The Sinai Secret

TWENTY-TWO

Peachtree Center

227 Peachtree Street

Atlanta, Georgia

Two Days Later, 9:21 a.m.

Lang had written the day off as a total loss before he got out of bed. He would not be disappointed.

He planned to spend the morning returning phone calls and e-mails before wasting an afternoon giving what he hoped was an entertaining if not informative CLE lecture at the former Federal Reserve Building, now owned by the Georgia Bar Association.

All thoughts of the bar disappeared the minute Lang entered his office to see the former mayor sitting in the reception room.

An accusatory glance in Sara's direction only elicited an almost imperceptible shrug.

The mayor was mocha-skinned, heavy on the cream. A fringe of cropped white hair framed premature balding. He displayed a pencil-thin mustache, also gone white. As always, his suit looked as though it had never seen a wrinkle, and the crisp white shirtfront was evenly divided by a designer tie. The mayor's shoes memorialized at least one alligator.

Lang made a mental note to ask him to let Wal-Mart supplement his wardrobe before appearing before jurors, most of whom didn't make as much in a week as his tie cost.

The mayor stood, straightening out to the six-foot height he had used to advantage in towering over a jury box in the days when he had been a trial lawyer rather than a politician. He extended a hand before Lang could think of an excuse to get him out of the office. "Thanks for seeing me without an appointment."

Before Lang could reply, his client was in his office.

"I wanted to discuss trial strategy for a minute or two."

Lang suppressed a sigh of resignation. Lawyers in trouble with the law always wanted to handle things their way, frequently the way that had gotten them in trouble in the first place.

Lang shut the door, more to discourage Sara from offering coffee or anything else that might prolong the visit than for privacy.

"I think we need to make the jury understand that this whole witch-hunt is racially motivated," the mayor said.

Lang plopped down behind his desk. "Racism" had been the mayor's excuse for everything that had gone wrong during his administration, and that was a long list. Anyone, no matter his color, who had opposed him had been Ku Klux Klan or an Uncle Tom, including the majority-black city council, the governor, most of the legislature, and the chamber of commerce.

The spots had just about worn off that deck of race cards.

"An idea," Lang said in a neutral tone. "Problem is, three of the objects of the feds' corruption investigation are white. All three have already pled guilty to charges of bribing you."

The mayor leaned forward, demonstrating the megawatt smile that had looked so good on television. "But that's it, don't you see? White economic power structure, black mayor. Hell, this is no more'n an ol'-fashioned lynching."

Lang had heard it that before, too. Despite Lang's strong advice, the mayor insisted on giving impromptu news conferences whenever he was in the city.

"Yeah, well," Lang observed, "Atlanta has had one black mayor or another since 1975. None of them has even been charged with a traffic violation."

"One of 'em's dead," the mayor said defensively.

There was a rap on the door. Without waiting for a reply Sara stuck her head in. "Important call, Mr. Reilly."

Custer could have found her useful at Little Bighorn.

Lang picked up the one line that was blinking. "Excuse me."

The mayor was annoyed but had no choice.

"Reilly."

"Morse, Detective Morse."

This time Lang made no effort to stifle his sigh. The day was spiraling downhill faster than he had anticipated. At this rate he'd have notice of an IRS audit before lunch.

He started to ask if he could call the policeman back, but realized he would only be encouraging the mayor to stay on and said, "What's up, Detective?"

"We tested that white powder," Morse answered. "An' you ain't gonna believe what we found. Or, rather, what we didn't find."

Lang was beginning to wonder if there was a conspiracy afoot to waste his whole day. "And your tests are important to me because…?"

There was a pause.

"Guess I did'nt 'xactly start off right, Mr. Reilly. State crime lab tested that stuff an' came back with nothin' but craziness. Wonderin', your foundation's so generous to Georgia Tech an' all, maybe you could get 'em to look at this stuff."

Being asked a favor by the man who had arrested him for one killing he didn't commit and suspected him of another had a certain sweet irony. "You telling me the state lab people are incompetent?"

The mayor was impatiently crossing and uncrossing his legs.

"Not a'tall, Mr. Reilly. It's just that this ain't like anythin' they ever tested for before. They ain't got the equipment."

Lang's curiosity was piqued. "Exactly what did the tests they did do show?"

"Like I say, crazy. The stuff's weight keeps changin'. Hold on." There was the sound of rustling paper. "Iron, silica, and aluminum."

"So?"

The mayor was making a display of checking the diamond-encrusted face of his gold watch, apparently forgetting that he had time to spare that, quite possibly, would expand into years.

"So?" Morse repeated. "That's the part that don't make sense. Stuff wouldn't dissolve in acid."

The significance was lost on Lang, who realized that he didn't know enough chemistry to know what made sense and what didn't. "Tell you what: I'll call Tech, get the name of somebody who'll use their equipment."

"Sure 'preciate that, Mr. Reilly."

Lang put the phone down and looked up. The mayor had left.

The day showed signs of improvement.

As Lang entered the lecture hall at the Bar Association, the first person he saw was Alicia Warner.

"Hi," he said, too surprised to come up with something more original.

"Hi, yourself," she replied.

"Thought the feds had their own CLE."

She treated him to a smile that could have served as an ad for toothpaste. "We do. If you'd checked the program, you'd have seen I'm on it, too."

He did, and she was.

" 'Mechanics of a Federal Prosecution?" Lang asked. "You're giving secrets away?"

She tossed shoulder-length red hair that Lang suspected was as real as the faint freckles makeup didn't cover. "No more than you are."

"I'd say the attendees are in for a pretty dull session."

Green eyes sparkled merrily. "And this is news?"

Lang was becoming increasingly aware that the seminar audience of thirty or so people was watching. He moved toward the podium. "I've been out of town the last few days or I would have called you."

She said nothing, watching in amusement.

"I, er, I figure I owe you a nice, quiet dinner after… after our lunch date."

Several attending lawyers made no effort to hide the fact that they were listening to the conversation.

Screw 'em.

Lang plunged ahead. "I'd love the pleasure this evening."

She cocked her head as though to view him from a different angle. "My Kevlar vest's at the laundry. How 'bout you just come by my house rather than we go out in public? I'll throw something together. Not only less expensive but safer."

Alicia nodded to where the program's moderator was watching, shifting his weight. She dug into a purse that could have served as a suitcase and handed him a business card. "Call me and I'll give you directions."

She turned and headed for the door.

Along with every male in the room, Lang watched her departure.

There was the clearing of a throat behind him. "Now that Lang Reilly has his social plans in place, perhaps we could entice him to speak."

Lang was not sure what a blush felt like, but suspected he was experiencing one.