He had parked his own car a good distance away so it wouldn’t be seen. If he ran to it, he had no chance of catching Byrne. Instead he leaped back into Byrne’s car and started groping around under the steering wheel. Most of the technical aspects of criminal life eluded Donny, but the one thing he was able to do was hotwire a car. He’d been doing it since he was twelve. Most of his teenage income had derived from this lucrative pursuit.
He found the critical wires under the steering column, jerked the red wire free, and touched it to the green. The engine turned over like a dream.
Donny smiled. He hadn’t lost the old touch. He’d catch Byrne and the bitch before they passed through the entrance gate.
Still smiling, Donny thrust the automatic transmission into reverse, heard an odd clicking noise, and watched as the world turned into a haze of molten white. He never heard the explosion, and was spared the realization that he would never become a lieutenant.
41
9:55 A.M.
THE SHOCK WAVES THREW Travis against the dash of Cavanaugh’s car. Cavanaugh slammed on the brakes.
“What the hell was that?”
Travis clutched the passenger seat, trying to regain his bearings. “I dunno,” he said dully. He turned around and saw a cloud of smoke billowing from the parking lot, the same section in which he had parked. “But I’m suddenly very glad we’re in your car and not mine.”
Travis pulled his jacket close around him. He was feeling a distinct chill. How many more close shaves could he possibly hope to escape? He’d like to think he was surviving on his wits, bringing to bear years of police training, experience, and acquired wisdom. But he had a nagging suspicion that he had just been lucky. And this kind of luck wouldn’t hold out forever.
“We need to go someplace safe,” he said quietly.
“Such as? As far as I can tell, no place is safe as long as I’m with you. You need to figure out who the hell is trying to kill you.”
“Thanks, Einstein.”
“The way I see it, your link is Moroconi. He’s the one known factor. We know what he is, we know what he looks like.”
“True. But we don’t know where he is.”
“And that, my friend, is why you need a skip tracer.”
“What are you saying?”
“You’ve gotten me messed up in this but good. It’s only a matter of time before they figure out I’m with you and start looking for me. And my car. If they could find you at my place, somewhere you’ve never been before in your entire life, in less than twelve hours—well, it won’t take them long to find me.”
Travis looked at himself reproachfully in the mirror. He hated to admit it, but she was right. He had involved her. He’d put her life in danger just as surely as his own.
“We need some answers, Byrne. And quick. And for that, we need Moroconi. Do you know his phone number?”
“Sure,” Travis said. “Just dial M for Murderer.”
“I take it that’s a no. Fortunately, I have an inkling how we might find him.”
Travis felt a swelling in his chest. For the first time since the dawn of this nightmare, he had some small hope that he might survive it. “How do we start?”
“By checking the phone records on that call Moroconi made to you night before last.”
“How? By strolling casually into Southwestern Bell?”
“Just let me take care of that, Byrne.” She pressed down on the accelerator and merged onto the LBJ Freeway. She pulled into the fast lane, hit her best cruising speed, and opened the console between the seats.
“What are you looking for?”
“The phone,” she muttered. She yanked out an old floppy fishing hat, complete with lures hooked around the brim.
“You like to fish?” Travis asked.
“I live to fish,” Cavanaugh replied.
“Really?”
“Is that so incredible?”
“Well … you always seemed more the white-wine-and-croissant type to me.”
Cavanaugh rolled her eyes. “I may surprise you.”
“You already have.”
She withdrew a small handheld tape recorder. “I use this to take notes sometimes,” she explained.
“I’ve seen you talking into it in court. I always assumed you were calling me names.”
“You may have been right.” She slipped the tape recorder inside her purse, then reached back into the console and withdrew a small portable phone. She clipped it onto her dash and plugged it into the lighter. Then she pressed a series of fifteen numbers.
“Who are you calling?” Travis inquired.
“An old friend. He owes me a big favor. And he works for the phone company.” After a momentary clicking, Travis heard the line ringing.
“Hello? Crescatelli here.”
“John? It’s your old pal Cavanaugh.”
“Cavanaugh? Hey, it’s been a while. I heard you went legit.”
“Yeah, yeah. Listen, John, I don’t have time to play ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ I need help. I’m in trouble, see. Very dangerous players are looking for me, including perhaps certain law enforcement agencies, and you’d be in big trouble if anyone found out you were talking to me.”
There was a brief pause, a few clicks, then: “What’s that? I’m sorry, there must be some static on the line. Who is this again?”
Cavanaugh smiled. “Bless you.”
It sounded like Crescatelli was blowing into the receiver. “Damn these car phones. The reception is horrible. Who’s calling, please?”
“John, I need access to a central switchboard computer terminal with the records for the last forty-eight hours for all lines in the greater Dallas/Fort Worth area Like, for example, the one you’re probably sitting in front of. And I need to make calls without being traced.”
Crescatelli pounded the phone against something solid. “I can’t believe this crappy reception. It’s these new fiber-optic cables, you know. They don’t work worth beans. Look, whoever this is, I expect to be at my terminal until six o’clock tonight, but between twelve-thirty and one-thirty everyone else in the office goes to lunch, so I’ll be here all by my lonesome. If you can’t get a better connection, you might consider coming by in person.”
Cavanaugh nodded. “Maybe I will. Talk to you later, John.” She pushed the red button, disconnecting the line.
“Travis,” she asked, “how would you like to pay a visit to the inner bowels of Ma Bell?”
42
12:40 P.M.
TRAVIS STOOD IN THE midst of row after row of electronic switching equipment and tried to act more comfortable than he really was. He didn’t think anyone would recognize him; he was certain he’d never been here before. Somehow, though, that didn’t make him feel a bit safer. He’d never been to Cavanaugh’s apartment before, either, but that didn’t prevent them from finding him.
He was hiding behind dark sunglasses and beneath the brim of Cavanaugh’s fairly ridiculous fishing hat. Sure, it shaded his face, but he wondered if it didn’t attract more attention than it deflected. And it clashed with his necktie.
John Crescatelli was a jumbo-sized man whose fingers skidded across his computer keyboard at a speed faster than the eye could follow. The terminal was connected by shiny metal cables to a series of metal boxes, each equipped with flashing lights, buttons, and LED displays. To Travis, the place looked like a set from Star Trek, but Cavanaugh assured him it was all standard-issue telecommunications equipment.
“As I mentioned on the phone,” Cavanaugh said, “I need to be able to make phone calls that cannot be traced.”
Crescatelli nodded, apparently nonplussed. “May I ask why?’
“No. And let me remind you that I am not here, I never was here, you’ve never talked to me, you don’t know who I am, and you wouldn’t help me if you did.”