The Sinai Secret

TWENTY-FOUR

The Varsity

North Avenue

Atlanta, Georgia

Twenty Minutes Later

The Varsity, just across I-85/75 from the Tech campus, had been an Atlanta institution for over seventy years. It boasted-truthfully, Lang guessed-the world's largest drive-in eatery, the world's best hot dogs, and the 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."