Gregg Loomis - The Sinai Secret

Harvey, the building concierge, not only enjoyed making a few extra bucks walking or feeding Grumps in Lang's absence; he actually liked the dog.

"Dunno 'xactly, Mr. Reilly. He was full of piss 'n' ginger, so we went for a long 'un. Here to Peachtree Battle, Rivers Road, back to West Wesley. Maybe half an hour, maybe more. I do anything wrong?"

"No," Lang said. "Nothing. Just curious."

The route would have taken a half hour at least, more if Grumps had insisted on exploring every smell he encountered.

Lang sat down on the bed, listening to the crunch of dog food from the kitchen. Someone had tossed the place, no doubt about it. The method had been different but the purpose was the same as whoever had killed Lewis.

Or was it?

The destruction and disarray of the laboratory had been intended to look like a random invasion. What was it Morse had said? A junkie looking to feed a habit. Yet the missing hard drive and notebook pages belied the scenario the killer had wanted believed.

Lang's condominium had been searched by a professional, someone after something very specific. Someone who didn't intend Lang to know.

Or someone leaving something behind.

Standing, he crossed his condo back and forth, removing every switch plate and the cover for every electrical outlet.

He found it in the telephone's receiver. It was a device about the size of the battery for a hearing aid. Not only every word spoken on the phone would be transmitted, but every sound in the apartment as well. He suppressed his rage at the invasion of his personal space and his gut reaction to remove it. Instead he left it in place.

It might be useful.

Before he left, Lang took two hairs from his head. Licking his finger, he stuck the first one to the top of the knob on the door that let out onto the common hallway. The second he put on the underside. Both would fall off at the slightest touch. Any professional would expect the possibility that he had left a telltale and would replace it.

Not many would anticipate a second.

Peachtree Center

227 Peachtree Street

Atlanta, Georgia

Thirty Minutes Later

As usual, Sara was already at her desk outside his office when Lang walked in. He frowned as he took the stack of pink call slips.

"The mayor said it was, important," she called after him.

It always was.

To the mayor.

Unable to find work with any Atlanta firm amid the very public federal investigation at the end of his term, the mayor had joined a personal-injury group in South Florida where mere suspicion would go unnoticed among the indigenous sleaze.

But the mayor had not moved far enough away to prevent micromanagement of his defense with daily multiple phone calls and at least one trip to Lang's office per month.

The note said the mayor wanted to discuss the tax- evasion counts, possibly the toughest to beat. If you spent it, you presumably had it. Explaining the source of large sums of cash was likely to be embarrassing if not incriminating. The mayor's credit cards reflected less than a thousand dollars a year charged in spite of a publicly flamboyant lifestyle. The gambling trips, the gifts, the dinners had been paid for in cash. Cash was both untraceable and suspect. The excuse of weekly poker games in some crony's basement wasn't going to satisfy the U.S. Attorney. Those proceeds hadn't been reported, either.

The mayor blamed the failure to declare the money on his personal inability to keep adequate books. The government blamed it on his personal inability to keep his hands out of any funds being paid to contractors by the city.

The mayor's salary had been $110,000 per year. In his last twelve months in office he had taken a trip to Paris, half a dozen junkets to Las Vegas, and enjoyed very expensive seats at both the Super Bowl and the NBA All-Star Game- all paid for with cash. And he had used cash to purchase a few trinkets such as jewelry and clothing for various female companions, none of whom had been his wife.

Neither fidelity nor frugality was among the mayor's attributes.

When asked about the former by an ever-voracious press, the mayor's comment had been, "But I never missed one of my son's basketball games."

Swell. A father-of-the-year award was not a defense.

Lang wadded the pink slip and sank a three-pointer into the wastebasket beside Sara's desk.

He was almost through returning his other calls when Sara stood impatiently in his doorway.

Lang covered the receiver. "What?"

"There's a man from the FBI here to see you, a Mr. Witherspoon."

Odd.

With the arrogance that had persisted since the Hoover days, the Fibbies usually summoned people to their offices. He guessed Witherspoon wanted something.

He was right.

Before he had settled into the leather wing chair but after declining Sara's offer of coffee, Witherspoon asked, "I'd like to see a list of all persons in your organization who were reviewing Dr. Lewis's work or who might be familiar with it."

Lang thought a moment. Past experience was that the Federal Bureau of Investigation did not necessarily hire the brightest souls, but they did insist on mind-numbing thoroughness. A series of interviews of the foundation's personnel could last months, not even accounting for the duplication of whatever Morse might do.

"Detective Morse asked for the same thing. I'm sure he'll share his interview notes with you along with whatever information he gathers."

Witherspoon's eyes narrowed slightly, and he didn't move in the chair. "Detective Morse is being less than cooperative with federal authorities."

Good for him.

Lang leaned forward to put his elbows on the desk. "Please understand, Agent Witherspoon, by the time the Atlanta police get through interviewing whoever was monitoring Dr. Lewis's work and you question them again, my employees will have lost considerable time from work."

"Time loss is not a consideration in a federal investigation."

Or any other government endeavor.

Lang eased back in his chair and intertwined his fingers. This little piggy was perfectly at ease no matter how hard the big, bad wolf huffed and puffed. "I'm sure that's true. But then, you don't have a federal investigation, do you? I mean, only a few murders-killing someone on federal land, terrorism, for instance-are federal crimes."

Witherspoon's eyes flicked to the law degree on the wall next to Lang's desk. "I think I said we're dealing with national security here."

Lang could not have explained or defined it-the man's overbearing nature, the claim of national security that the Cold War had worn thin as a slice of delicatessen ham. There was something about Witherspoon that was the mental equivalent of seafood, glassy-eyed and with a slight aroma, that the fishmonger swore was fresh.

"I suppose if I asked how national security was involved, you'd tell me you weren't at liberty, et cetera."

The FBI man nodded. "I'm sure you understand."

Far better than you think, Lang mused. In his day "national security" was the intelligence community's equivalent to making sausage: The fewer people who knew the ingredients, the better.

"You know I can get a warrant, search all your records," Witherspoon added, making no effort to conceal the threat.

"No, I don't know. No federal crime, no warrant. No matter what you may think of the post-nine-eleven security laws, we still have a Constitution." Lang stood, extending a hand. "It's been a pleasure."

Witherspoon glared at the proffered hand and stormed out the door without another word.

Sara watched him go before leaving her desk. "He looked angry."

"That'd be a good guess."

"What did you do?"

"Do? Why, I insisted on my Fourth Amendment rights."

"Hardly seems a reason to leave in a huff."