Gregg Loomis - The Julian secret

Except the one time she had made it clear that marriage presented her with more problems than she wanted. "If it is not disrepaired, fixing it does not need" was how she had characterized their relationship.

Inertia, a powerful ally, was on her side.

Gurt was putting on a watch. "What time are we reserved?"

"Eight, and you recall we're only going across the street."

Catty-corner across Peachtree was an undistinguished low-rise condominium. In the basement was La Grotta, a northern Italian restaurant where the service was almost as good as the food, the geniality of the proprietor as sunny as his native Tuscany, and the prices almost reasonable. The convenience was hard to beat, too. Still, Lang missed the funky surroundings, wretched food, and collegiate atmosphere of Manuel's Tavern in Atlanta's quirky Virginia-Highland. The gathering place of such intellectuals, real and imagined, as Atlanta had to boast, it had been there he and Francis had shared a dinner twice or so a month, a place a black priest and a white lawyer speaking in Latin went unnoticed. Gurt had liked it, and Lang was unsure why they didn't go there anymore. It was, he supposed, just one of many inexplicable changes that take place in a man's life when a woman enters it.

"We are driving?" Gurt wanted to know.

"Across the street?"

"My new heels are not so good for walking."

Lang was becoming used to things like expensive footwear that were meant more for display than walking. Gurt wore clothes that emphasized the curves her height already magnified. Whatever the practical shortcomings of her wardrobe, entry into La Grotta would be heralded by dropped plates, spilled drinks, and women's catty remarks.

Lang loved it.

He was buttoning on a shirt, having decided he would not be wearing a tie. "So try another pair of shoes. It's a beautiful evening for a walk."

As they went out the door, Lang was conscious of the black fur ball that was Grumps. The dog's resentment at being left alone would be replaced by joyous tail-wagging upon their return, particularly if a tasty morsel personally wrapped in foil by the head chef was tendered as a peace offering.

They had just stepped out from under the building's porte cochere when a streak of lighting split the night, followed by a roll of thunder that Lang could have sworn made the ground tremble.

Gurt gazed up. "I think your beautiful evening may not be so good. I think perhaps we will swim to the restaurant."

As though staged, the skies opened with the comment, drenching Lang. Gurt had ducked back under shelter.

"Shit!" Lang stepped back also. Although exposed to the downpour for only a second, he looked as though he had just gotten out of a bath with all his clothes on. He reached into a pocket and handed Gurt car keys. "Have 'em bring up the Porsche while I change."

Lang customarily parked and retrieved his own car. The temptation for the young carhops to test the acceleration of the Porsche was too great. Lang had heard the protesting squeal of tires as the accelerator of some other resident's auto was pushed to the firewall. Tonight, he'd take a chance. A glance at his watch told him they were already late, and he knew the restaurant's popularity made it difficult for them to hold reservations.

He stood in front of the bank of elevators, shivering from the lobby's aggressive air-conditioning. There was a dull thud and the building shuddered, lights blinking off before the condominium's generators cut on. For a second, Lang assumed lightning had struck. Then he heard screams from outside.

Instinctively, he ran for the doors through which he had just entered. He was so intent on looking for Gurt that it took him a second and third step to realize he was walking on a carpet of shattered glass. A woman was leaning against a dark car, a Mercedes, weeping uncontrollably, and there was the smell of something other than the ozone odor of a close lightning strike.

Still not seeing Gurt, Lang's eyes followed a number of people running from his right to left, toward the parking lot and underground-parking entrance. A small crowd had gathered around flames that seemed to be fueled, rather than extinguished, by the sheets of rain-rain Lang no longer noticed. Another flash of lightning showed Gurt, a head above most of the others, silhouetted by the fire.

Lang was running, his sense of smell telling him there was a scent that had no rational reason to be here, a mixture of transmission fluid, plastic, and rubber.

And burned nitrogen sulfate.

He stopped beside Gurt, at first unsure of what he was seeing. A flaming mass of twisted steel sat on four wheel rims, resembling newsreel footage of Baghdad. Mercifully, whatever was left of the carhop was so burned; so disfigured, that it was indistinguishable from the charred remains of the car. Only by looking closer, seeing the tiny shields imprinted on the wheels, was Lang able to tell that he was looking at what had been a Porsche.

His Porsche.

The Porsche. he had always parked and fetched himself. The Porsche he was supposed to have been in when it blew up. Without turning around, Gurt slipped an arm around his waist. "They are perhaps back?"

"They" could only mean Pegasus, the international criminal cartel Lang had encountered.

"I don't think so," he said quietly, unable to tear his eyes away from flames that were beginning to diminish as they exhausted the supply of fuel. "They know if anything happens to me, they'll be exposed."

It was the agreement with the devil he had made a year ago. Revelation of Pegasus's secret would have destroyed the organization, but it also would have destroyed a great number of innocents. Extortion to fund a foundation honoring two of its victims had seemed the only reasonable compromise.

The wail of emergency equipment enveloped them as Gurt and Lang turned to go back into the building, dinner forgotten.

Lang was not surprised when the doorbell rang forty-five minutes later. Standing in the hall was a thin black man in a rain-splattered suit.

Lang swung the door wide. "Come in, Detective Rouse. I've been expecting you."

It was the same Atlanta detective who had investigated an attempt on Lang's life the year before. The would-be assassin had jumped from the balcony rather than be captured. Lang remembered the policeman as having a slow, ethnic drawl that belied a very quick mind.

The detective looked around the room, nodding to Gurt. "Evenin', ma'am." Turning back to Lang, he nodded. "I 'spect you was. Ever' time there's death 'n' destruction 'round here, you seem to be involved, Mr. Reilly. You care to 'splain that?"

"Lucky, I guess."

Rouse shook his head. "Still smart-assin', I see. I swear, I'm 'plyin' for a transfer outta Homicide to Sex Crimes. You a one-man crime wave. Why wasn' I surprised that it was your car got blown up?"

"You're good at guessing. Maybe you should try the lottery."

"I hit th' lottery an' I never see you agin, Mr. Reilly. Now, why don' you tell me why somebody want to blow up a 'spensive car like that with you in it."

Lang shrugged. "Maybe I blew the doors off their SL 500 leaving a stoplight."

Rouse looked around and chose a chair. "Sit down, Mr. Reilly. I think I'm gonna be here a while, until I gets some straight answers."

Lang sat. "All I know is that Gurt and I were headed to dinner. I got caught in that frog-strangler of a downpour and came back to change. Gurt gave the keys to the carhop. Next thing I knew, KA-BOOM!" Lang frowned. "I don't think I even knew the poor kid in the car."

Rouse looked at Gurt for confirmation before turning back to Lang. "Afta we went at it-las' year, I did some checkin', Mr. Reilly. You told me you were retired Navy SEAL. Turns out you were with some spook organization."

"We spies always lie."