The Julian Secret (Lang Reilly Thrillers) by Gregg Loomis Page B

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.”
    Rouse sighed. “Know what I think, Mr. Reilly? I think some other spook is pissed off at you, tryin’ to get even. I was you, I might tell what I knew for protection.”
    “Protection from whom?”
    “Whoever blew your car up with that boy in it.”
    “And by whom, those Keystone Kops the city calls police? Those same brave lads who literally dragged a hundred-and-twenty-pound woman out of her car and threw her on the pavement for parking too long at the airport’s curb? They can’t even stop people from getting shot on the street. Great as the amusement value of being protected by the Atlanta Police might be, I’m afraid the mortality rate is greater. A heartfelt and overwhelming ‘no, thank you,’ Detective. Maybe if you offered me Inspector Clousseau, I’d take you up on it. Except there isn’t anything to tell. I don’t have a clue.”
    The detective stood, pointing a finger. “You watch yo’sef, Mr. Reilly. You got away with somethin’ las’ year. Not this time. Mebbe you’re thinkin’ ‘d be a little clearer, we go downtown.”
    Lang smiled. “I don’t think so, Detective. And I don’t think you want to have to explain to a federal judge why you arrested me without a scintilla of probable cause.”
    Rouse let himself out.
    Both Gurt and Lang were staring at the door through which he had exited.
    “If not Pegasus,” Gurt said, “who?”
    Lang clicked the dead bolt. “The same persons who hired those two bullyboys in Seville would be a safe guess.”
    “But who are they?”
    “Good question. See what the man in Heidelberg knows.”
    There was no longer a question of whether to help find Don Huff’s killer. The search was no longer a favor to help the child of an old friend. It had become intensely personal. Whoever had tried to reduce Lang to his composite atoms wasn’t going to go away. Twice during the night, he awoke, slipped out