The Nassau Secret (The Lang Reilly Series Book 8) (10 page)

22.

Bebendum

Michlelin House

Brompton Cross

London

              Lang had chosen the Oyster Bar, an informal dining room in the old Art Deco building that had been the English headquarters of the tire company. Tiles and pictures of famous past races surrounded groupings of small, faux marble top tables as a ten foot stained glass window of the Michelin Man looked on.

              The restaurant had not yet gained star status but was a far cry from the old fashioned Scottish smoked Salmon, char or sole that were the mainstay of London’s sea food menus. A platter of
fruits de Mer
that would have done credit to Honfleur or any of the other Norman sea ports sat in front of Lang. A whole boiled crab crowned a pile raw oysters, clams, and periwinkles. Boiled shrimp and the clawed prawns were all upon a bed of shaved ice with sides of mignonette and cocktail sauce.

              Rachel, whether in deference to the
Kashrut
or by choice, was tasting a lamb curry. Jacob, never one to let Jewish or any other religious custom interfere with a good meal, was engaged in hand to hand combat with his lobster mayonnaise.

              The three ate in silence for a few moments before Jacob wiped his fingers on the bib the restaurant had thoughtfully provided and took a sip of beer. “Comforting to know some things are constant.”

              Lang, anticipating some philosophical observation, said nothing.

              “And those things are, first, no matter how much we British tart up our restaurants or import French-type food, the beer is always room temperature.”

              Lang grinned. “And second?”

              Jacob nodded toward the semi circular bar facing Lang’s back. “Coppers, no matter what else they wear, will always prefer rubber soled shoes.”

              Lang knew better than alert the person in question by turning around. Instead, he arched his eyebrows in a question.

              Jacob spoke from behind the napkin that was ostensibly dabbing at his lips. “Cheap suit, fifty millimeter, thick rubber soles, dawdling over a single beer. He’s been doing a poor job of pretending not to be watching you ever since he sat down.”

              Lang speared a periwinkle and was dragging it out of its diminutive shell. “Maybe he wants me to know he’s watching.”

              “Why would that be?”  Rachel asked, fork in hand.

              Lang shrugged. “Having a policeman looking over your shoulder is a basic form of crime prevention. You might remember I had to make a pretty acrobatic use of your balcony to get away after I had to shoot that guy right in front of your building.”

              Jacob was using his knife to lever the obstinate crustacean’s tail from its shell. “I recall. At the time, you were also suspected in the murder of an art dealer. Come to think of it, Rachel and I were at a bit of risk for sheltering you.”

              “Exactly why I climbed balcony to balcony.”

              Rachel looked up. “That was during that business with those horrid Pegasus people, right?”

              Not exactly the adjective Lang would have used to describe what might well have been the world’s oldest criminal organization, the one which had murdered his sister.

              “For that matter,” she continued, there was a man waiting at our car park when we left to meet you here. Jacob was sure he was a copper.”

              Lang changed the subject. “Jacob, what did you find out about whatever connection SAS might have with the business in Nassau?”

              Jacob contemplated the antagonist on his plate for a moment before answering. “Nothing concrete, of course, just bits and pieces.”

              “Of course. I hardly expected SAS to log its activities in
The Times
.”

              “SAS takes its orders from the army, since it is a branch thereof but. . .”

              “But?”

              “Just like you country’s special forces, by its nature, Special Air Services handles the black ops too large for MI6 just like your CIA didn’t send its own agents to kill bin Laden. They sent Navy Seal Team 6.”

              “More likely, they asked the Navy to do so.”

              Jacob shook his head, a matter of no consequence. “Same thing.”

              “Not exactly. I can’t imagine your country’s army giving orders to kill an innocent woman. There’s a disconnect there.”

              “Don’t be so sure the orders came down any regular chain of command.”

              “Meaning?”

              Jacob leaned across the table, his voice a whisper. “At least two people claimed to have seen a figure on a rooftop overlooking the exit to the
Pont d’ Alma
tunnel the night Dianna was killed, a man with a rifle with a scope.”

              “But,” Lang protested, “she died in a car wreck.”

