for maybe ten minutes until Security discovers there’s no fire. But the secretary will have to leave her office.”

Travis shrugged. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea, even if it was hers.

Cavanaugh pulled the handle. There was a delay; it was probably a silent alarm that triggered something on the security people’s control panel. After about ten seconds, a very audible alarm sounded. The shrill wail filled the twenty-fourth floor. Travis and Cavanaugh ran back to the Elcon offices and positioned themselves around the corner where they could keep an eye on the office door.

Workers strolled out the few other offices that were open on Saturday morning, mumbling variations of “Is this another drill?” and “I don’t have time for this.” The floor emptied, except for the Elcon office.

Finally the front door opened. Travis watched as the secretary stepped out of the office … and locked the door behind her. She continued down the hallway to the stairwell.

“She locked the door,” Travis said.

“Thanks for the color commentary,” Cavanaugh replied. “I noticed.”

“Well, Ms. Former Skip Tracer, do you know how to pick locks?”

“With lock picks. But I don’t have any.”

“Know anyplace we could get some?”

“Yeah. But not before she gets back from the fire drill.”

Travis shoved his hands into his pockets. Looked like this was strike two.

“T
HIS IS A MONUMENTALLY
ridiculous idea,” Cavanaugh observed.

“Cut me some slack. We tried your idea. It bombed.”

“This from the guy who tried to seduce the secretary on top of her desk.”

“Would you forget about that? As far as I’m concerned, we’ve each got one out. But this ploy will drive the ball over the fence.”

“I like the macho sports analogies, but I’m reserving judgment on your conclusion.” She put on his windbreaker and tucked away the Rolodex and the pencils they bought in the office-supply store downstairs. “Maybe I should take your sunglasses. Tell her I’m from the Council for the Blind.”

“And you said I was insensitive.” He took her by the shoulders and steered her toward the door. “Don’t overact, Cavanaugh. The simpler the performance, the better. Go.”

Cavanaugh marched into the Elcon office before the secretary had a chance to instruct her otherwise. “Good morning. My name is Marilyn Smith and I’m raising funds for the Mars Initiative.”

The secretary peered up from her crossword. “You’re—what? From Mars?”

“Yes, Mars. We believe the American space program has been moribund for too long. We want to see some action—not just talk, but actual missions. American citizens exploring the final frontier, reaching for the infinity of the stars. Will you assist us?”

“I don’t exactly know what I …”

“Patriotism begins at home.”

“But I really wouldn’t know what to do.”

“It’s very simple.” Cavanaugh reached into her jacket and withdrew the pencils. “Just a few dollars from you can help guarantee the immortality of the species. All you have to do is buy these special commemorative space pencils.”

The secretary took one from the box. “They look like ordinary number-two pencils to me.”

“You don’t want us to spend all our funds producing cheap souvenirs, do you? Of course you don’t. Now, if you’ll simply donate enough to buy all of these”—she fanned the pencils across the desk—“you’ll become an associate member of the Society for the Mars Init—oops!”

She feigned stumbling and spilled the pencil box. The entire assortment dropped onto the floor behind the secretary’s desk. The secretary jumped back as if they were ballistic missiles.

“Oh, my goodness. I’m such a klutz,” Cavanaugh said. She started to walk around the desk. “Here, allow me to help.”

“Just stay where you are,” the secretary said, motioning her back. “I’ll get them.”

The secretary bent over and began collecting the pencils. As soon as her head was below the desktop, Cavanaugh silently removed the dummy Rolodex—identical to the secretary’s except that all the cards were blank—and switched them. She tucked the real Rolodex inside her jacket.

A second later, the secretary rose with the pencils. “Here. Now please leave.”

Cavanaugh sniffed. “Well, fine. I guess some people just don’t care about the immortality of the species.” She grabbed the pencils and slid out the door, grumbling about coffee-break patriots.

After the office door closed, Cavanaugh shoved the real Rolodex into Travis’s hands. “Get the address.”

