The Poison Secret

by Gregg Loomis

  Grassley shook his head. “Would have been a great idea a few weeks ago. The name of the donor, the kid who got bitten by the snake, disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” Wright asked. “What do you mean, disappeared?”

  Grassley’s temper was getting shorter by the moment, and he made no effort to conceal the fact. “What don’t you understand about ‘disappeared’? Presumably, the name and pertinent data were in the hospital’s computer system like any other patient’s. When our guys in Turkey botched snatching the woman, I bribed an employee to hack into that system. There was no mention of a snakebite victim, immunity, or anything related to it. Obviously, Reilly or someone guessed whoever was after the sample might harm the kid, so they deleted it.”

  “Deleted data can always be retrieved,” Wright volunteered.

  Grassley gave him a scowl that spoke volumes of what he thought of the man, none of it pleasant. “Brilliant! You want to go to some place in the middle of Turkey and try to retrieve data you can’t even read, via con dios, amigo.”

  “You said you hired someone to look for it,” Wright defended.

  “And just how do we make sure whoever the fuck, the employee we hired, doesn’t decide to contact the authorities this time? There’s at least an unsolved murder and a kidnapping the Turks still have on the books, remember?”

  “What about the people we already hired?” Hassler wanted to know.

  “The Gayrimesru, Turkish Mafia? They aren’t sophisticated enough. Besides, after the fiasco of trying to kidnap the woman, I’d just as soon not risk any further contact. I’d bet the Turkish police, army, somebody has infiltrated them by now.”

  All three men were planning on a long evening.

  CHAPTER 42

  763 Juniper Street

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Later That Day

  A decade earlier, the powers that governed the city of Atlanta realized that crime (other than that normally associated with politicians) did not occur at City Hall or other government complexes. It occurred in neighborhoods both residential and commercial. This was particularly true of property crimes such as burglary, auto theft, and auto break-ins. The politicians figured out that a police presence in the area might even reduce the activity of the miscreants.

  The solution was a dispersal of the force, the creation of neighborhood precincts. Shopping centers, storefronts, even former single-family residences now serve this purpose.

  Specifically, the precinct closest to Ansley Park was a single-story brick building whose stingy windows and lack of inspired architecture suggested its origins as a 1950s office suite, perhaps for a sales or distribution force. The worn linoleum tile floor, the intuitional pale yellow walls, and the buzz of long-outdated fluorescent overhead lighting confirmed Lang Reilly’s guess as to the age of the structure.

  A bulletin board bristled with memoranda and wanted posters, many of the latter yellowed with age.

  A bored officer looked up from the Journal-Constitution crossword. “Hepya?”

  “I’m here to see Detective Franklin Morse.”

  “Expecting you?” the cop asked suspiciously.

  Lang nodded. “I spoke with him on the phone less than an hour ago. He said he’d be here.”

  Without taking his eyes off Lang, the policeman picked up a phone and punched the keyboard. “You got a visitor. Name of . . .” He looked up at Lang.

  “Reilly, Lang Reilly.”

  Lang looked around for a seat, found none. Apparently visitors to the cop shop weren’t supposed to be made comfortable.

  “Mr. Reilly?”

  Morse stood in the entrance to a hallway. Half a head taller than Lang, he wore the pants to a seersucker suit, a white button-down, and rep tie. Spotless white bucks peeked out from below razor-creased trousers. Lang pushed away the mental image of the policeman with a gaily ribboned straw boater on his head.

  Morse gave a half-turn, half-bow. “This way, Mr. Reilly.”

  Once in the hallway, Lang could hear the buzz of electronics, the clicking of keyboards. From somewhere came the metallic tone of a voice filtered through a radio.

  Morse stood aside, indicating an open door about halfway down the hall.

  Inside, a metallic desk was against the wall below the window framing a view of a parking lot jammed with police vehicles, most marked, some not. Next to the window, a chair matched the desk in utilitarian ugliness and faced outward. Beside the chair, its twin faced the desk, the only difference being a worn cushion. The desk bore a silver-framed photograph of an attractive black woman and two teenage boys. It and a pair of cheaply framed certificates on the wall were the only personal items Lang saw in the entire cramped space.

  Morse pointed to the outward facing chair. “Do have a seat, Mr. Reilly.”

  Land sat gingerly, nodding toward the desk. “Nice-looking family, Detective.”