              Jacob stabbed a piece of lobster with his fork and popped it into his mouth. “Suppose she hadn’t? Suppose she survived the wreck? She wouldn’t have survived the sniper, no doubt using some sort of dissolving bullet. It’s called preparation just like any special forces like SAS or Special Seal Team 6 would insist on. I mean, there were multiple accounts of a bright light that could have blinded Henri Paul, the driver. Then there was the white Fiat Uno’s paint on the Mercedes. Its driver died locked in a burned car.” He chewed contemplatively. “I’d say someone wanted to make sure Diana didn’t survive a crash that someone had planned with military precision. And I don’t think that someone created a file for MI6 or planned that in the regular course of business.”

              “OK,” Lang admitted, “I get your drift. You are postulating some rogue group, either special forces or intelligence, had the princess killed and this same group may be behind what went on in Nassau?”

              “Same tactics.”

              “But, who?”

              Jacob wiped a spot of sauce from his chin. “Well, if I knew that, we wouldn’t be sitting here speculating, would we?”

              Lang thought while he used the cocktail fork to dip an oyster in sauce and sucked it from the fork. “Any chance you can be more specific?”

              “Not tonight. There are still too many loose ends hanging.”

              “Such as?”

              Jacob was spearing the smaller fragments of the lobster. “You know how the intel community is, Lang: You get a drab here a dribble there, like a jig-saw puzzle where most of the pieces don’t fit until you find other pieces. Give me a week or so and maybe, just maybe, I’ll have some idea of what the picture looks like.”

              Lang savored the last oyster. “Don’t guess I have a choice.”

              Half an hour later, the carcasses of three dinners littered the table.

              Lang signaled the waiter who bustled over. “Sir?”

              “The man at the bar behind me,” Lang said. “No, don’t look that way. He’s an old acquaintance of mine. Add his tab to mine and bring me the check.”

              “Very good sir.”

              As Lang, Jacob and Rachel passed the bar on the way to the door, Lang stopped to pat the suspected cop on the knee. “Have one on me! Enjoy!”

              The expression on the man’s face was worth the cost. Bebendum was not inexpensive.

              Outside, Rachel gave Lang a hug while kissing his cheek. “Don’t stay way so long!”

              They turned right, no doubt headed for whatever small place they had found in which to park the venerable Morris they had owned ever since Lang had known them.

              Lang turned left just as the man from the bar dashed out onto the street. Lang gave him a friendly waive before ducking into a cab just disgorging its passengers.

              “Where to, gov?” The turbaned, dark skinned driver wanted to know.

              Lang resisted the temptation to look out of the rear window. “Just drive. I’ll tell you when.”

              A shrug acknowledged the driver’s acceptance of the quirks of his fares as he pulled away from the curb.

              One block, then a second. Kensington’s one way streets were frustrating Lang’s plan. Then the intersection of Old Brompton Road and Pelham Street. Not exactly what he was looking for but. . .

              “Stop. Right here!”

              The cab obediently jolted to a stop. Lang handed the driver a five pound note and bolted, catching a cab on the other street before the last of its passengers had fully disembarked. He slammed the right passenger door from the inside with one hand while waving a cheery good-bye as the taxi that had been following, the one with the now fully embarrassed cop in it, skidded to a stop a hundred feet or so past the intersection.

              That little exercise of shaking a tail really had been unnecessary. But it had been entertaining.

              Lang sat back in the seat. He had at least gotten Jacob started in unraveling what may or may not be a lead to the murderer or murderers of an innocent woman. There was no rush; he was in no personal danger.

              He could not have been more mistaken.

23.

Law Offices of Langford Reilly

Three Days Later

              To say Lang was surprised to see Sara usher Dr. Elizabeth Rountree into his office was, at best, an understatement.

              From habit, he stood and came around the desk, hands extended. “Dr. Rountree.”

              She placed a purse that could have served as a suitcase on the floor. From it, she extracted an envelope which she put into his outstretched hand. “I believe you will find this in order, Mr. Reilly.”

              All Lang could do was stammer a “Thank you.”

              He retreated to the desk and opened the envelope. Inside was a cashier’s check for $100,000.00.

              Lang had long ago learned not to ask where clients got the money. To do so risked learning something it might well be a crime not to report. Compounding a felony was a specter that haunted the nightmares of criminal lawyers.

