“Back out without turning around,” Travis muttered. “So he can’t get your license-plate number.”
Cavanaugh followed instructions. The desk clerk followed them all the way out of the parking lot, never quite catching up.
Once there was sufficient distance between them, Cavanaugh turned the car around and accelerated out of sight. She never noticed the Jeep waiting for them on the side of the highway, much less the blinking red light inside her briefcase.
46
4:30 P.M.
TRAVIS HUNG HIS HEAD low as a patrol car whizzed by them on Belt Line Road.
“Ten to one that cop is headed to the Million Dollar Motel to investigate a reported break-in,” Cavanaugh said.
“That shouldn’t attract too much interest.”
“Not until the clerk describes the suspects who sped from the scene of the crime. Then every available officer on the force will descend on the place.”
“And the press can add breaking and entering to their list of my alleged crimes,” Travis mused. “Oh well. At least I really committed this one.”
Cavanaugh checked traffic on all sides for more police cars. “Incidentally, Byrne, where am I driving?”
“You’re asking me?”
“Yes. I’m tired of running this third-rate Bonnie and Clyde outfit. I got us to Moroconi—his room, anyway. Now you tell me what we do next.”
“Well, we need to figure out what the Elcon Corporation is, and what its connection is to one Alberto Moroconi. Unless I’m missing something, it’s the only clue we have.”
“Sound reasoning.” She barreled into the fast lane and switched over to I-365. “But that doesn’t tell me where to drive.”
“Don’t feel bad. It doesn’t tell me anything either.”
She punched Travis in the shoulder. “Snap out of it, Byrne. Show some of that resourcefulness you’ve been using to undeservedly win all those trials.”
“This is different.”
“I don’t see why. Pretend you’re a client with a problem. Where does the superstar lawyer go to unearth information about the mystery corporation?”
“I’d probably check the records in the secretary of state’s office.”
“In Austin? Nothing personal, Byrne, but I don’t think we’d make it alive. Got anything closer to home?”
“You don’t have to go to Austin. The secretary of state’s records can be accessed by computer.”
“Excellent. How do you do that?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea.”
“Well, what would you normally do when you need corporate records?”
“I’d ask my secretary to get them.”
“The pampered life of the private practitioner. You do half as much work and make twice as much money.” She fumbled with the console between the seats and withdrew Crescatelli’s blue box. “Looks like we get to try this gizmo out early, Byrne. You’re going to call your secretary.”
“I’d rather not get Gail involved.”
“The call can’t be traced.”
“Nonetheless, I don’t want to run the risk.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“Let’s use one of the legal on-line services. Lexis, or maybe Information America.”
“This is all gibberish to me, Byrne. We lowly prosecutors have to use the books in the library.”
“My condolences. Dan has all the state-of-the-art research toys.”
“So you want to go to your office?”
“Are you kidding? We’d be killed, as would probably everyone else there.”
Cavanaugh exited from the highway, turned left, and pulled into the parking lot of a 7-Eleven. “Well, I refuse to continue driving around aimlessly. Until you give me a destination, I’m not budging.”
Travis eyed the suspicious and sleazy characters waiting to use the pay phone. A beefy man with multiple tattoos was arguing with a man in a motorcycle gang jacket. “I’m not sure this is an ideal hangout. …”
Cavanaugh’s arms were folded firmly across her chest. “Then suggest something better.”
Travis watched the argument escalate. Switchblades would be flying any minute. “What about SMU? At the law library. They have all the on-line computer services, and they usually get free access. It should be relatively quiet if we go tonight.”
Cavanaugh considered. “I don’t think we should go anyplace quite that public. Too many chances of being seen by the wrong persons.”
“I agree it’s risky, but as you said, we have to do something. SMU sounds like the best option.”
“All right. SMU it is.” She started to turn the ignition.
Travis laid his hand on hers. “Wait a minute.” He opened the car door.
“Good God, you’re not going to try to break up that fight, are you?”
“No.” He left the car, carefully avoiding the fracas, and approached a row of coin-operated newspaper stands. Something had caught his eye—something disturbingly familiar. He plugged thirty-five cents in and removed the afternoon paper.
After scanning it quickly, he returned to the car. “Take a look at this.” He tossed the paper to her.
Cavanaugh examined the photograph plastered on the bottom half of page one. “Travis …” she said eventually, “that’s you.”
“No kidding. Nice profile, huh?”
“And you’re with that girl. The one we found in Moroconi’s room.”
Travis snatched the paper back. The two of them were standing just inside his apartment; her scantily clad arms and legs were wrapped all around him. The article discussed new evidence discovered about “lawyer on the lam” Travis Byrne, his associations with organized crime, his repeated use of courtroom trickery to return career criminals to the streets and, of course, his known fraternization with prostitutes.
“How did that get into the paper so quickly?” Cavanaugh asked.
“This was taken two nights ago,” Travis explained. “Plenty of time.”
“But—why?”
“Someone’s trying to smear me,” Travis said bitterly. “Not content to put my life in danger, now they’re going after my reputation as well.”
“Any idea who might be behind it?”
“The article indicates that the press is getting its info from the police. Probably the same informant that fed them the last batch of false information about me.”
Travis turned to the continuation of the story on page two, read for a while, then gasped. “Oh my God.”
“What? What is it?”
Travis passed the paper back to Cavanaugh. “The remains of my car, that’s what it is. The explanation for the explosion and the cloud of smoke we saw as we left your apartment.”
The picture showed the wreckage of a green compact car that looked as if it had been ripped apart from the inside out. The roof was blown off and flung to one side. The frame was punctured by hundreds of tiny nail holes. Shattered glass lay in a ring all around the wreck. The car was destroyed, its remains blackened by fire.
And the caption identified the wreckage as an automobile registered to Travis Byrne.
“Thank God you weren’t in it,” Cavanaugh said quietly.
“Yeah.” Travis pointed to the relevant paragraph of the article. “I wasn’t. But someone else was.”
47
7:00 P.M.
TRAVIS AND CAVANAUGH SAT before a computer terminal in the back of SMU’s Underwood Law Library. He had chosen this terminal deliberately—it was tucked away behind the stacks and shielded by a private carrel. Just the thing for a lawyer on the lam with a yen for research.
On-line legal services often made their databases available to colleges for free; they hoped lawyers in training would learn how to use them, become dependent upon them, and pay big bucks for them when they were out in the real world. Travis and Cavanaugh were able to get a terminal without any problem.