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.
More important, though, was the question of what relationship there was between the scientist's death and national security. What was the FBI's interest in what appeared to be a local crime? How had they found out about it almost as fast as the Atlanta police?
Lang yawned widely as he headed north on Northside Drive. For every mystery, there was a solution.
Make that most mysteries.
SIX
Park Place
2660 Peachtree Road
Atlanta, Georgia
The Next Morning
Grumps, the fur-bearing alarm clock, pressed his cold nose against Lang's cheek. If a dog could actually smile, this one would have laughed as his master ran a hand across his sleep-relaxed face.
'Okay, Grumps. Just another couple of minutes, all right?'
Grumps knew the game. This time he growled deeply and began methodically removing the covers.
Lang sat up. 'Okay, okay, you win, as always.'
The clear victor, Grumps sat and began to casually scratch his head with a rear paw. Black, with one floppy ear and the other erect, the dog had genes that contained more breeds than there were types of rum in tropical drinks.
From his bedroom window on the twenty-fourth floor, Lang could see the morning sun tinting the glass of Midtown's buildings with gold. The older structures of downtown even glowed. Like an urban yellow brick road, Peachtree Street seemed like an arrow pointing to the heart of the city. A cloudless sky roofed the vivid green of trees still in their early spring colors. The verdant carpet was dotted with splotches of snowdrifts that were dogwoods in full bloom above pink-and-white azaleas.
All of this natural beauty had a price that Lang would pay as soon as he exited the protective lobby of his building. Slimy yellow-green mist would color the air outside as well as every surface exposed to it. Cars became yellow, no matter their factory paint jobs. Black asphalt was tinted the same with dry rivers. Transplanted allergy sufferers cursed the day they left the relative comfort of Northern spring freezes.
Spring had come and reproductive romance was on the mind of every living plant, from mighty oak to tiny ragweed. Atlanta's pollen season was in full swing.
By the time Lang had pulled on a sweat suit and stuck bare feet into a pair of sneakers, Grumps was waiting anxiously by the door, leash in mouth. Outside, the dog made his usual methodical search for the perfect place to leave his mark for the next canine to come along. Once finished, he tugged impatiently to return. It was time for breakfast.
Back inside, Lang opened the cabinet where he stored the dog food and poured some into a bowl.
Only as he was returning the bag did he stop in midreach and stare.
He had fed Grumps last night just before he left to go to Manuel's. The dog food bag had been next to a cereal box. Now there was space for it only next to a stack of soup cans.
He carefully set the bag on the counter that separated the tiny kitchen from the living room. In three steps he was standing in front of the Thomas Elfe secretary, a masterpiece in mahogany and fruitwood inlay by one of America's premier prerevolutionary cabinetmakers and one of the few pieces of furniture he had taken when he sold the house he had shared with Dawn.
Behind the wavy handblown glass, his small collection of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century first editions seemed to be as he had left them. Below, on the writing surface, though, his few antiquities had been slightly rearranged. The time-rusted iron that had been the hilt of a Macedonian sword was now next to the Etruscan votive cup rather than the coin bearing the likeness of Augustus Caesar.
Someone had moved the objects to open the glass and look at the books. Or more likely to see if anything was concealed behind them.
Or to look through the bills aligned in the brass letter holder awaiting payment.
Five quick strides carried him into the remaining room of the small condo and in front of his bedside table. Easing its drawer open, he saw the SIG Sauer P226 was as he had left it, two extra clips loaded and right beside it.
It was one of the few things he had taken with him when the fall of the Evil Empire heralded a reduction of force across the intelligence community. The next generation would speak Arabic instead of Slavic languages and
