Gregg Loomis - The Sinai Secret

"Sorry, Detective, I…"

Another man entered the room. Even though he had never seen the newcomer, Lang knew who he was. Slender build in a medium-priced suit, shiny wingtips. Large, over six feet, mid-thirties. Dark hair cut slightly shorter than currently fashionable, and freshly shaved, as though he had put down his razor just before coming here. Or, more likely, had an electric shaver in his government-issued Ford or Chevy.

Lang had seen him hundreds of times in slightly differing sizes and shapes. This man, or one just like him, routinely testified against Lang's clients. The names changed but that special uniformity did not.

The cop at the door followed the new man in and pointed to Morse. The man stepped purposefully across the room. Lang thought he heard a "Shit!" from the detective.

The man held up a wallet with a badge attached to it. "Special Agent Charles Witherspoon, FBI."

He did not extend a hand to shake.

Neither did Morse. "A Fibbie. Now, ain't that a surprise, the bureau workin' such late hours? I woulda sworn he'd be from the funeral home they gonna take the vie to."

Either Special Agent Witherspoon was inured to the barbs of local cops or he wasn't clever enough to recognize them. "You are Det. Franklin Morse?"

Lang could see a wisecrack flash across the detective's mind, but Morse said, "Yep. What can I do for you, Agent Witherspoon, seein' as how this is purely a local matter?"

"I'm here to offer the bureau's complete and total assistance."

That, Lang knew, translated into a statement of intent to take the case over if any possible federal grounds for doing so could be found or, for that matter, created.

Witherspoon turned to Lang. "And you are?"

"He'd be head of the foundation that funds… funded Dr. Lewis's research," Morse said before Lang could reply. "The doctor was engaged in some sort of non-fossil fuel research. You know, like ethanol to run cars."

The federal man was clearly annoyed that Morse had taken over the interview, and Morse was just as clearly enjoying it. Lang would not have been totally surprised to see each man start urinating around the room to mark each square foot as his exclusive territory.

Disappointingly, no bodily functions ensued.

Instead Morse asked, "And just what can I thank for havin' the bureau's offer of assistance?"

Without so much as a flicker of a smile, Witherspoon replied, "National security."

"Based on what?" the detective asked.

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"Okay, then, how did you find out about a killin' so quick?"

"Again, I'm not at liberty to say."

Morse leaned back, stroking his chin as if in thought. "Lemme see here, now. You want to know whatever we find out, you're willin' to cooperate, but you ain't answerin' none o' my questions. That about it?"

Lang fully expected the same response about lack of liberty to say.

Instead Witherspoon gave a chilly smile. "Detective, you and I will get along a lot better if you simply tell me what the bureau can do."

Morse appeared to give the matter serious thought. "For starters, you can reduce the number o' folks standin' 'round the crime scene by one. Gimme your card an' I'll call soon's I figger what else you can do."

This time Witherspoon understood. "Mind if I look around?"

"Long's you don't touch anythin' an' don' git in the way o' my folks."

The G-man turned to Lang. "What do you know about Dr. Lewis?"

Lang shrugged, about to repeat what he had told Morse.

Th' man was an internationally renowned scientist," the detective volunteered.

"Your foundation funds hospitals and medical services in poor countries," Witherspoon said to Lang. "What made you deviate into supporting fuel research?"

Lang paused before answering, again surprised at how readily information was accessible day or night. "A friend in London suggested it, actually. He was a personal acquaintance of Dr. Lewis's. The people in charge of new grants checked him and his work out and decided that finding an alternative to fossil fuels was a worthy cause."

Witherspoon shot a quick glance to someone who was taking pictures of the wreckage. "Exactly what sort of alternative fuel was he working on?"

The question was almost a statement, without the inflection of real curiosity, as if Witherspoon either didn't care or already knew the answer.

"I'm not sure. He'd been here less than six months, so a detailed progress report wasn't due yet. If you're really interested, I can-"

The man who had been at the computer interrupted. "Detective, the hard drive's been taken, along with a dozen or so pages from his research log."

Morse's head bobbed slowly. "I'd say that eliminates the possibility of the perp bein' some junkie randomly lookin' for somethin' to steal to feed his habit."

"Don't be too sure, Detective." The man held up a plastic bag. Lang had to lean forward to see a trace of white powder.

Morse took the bag and held it up to the light. "Ain't coke. It's grainy, like crumbs from some sorta crystal." He rolled his eyes. "Don' tell me, Mr. Reilly, that your foundation's been runnin' the world's most sophisticated meth lab."

Lang shook his head. "Lewis wouldn't have needed all this equipment just to cook up methamphetamine."

"How would you know that?" Witherspoon asked.

"Mr. Reilly here does criminal defense when he ain't givin' money away to worthy causes," Morse said. I spect he done come across the process."

Actually, Lang had consistently refused to represent anyone associated with hard drugs, no matter how remotely or how high the fee. He did, however, watch the local news broadcasts that regularly showed arrests at meth labs, usually kitchens in private homes utilizing quite ordinary cookware and ingredients available at a neighborhood pharmacy.

Morse pocketed the envelope. "Whatever it is, we'll know soon's the state crime lab gits through with it."

"Our lab can test it sooner," Witherspoon proposed.

Morse slowly shook his head. "I 'preciate the offer, really do, Agent Witherspoon."

"But?"

"But a year or two ago I axed you guys fo' help in a shootin' connected to an interstate cocaine operation. Nex' thing I know, my perp is in your Witness Protection Program, off somewhere 'tween here 'n' Alaska. I done had more o' your help than I can stand."

Witherspoon's jaw muscles tightened. "That mean you're not gonna share that powder?"

"Agent Witherspoon, you're an unusually perceptive young man."

The federal agent looked around the room again, as though this time he might find an ally. "We'll see about that."

He turned and left.

Lang and Morse watched him go before Lang said, "The federal crime lab really is superior to anything the state has."

Morse nodded. "I know, but ever' time I hear somethin' 'bout 'national security; I feel like I need to duck. Somebody's throwin' a. load of bullshit."

Lang was well aware of the rivalry between the FBI and local law enforcement. The federal boys tended to do what made them look good at the expense of both the case and the locals.

He said, "As I was about to say before your man told us about the computer hard drive, someone at the foundation was monitoring Dr. Lewis's work. I'll find out exactly who, and he might be able to help you."

"I really 'predate that, Mr, Reilly. 'Fore you go, though, could you tell if anythin's missin' 'sides the computer hard drive and notebook pages, anythin'you can notice?"

Lang shook his head. "Other than the really big equipment, the stuff that costs us a lot, I really wouldn't know. What I can do, though, is provide you with an inventory of the foundation's purchases for this project and let you compare it against what's here."

As he was getting into the Porsche, Lang was thinking how very strange it was to be cooperating with Morse. Three times before, the detective had appeared on Lang's doorstep, twice in response to a violent death and once to take him to jail. If you weren't a suspect, the cop really wasn't such a bad guy.