world's highest volume of Coca-Cola sales. It chose not to brag about its equally artery-clogging onion rings, milk shakes, and unique fried apple and peach pies. Its aroma reached for blocks and was a siren song luring the unwary onto the rocks of congestive heart failure.
Lang did not entirely dismiss the urban legend of a tunnel under the place leading directly to the nearest cardiovascular surgery center. Still, he hadn't been there for years. He rationalized that the cholesterol bomb he was consuming would do little harm as long as it was infrequent.
Besides, the earth had no better chili dog or Varsity Orange, a combination of Orange Crush and ice cream.
He and Morse had elected to leave their cars and were seated in one of several rooms featuring student lecture hall desks and a ceiling-mounted TV tuned to a local station. Lang had pulled his desk against a wall, where he could see anyone entering.
Morse's street dialect had returned like a sweater worn so often its owner never noticed it draped around his shoulders. He was heavily salting a grease-stained paper carton of french fries when he looked around to make sure no one was in hearing range. 'Gold! No wonder somebody offed th' professor. Probably stole all but th' little bit we found. Least we got a motive.'
Lang noted the plural first person and dismissed it as merely figurative. Unlikely that the cop was going to include him in an investigation if he could help it. He spread chopped onions more evenly along the brown carpet of chili surmounting his hot dog. 'Wouldn't do a lot of good to steal the powder unless you had equipment that could raise it to… What did the man say, over a thousand degrees Celsius?'
'Sump'n like that,' Morse agreed through a mouthful of his chili steak. He swallowed, then added, 'Don' mean somebody with sophisticated equipment didn't kill the professor for it. Where he get that stuff, anyway?'
Lang shrugged. 'I assume it was a product of his work.'
Product of their work. Lang was certain it was the same powder that had been in Yadish's laboratory, too.
Morse was unsuccessfully using a paper napkin to wipe a brownish stain from his shirtfront. 'Oh, well, jacket'll cover most of it,' he observed before looking into Lang's face. 'You thinkin' somethin', Mr. Reilly, like maybe somethin' you'd like to share with me?'
Lang shook his head in denial. 'What makes you think that?'
The detective's eyes narrowed,' 'Cause I know you, Mr. Reilly. I knows there's somethin' here you ain't tellin me.'
'And how do you know that?'
'I seen the shots-fired report down to Underground last week or so. Now, I don' much believe some perp takes a shot or two at you in a restaurant 'cause you with his woman.' He paused. 'Although you do seem to piss people off, Mr. Reilly. Some dude always tryin' to whack you. This time, though, I 'spect there's a reason-a reason that has somethin' to do with this dead professor and this powder that's really gold. Now, you wouldn't be planning on interferin' with a police investigation, would you, Mr. Reilly?'
Lang arched his eyebrows, an innocent man. The gesture, he hoped, hid his annoyance that, once again, the black detective had read him so clearly. 'Me? Interfere?'
Morse shook his head in resignation. 'Why I feel we done had this conversation before?'
Lang gave himself time to think by taking a swig from his paper drink cup. To tell Morse of Yadish's murder and what had happened in Amsterdam would only encourage the policeman to contact Van Decker and learn of the Dutch inspector's suspicions.
In short, there was no upside to telling what he knew.
'I have no idea why you'd think that,' he said.
There was a sucking sound from the straw in Morse's cup. 'Mr. Reilly, I got one homicide you kinda involved in. I don't want no more people breakin' into your house, blowin' up your car, or generally sowin' death 'n' destruction.'
Lang stood, extending a hand, the meal over. 'That I can understand, Detective. Believe me, I want any of the above less than you do.'
TWENTY-FIVE
Park Place
2660 Peachtree Road
Atlanta, Georgia
6:27 p.m.
The Same Day
Knowing the temptations fast cars held for young men, Lang avoided the valet and parked his own Porsche in its assigned space and took the elevator to the twenty- fourth floor. His mind was still on what he had heard at Georgia Tech.
Yadish and Lewis had apparently achieved, or were about to achieve, what had fascinated man for centuries: alchemy, the transformation of base elements into gold. But what the hell did that have to do with finding a substitute for fossil fuels? The white powder and gold must have been by-products. Without the notes of their experiments, it would be difficult if not impossible to re-create the method by which they had produced the powder.
Another mystery: If someone wanted the gold-making process, why kill for it rather than steal it? Lang's original premise-that the two scientists had been murdered to conceal something or stop whatever they had been doing-was still the most likely motive. That was also consistent with the attempt on his own life in Belgium.
But conceal or stop what?
Something connected to those unknowable experiments.
Then there were the Hebrew documents he had copied. Yadish had thought them important enough to hide. Could they be related to the motive of his killer? One way to find out: Get them translated. There was a professor of Hebrew history at Emory, one he had consulted before…
No, he decided, best not to involve anyone nearby. Whoever had murdered the two scientists knew Lang was in Atlanta, and his consulting a local might be noted. Far better to use someone less easily ascertainable who understood Hebrew, both modern and ancient, and who was well equipped to take care of himself.
The door pinged open and Lang stepped onto the plush carpet of the foyer. Stopping to check the telltales he had left on his doorknob, he grunted his approval that they were still there. He clicked the key in the lock and swung the door open.
Grumps interrupted his twenty-three-and-a-half-hour- a-day nap to regard his master with one brown eye. His tail beat a slow rhythm on the floor.
'What a joy to come home to such enthusiasm,' Lang said, reaching for the leash beside the door. 'If you think you can spare the time
…'
Outside Lang made two decisions: First, the chances for anonymity were better if he left the Gulfstream for a commercial flight, even if that meant leaving his weapon behind. Second, he would see if Alicia was willing to make last-minute plans for tonight.
He frowned as he and Grumps headed back for the high-rise condo. The woman was popping up in his mind with increasing frequency. It wasn't the deep love that had grown between him and Dawn, his wife; nor was it the lust at first sight Gurt had inspired. His feelings for Alicia were… well, different, if undefined.
Quit introspecting and start dialing, he told himself, or the woman will already have made dinner arrangements.
TWENTY-SIX
