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.”
57
8:50 A.M.
TRAVIS 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.
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.