  Morse slid into his chair with a sigh. “Thanks. Older boy, Adam, starts Tech come August. Full scholarship. Wants a degree in computer science.”

  “And the other?”

  “Still time to change his mind. Wants to be a lawyer.”

  Was that the ghost of a smile Lang saw float across the policeman’s face?

  “We certainly wouldn’t want that,” Lang said.

  Yes, definitely a smile. It vanished with certainty.

  “Well, Mr. Reilly, I ‘spect we done ‘xhausted the pleasantries. Shall we get down to business?”

  Over the years, Lang had noted Morse’s speech varied from the simply ungrammatical, to Southern Black dialect, to perfect English, depending on the circumstances. He guessed the affectation was used to conceal a truly bright mind.

  “Okay, Detective, what do you have?”

  Morse extracted two files from a stack beneath his chair and opened the one on top. Lang caught a flash of a mug shot stapled to the inside. “You wanted to know about the two homies who broke into your house. Both perps have raps going back over ten years: larceny, grand larceny, assault on a teacher when one was only nine, auto theft, sexual assault, battery with a deadly weapon, attempted murder. And that ain’t even gettin’ to the distribution of controlled-substance charges. You name it. Since they were juvies, they been in jail more’n out. They members of the YM’s, Young Money, Bankhead-area gang related to the Bloods outta LA. Couple of real sweethearts. Gang isn’t what you’d call organized beyond coordinating a robbery or break-in. You can bet somebody else was paying them to try to snatch your son.”

  “Believe me, we didn’t choose who was going to try to kidnap Manfred.”

  The policeman nodded agreement. “I’m sure. Fact of the matter, you — or Ms. Fuchs — pro’lly saved the taxpayers a fortune in prosecution and incarceration costs.”

  “So, what’s the problem with giving me a look at their files?”

  “Mayhem, Mr. Reilly, mayhem. You and I know I been the detective on the beat when someone jumped from your condo on Peachtree Street. What was it, 24 floors? I was called in after someone tried to kill you by blowing up said condo, endangering the lives of the other hundred or so residents. It was on my beat when you chased down a car all the way to Charlie Brown Airport and trashed a million-dollar-plus-aircraft. Need I go on?”

  “And your point would be?”

  “Mr. Reilly, you and I both know you ain’t asking for this info so you can put flowers on these punks’ graves. They dead, they most likely gonna stay that way. Only thing you wants to know is who sent ‘em. To get that information, you gonna track down whoever you have to. My experience is whoever you find not gonna say, ‘Oh yeah, sure. Lemme tell you ‘bout the recently deceased.’ They have anything to do with you, good chance I got another set of vics, dead vics. You unnerstan’ what I’m sayin’?”

  Lang shrugged, hands palms up, the quintessence of innocence. “All I want is information: from those guys’ friends and families, and from you, to which I’m entitled, by the way.”

  Morse handed over the files. “Not gonna do you
a lot of good. Both lived with they womans out to the Bankhead Courts.”

  “Which aren’t there anymore.”

  In 1936 Atlanta opened Techwood Homes, the nation’s first public housing, a much-heralded event attended by then-President Franklin Roosevelt. By 2009 it had become obvious that the projects were breeding grounds for poverty, crime, and violence. Some less-than-perspicacious soul figured out that dispersing the residents would solve the problem, so the projects came under the wrecking ball to be replaced by housing vouchers, federal Section 8 subsidies, and requiring “affordable housing” units of developers of multi-family residential projects. The result was as predictable as it was ill-thought-out: like quarantining a plague by dispersing its victims.

  Said poverty, crime, and violence were now equitably distributed throughout the city. Homeowners of both the mansions of Buckhead to the north and the shotgun cottages of Cabbage Town, a former mill village, on the south side now equally shared the joy of neighbors whose dubious occupations, if any, included dealing narcotics, mugging, and prostitution.

  “Which ain’t there,” Morse repeated. “Don’t see as how you gonna get ennythin’ outta whoever you find. Why not let the police do the job we paid for?”

  “Detective, do you really believe you or anyone from the APD is going to take the time to run down friends and relatives of those two, just to try to find out why they wanted my son or who sent them?”

