Gregg Loomis - The Sinai Secret

She gave him an inquiring look, which he ignored.

Once they were upstairs, Grumps enthusiastically inspected the visitor, tail wagging furiously.

"You'll get dog hair on your dress," Lang cautioned as he poured from a Scotch bottle.

Alicia was squatting, bringing her eyes level with the dog's. "That's why dry cleaners are in business."

She stroked Grumps's long nose and began scratching his chin. "How did you come up with the name?"

Lang handed her a glass, the ice tinkling an invitation. "My nephew named him."

Though it was unintentional, there was something in his tone that said further questions on the subject were off-limits.

She stood and slid open the door to the narrow balcony. "Wow! What a view!"

Later Lang was never sure what happened or how, whether she stumbled and he grabbed her or he had his arms around her before she moved. It didn't matter. They held each other for a long time.

"I never could resist a man in a tuxedo," she finally whispered. "Maybe you'd better take me home before I do something foolish."

Lang stepped back, holding her at arm's length. "Alicia Warner, assistant United States Attorney, do something foolish? Inconceivable!"

"I was married once, remember." "That's foolish?"

"To him, yeah. Downright stupid, maybe even insane. You ever been married?"

"Once. She died."

"Oh, I'm sorry!" She looked like she meant it.

Lang never understood why people said that when he mentioned Dawn. Were they sorry they had asked or that she was dead? Or both?

Either way, the mood of a few minutes ago had evaporated like morning fog in sunlight.

She put her glass down and looked around the way a woman does when she couldn't recall where she'd left her purse. "Home, James."

Lang was unsure whether he was relieved or disappointed. Grumps was definitely the latter.

"He hopes you'll come back and spoil him further."

She reached a hand behind Grumps's head, gently rubbing his neck. "So do I."

If all Lang had to do was ask, she would.

Sudbahnhof Police Station

Wiedner Gurtel

Vienna

The Next Afternoon

Haupt Inspector Karl Rauch was in mid -Jause, that afternoon break the Viennese took to enjoy coffee and pastry. Today the inspector was alternately nibbling at Bischofsbrot as he sipped coffee from Eils, the coffeehouse patronized largely by government officials and lawyers. Where else but in Vienna would such places exist, separate from establishments frequented by such diverse groups as writers, actors, bridge players, musicians, students, artists, and athletes?

He had cleared a space on his desk for three pieces of paper: the artist's drawing, a copy of a bill for a room at the Imperial Hotel, and a reproduction of an American passport issued to one Langford Reilly from the hotel's guest registry. The quality of the latter was too poor to definitely match the passport photo and the sketch. He swiveled his desk chair to face a computer monitor and sighed, knowing his next cup would be the swill from the machine downstairs, and licked his fingers free of the last trace of sponge cake filled with nuts, raisins, fruit glace, and chocolate chips.

It took only a few minutes of searching the international crime database before Herr Langford Reilly's name appeared. Kidnapped in Belgium? Involved in a shooting in Amsterdam? All within a week or so of having dinner with a murder victim in Vienna? Herr Reilly seemed to tow violence behind him like the wake of a ship.

A few more taps of the keyboard brought up the American FBI's criminal data index. Rauch was less than surprised to see Reilly's name there, too. Over the last four or five years a number of people in the world had wanted Mr. Reilly dead.

Why?

Half an hour in cyberspace provided no answers. Langford Reilly was… What was the American word? A lawyer-a lawyer who defended people accused of high- dollar crime: embezzlement, fraud, bribery. That might incite someone to try to kill him. But half a dozen people? Reilly also headed the Janice and Jeff Holt Foundation, a charity specializing in medical care for children in third-world countries and, lately, doing research in alternatives to fossil fuel.

Laudable goals.

Hardly an inspiration to murder.

So, what was it about the American that brought death and chaos?

The Dutch and Belgian authorities had had no reason to detain him, but Rauch did: He was possibly the last person to see Dr. Shaffer alive. Unfortunately, Herr Reilly had concluded whatever business he had in Vienna and, according to the desk clerk at the Imperial, checked out in the late evening, even though he would be charged for the night. The doorman remembered the generous tip he received for summoning a cab to take Reilly to the airport.

An abrupt departure from an expensive hotel was hardly a crime, but certainly suspicious.

Rauch swung back around to gaze out of the window at nothing in particular. Was that suspicion sufficient to start the mass of bureaucratic paperwork for an extradition warrant? If Reilly proved innocent, Rauch would have to justify the cost of a round-trip ticket from America to tightfisted superiors. Alternatively, he had no other leads and was unlikely to uncover any.

Rauch knew the answer of government employees worldwide: Let his immediate superior make the decision.

Park Place

2660 Peachtree Road

Atlanta, Georgia

That Evening

A glass of single-malt Scotch in hand and clad in a sport shirt rather than a clerical collar, Father Francis Narumba stood on Lang's balcony, gazing south across the city. " Deorum cibus est, Lang. Best meal I've had since…"

He intentionally left the sentence unfinished. "Since Gurt left?" Lang was wiping his hands on a dish towel. Amantes sunt amentesP

"Lovers may be lunatics. I obviously wouldn't know. But anytime you want to talk about it…"

Lang shook his head as he joined his friend in viewing the panorama. "Don't spoil a good meal."

"It was that. How'd you improve your culinary skills so quickly?"

Lang reached behind him, producing a highly varnished wooden box. "Easy. Instead of cooking, I pick up a couple of prepared dinners at Whole Foods or eatZi's."

He was referring to two of the neighborhood's more upscale groceries/delicatessens, where shoppers listened to opera as they selected applewood-smoked bacon and Jarlsberg quiches at $12.50 a slice.

Lang opened the box, revealing a row of cigars. "Would you like to finish off dinner with a Cubano, a Montecristo number two?"

The priest made a selection and held it out while Lang clipped and lit it before his own.

"It's a good thing we do this only every month or so," Francis commented between puffs. "I wouldn't want to declare myself a smoker the next time I filled out an insurance application."

"You mean the Church doesn't provide health insurance?"

"Even the Church can't afford catastrophic health problems. It buys insurance for its employees like any other business."

"I guess relying on prayer and the laying on of hands is a little risky."

"Mus non uni fidit antro, or, in the vernacular, a wise person always has a backup plan."

The two men enjoyed the aroma of fine tobacco for a moment before Francis asked, "I suppose you got these illegally."

"A mere peccadillo against an unreasonable government."

"Facinus quos inquinat aequat."

"Okay, so I'm a criminal no matter how slight the offense. I suppose you don't want to further enjoy the fruits of unlawful activity."

Francis contemplated the tip of his cigar, a red period on the night's page. "I didn't say that. Besides, I can always confess my sinful complicity, a measure unavailable to the apostate."