              Dr. Rountree must have sensed the unasked question as she sunk into one of the wing chairs. “Relatives mortgaged their houses.”

              Lang was as immune to this old saw as he was to curiosity. It never ceased to amaze him that those indicted had so many sympathetic relatives.

              After presenting and having her sign his standard employment contract, he took out a yellow legal pad. “We may as well get started right now if you have the time.”

              She replied with a weary smile. “These days, Mr. Reilly, time is about all I have.”

              Lang got full name, present address and a few other basic facts.

              Then, “Ever convicted of a crime other than a traffic offense?”

              She looked at him through those round spectacles as though he had just made a very poor joke.

              “It’s pretty basic question,” he explained. “If you have a felony record, it’s a good bet the prosecution knows about it through the National Crime Register.”

              “Mr. Reilly, I don’t recall a parking ticket, let alone a felony.”

              Lang had a basic distrust of anyone who claimed to have never had a traffic offense. An unblemished driving record was difficult to believe. With fines a major source of municipal revenue, it was the rare motorist who had never run afoul of what amounted to blue uniformed, badge bearing tax collectors. But then, the Atlanta Public School System had afforded Dr. Hall a car and chauffeur.

              Another series of routine questions until, “To whom, if anyone, have you spoken about the alleged cheating?”

              “Alleged” was a marvelous word. It allowed a discussion about something that might have never happened, thereby not wasting time while what might or might not have occurred was debated. “Tell me about the convenience store you robbed” was sure to evoke denials ranging from the absurd to the sublime, the some-other-dude-done-it defense no matter how clear the security camera pictures. “Alleged,” however, allowed a rational discussion without the implicit accusation.

              “Who did I talk to?” Dr. Rountree mused. “Well, I was interviewed by an investigator from the APS.”

              Lang came forward in his chair. “‘Interviewed?’”

              She nodded in the affirmative. “All contracts with APS give the school board the right to question any employee. Refusing to cooperate is grounds for termination.”

             
And trying to avoid termination after involvement with changing test answers is like signing up for swimming lessons after the Titanic hit the iceberg.

              Lang suppressed a growing sense of excitement. “Was the interview face to face?”

              “Yes.”

              “By whom?”

              She shook her head. “Someone selected by the school board. Don’t remember his name but I got the impression he was a lawyer.”

              “Was there someone taking the interview down?”

              She pursed her lips puzzlement. “‘Taking down?’”

              “You know, transcribing it. Like either dictating into a mask or using a steno machine.”

              Land used his fingers to imitate a typist.

              “I think so.”

              “I don’t suppose you got a copy of the transcript.”

              She shook her head, no. “I wasn’t aware I was entitled to one.”

              “You might not have been but I can almost guarantee I can get it.”

              Her forehead wrinkled. “I’m not sure I follow you. Why would you want. . .?     
                              

              Lang stood, meeting over. “There are a couple of things I need to do as soon as possible, including an entry of appearance on your behalf. Can we continue a little later?”

              “Like tomorrow?”

              “I’ll be in Federal Court most of tomorrow. Sara will call.”

              She stood, hefting her bag. “Week after next, I’ll be in Hawaii for ten days. We’ll need to schedule around that.”

             
And who says crime doesn’t pay?

              Sara left for the bank in the building’s lobby to deposit the hundred grand in Lang’s trust account from which he would withdraw his fees. Alone in the office, Lang stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window. Although the near view, the one of adjacent buildings and the plaza below, was filled with concrete, he could see the bright green of spring beyond. A nice day for a stroll. How long had it been since he had walked to the Fulton County courthouse?

              Placing the employment contract in a battered leather briefcase, he left a note for Sara, locked the hall door and took the elevator down.

              Across the street, tourists, apparently conventioneers, were piling out of the seventy-story Peachtree Plaza Hotel and into a bus no doubt headed for such attractions as the City had to offer: The world’s largest aquarium, the World of Coca-Cola, a Ferris wheel at Centennial Olympic Park. The hotel, a circular tower, reminded Lang of a huge rocket on the launching pad.