Travis removed the card for Mario Catuara, then set the Rolodex on the floor just outside the office. Together, they scrambled for the elevators.

“How long till she notices her Rolodex is blank?” Cavanaugh asked.

“Until her first phone call. Let’s hope that when she finds the real one outside the door, she’ll stop worrying about it.”

“And what are we going to do?”

Travis smiled thinly as the elevator doors closed. “We’re going to pay Mr. Catuara a visit.”

A
GENT SIMPSON SLID THE
memo onto Janicek’s desk while he talked on the phone. As soon as Janicek read the first sentence, he put down the receiver, cutting off the speaker in midsentence.

Success.

He knew they could do it. They were the goddamn FBI, after all. Sort of. If they wanted somebody found, they were found.

The information in the files about Jack’s current location was not up-to-date. That was because no one cared. If he didn’t want FBI protection anymore, that was fine with them. They’d save a ton of money; he could look after himself. On the other hand, if the FBI wanted to find him, they could, Janicek had reasoned. And this memo proved he was right.

Jack had changed his name again, but he made the stupid mistake of using one of the credit cards the FBI had supplied to him. The charge was made at a casino; the idiot was probably desperate, probably a second away from getting his head bashed in. Anyway, that was the lead they needed. From there, tracking him down was a simple exercise in detective work. He hadn’t gone far. Janicek could be there in about an hour.

And that was exactly what he planned to do, as soon as he got out of this office. Jack was his most reliable lead to Moroconi. Moroconi had said that he was planning to
do
Jack first. Which was okay with him. But when Moroconi finished with Jack, Janicek would be waiting for him.

Mario removed a huge imported cigar from his desktop humidor, bit off the end, and lit it. He propped his feet up on the elegant desk in the den of his home on the outskirts of Fort Worth and let the pungent smoke course through his lungs. With each puff, he felt his tension evaporating.

Mario had been through tough times, both before and after he became president of the corporation, but these past few days had been a real son of a bitch. He’d been so tense his chest felt like granite. He imagined he could feel his arteries hardening. That bastard Byrne, and that worse bastard Kramer, had put him through the wringer. Finally, for the first time in a week, he had a chance to be alone, to relax, and to contemplate the future.

He smiled when he thought about his recent displays of rage. What performances; he should be up for an Oscar. He had actually bullied Kramer, the meanest, sickest sadist on God’s green earth. The whole time Mario had felt as if his knees might give out, as if his thin facade of authority might crack and reveal the terror-stricken coward within. But it never did. He had brought it off without a hitch, and managed to inspire not only Kramer but his worthless moron nephew as well.

A thin smile curled around the huge cigar. Yes, he’d inspired Donny—right into his grave. He must be a great actor if he made Kramer believe he had the remotest iota of grief about Donny’s demise. More like relief; an annoying fly had been swatted—by someone else. He supposed he would eventually have to call Monica and give her the news. He wondered if she might not be as relieved as he was.

Mario had Kramer by the short hairs. He didn’t know why people treated hit men like they were demigods. They were just sociopaths—serial killers who found a way to make a living doing what they enjoyed most. Kramer’s flawless record that he was so goddamn proud of was ruined. Mario hated Moroconi and Byrne and wanted them both rubbed out, but it was almost worth the delay just to see Kramer squirm. Just to have an excuse to get that sick sack of shit out of his organization for good.

Mario chuckled just thinking about the mighty Kramer shooting holes in a bunch of pillows. Thank God he’d had some of his own men on Kramer’s tail, or he would surely have never heard about it. Travis Byrne had shaken Kramer but good. Kramer was a desperate man, losing his grip by inches. Eventually he would make the big mistake, and the world would be a better place as a result.

Mario was enjoying himself for the first time in days when the green phone on his desk rang. He frowned. The ringing was jarring—an intrusion on the little moment of pleasure he had carved out for himself. He considered ignoring it, but realized that would only postpone the inevitable.