              Panhandlers, the scourge of Atlanta’s downtown, were immediately attracted to the out of towners like sharks to a school of fish. When the visitors were safely on their bus, the beggars disbursed in search of other prey. All but one. Like his associates, he wore ill-fitting pants and a sweat-stained, filthy shirt. Unlike the others, though, his sneakers looked new. Air Jordan Primo Flights, if Lang wasn’t mistaken.  Manfred had whined for a month for a junior pair but Gurt had no intent of spending $125.00 for shoes that would be too small by the end of the summer.

              So, where did a beggar get shoes that expensive?

              Lang was well aware that the government supplied its least productive citizens with cell phones, Electronic Benefit Transfer cards (good at your local liquor store, pizzeria, etc. in addition to grocery stores) medical care and a monthly stipend. . But high end sneakers?

              Turning left, Lang proceeded down the eastern side of Peachtree Street, pretending not to notice his well-shod companion on the other side. The street changed character almost immediately: Woodruff Park, once an urban oasis donated to the City by the chairman of Coca-Cola, was now an outdoor dormitory for street people: homeless, panhandlers, street preachers, winos. The one block of green space was adjacent to the Candler Building, a 1906 structure with its elaborately carved façade, built by the beverage company’s founder. The green space had been intended as a place for workers from the surrounding law offices, banks and brokerage houses to have lunch, enjoy the outdoors on breaks or sun themselves on warm spring days such as today. Those workers had long since fled north to Midtown, the buildings now largely occupied by Georgia State University, branches of an ever expanding government and a few intrepid urban pioneers occupying condos in what, years ago, had been prime retail space.

              Lang was besieged by mendicants. He kept moving, ignoring the hard luck stories: A robbery victim seeking funds for bus fare home, a few dollars for the first meal in days, a candid request from an alcoholic who needed a few bucks for a cheap bottle of wine. He did not ignore the man with the expensive sneakers who seemed to be in an agitated conversation with a pair of shabbily dressed men across the street, a conversation from which he disengaged himself as soon as Lang moved on.

              Across Underground Atlanta Plaza, site of an entertainment and shopping facility that had been failing ever since its operation had been assumed by the City, past another old office building, this one converted to a hotel. Repeated miscalculations of the City’s ability to operate the Underground profitably had caused the ownership of the business to shift almost annually.

              Lang made a quick about face and hurriedly descended a staircase into Underground.

              In the last two decades of the nineteenth century, Atlanta regained its status as a rail center as it rebuilt from its total destruction in 1864. Burned hulks of buildings were replaced and repaired, lining the streets of what had been and was again becoming the center of town. As rail traffic and rail lines increased, overpasses obviated the necessity of waiting for trains to pass. As bridge after bridge was constructed, the first and second floors of adjacent new buildings became subgrade or “underground” until a full five or six blocks were effectively subterranean. As the center of the City moved north, many of these “underground” spaces were sealed off from the upper floors and forgotten.

              In the late 1960s, two Georgia Tech graduates began securing leases on otherwise useless space and an entertainment district was born.

              One of a kind restaurants, bars and music halls flourished until the City elected its first black mayor. Now was the opportunity for black activists to begin to howl about the dearth of diversity, although, in truth, few if any minorities had shown an interest in opening a business there. Sensing the political winds, Hizzoner leased the only parking available to Underground patrons to another company and the crowds who had filled Underground Atlanta began to dwindle and its bars and restaurants to lose customers who were unwilling to walk several blocks at night through some of the City’s less-savory areas. The coup de grace came in the form of the Metropolitan Atlanta Transit Authority, which, for reasons unimaginable, routed its east-west line through a third of the project even though existing rail lines could have been used.

              The next mayor stepped in to revive what had been a major downtown attraction. Over the years, the City lavished money but little or no experienced oversight on the project. What Atlanta received in return was what Lang saw when he reached the bottom of the stairs: Numerous vacant spaces, T-shirt shops, dealers in African art and cheap souvenirs. The last chain restaurant had departed years ago, the last bar and music hall long before that.

              He hardly had the time to contemplate the economics of  politics. Instead, he dashed for the only intersection, rounded a corner into Kinney’s Alley (named for a long gone country and western bar) and came face to face with a bank of elevators, one of which opened to discharge a pair of tourists. Inside, Lang pressed the “2” button. Seconds later, the doors whispered open. He was in the parking garage across the street from the Fulton County Court House.

              His former shadow was nowhere to be seen.