  Morse sighed, shook his head, and shoved the files toward Lang. “You right. The book on them two perps permanently closed. We got enough live ones keep us busy. Plus, knowin’ you, Mr. Reilly, you knows damn well who sent those guys and pro’lly the reason why. Just one thing, Mr. Reilly: I’d soon arrest you as anyone else who thinks they sort of a vigilante. Whoever you find, they be friends or relatives of the deceased, they ain’t gonna likely to be the sort you see at your club’s annual ball. But that no excuse to take the law into your own hands. We unnerstanin’ each other?”

  They did, far better than either would admit. Lang didn’t doubt stepping across the line between self-defense and murder would land him in jail. And Morse was correct: Lang knew perfectly well who had sent the would-be kidnappers. He simply needed to be sure before he carried out his promise to the Greek.

  CHAPTER 43

  472 Lafayette Drive

  Atlanta, Georgia

  That Evening

  Lang Reilly had a surprise waiting for him when he got home.

  Having Manfred climb out of the pool to embrace him, leaving his suit jacket somewhere between damp and soaked, wasn’t it. Nor was Grumps awakening from his nap. The Beetenbartsch, beet root soup with sour cream, or Konigsberger Klopse, meatballs in a white sauce, in the kitchen only suggested Francis was due for dinner, since they were among the priest’s favorites.

  Truth be told, just about any of Gurt’s native German dishes so qualified, as did meals by any of his parishioners. That he was to be a dinner guest was far from surprising.

  The surprise was the tall black man with his left arm in a sling. In the kitchen, he seemed to be getting in Gurt’s way more than helping.

  She was bent over, peering into the oven. Lang gave her rear a loving pat. “Who’s . . .?”

  “Name’s Leon Frisch.” The disembodied voice came from somewhere inside the oven. “He’s just out of jail, hasn’t got anywhere else to go.”

  Lang eyed the stranger with renewed interest. “We’ve started running a halfway house?”

  Gurt’s upper body appeared as though by magic. “He’s the one I had the, er . . .” She moved her fists in a circular motion as though boxing. “Auseinandersetzung, Schlagerei. He wanted to wash my windshield.”

  “You mean the bum you had an altercation with on the way to pick up Manfred?”

  Gurt set a tray of freshly baked bread on the counter. The aroma almost made Lang forget what they were talking about.

  But not quite. He looked at Leon with distaste. “You said he was on meth or something.”

  “I was,” Leon volunteered. “And I want to atone for the trouble I caused this lady.”

  Lang shook his head. “Look, Leon, or whatever your name is, we’re not in the turn-the-other-cheek business.”

  “But I am.”

  No one had seen Francis come in. “And just to whom are we turning that cheek?”

  Lang pointed to Leon, who certainly looked less than worthy of redemption: pink flip-flops, no doubt a souvenir of his stay at the taxpayer’s expense; just enough beard stubble to be the result of laziness rather than a desire to re-grow his beard; a shirt that had put in time between washes, as evidenced by whiffs of body odor; and that sling for his left arm, a dirty piece of cloth holding an arm with an equally dirty bandage.

  “Good question, Padre,” Lang said. “Even better, just why is he here?”

  Gurt took off a pair of oven mitts and used her hands to push back a few strands of hair that had escaped the tight chignon, then gently slap Lang’s probing fingers away from the freshly baked bread. She stared at Lang for a moment. “Did I not say . . .?”

  “No, you neglected that part.”

  Her hands fluttered from her head to be clasped before her. “Mr. Frisch here, Leon, took a bullet meant for me.”

  Lang stared at the stranger, then at Gurt, then back again.

  Gurt reached out and touched his jaw. “You should not leave your mouth open so, Lang. It is most unattractive.”

  “You mean when those two men . . .?”

  “Ja.” Gurt nodded emphatically. “Were it not for Leon . . .”

  There was a chuckle from Father Francis, a deep sound of merriment like the crackle of a fireplace. “Sounds like Leon is going to be around for a while. Other than saving fair maidens, Leon, can you do anything useful?”

  “Before I succumbed to the devil, I worked for a landscaping company. Started when I dropped outta high school. Anything to get outs Bankhead Courts.”

  Succumbed to the devil? People like Leon didn’t “succumb,” Lang thought. Or submit or yield, for that matter. They were possessed or taken over. Leon was parroting what he had heard.

  Francis picked up on it, too. “And just how long did this succumbing last?”

  Leon studied the ceiling as though the answer might be written there. “I, I’m not sure. I started doing recreational meth, then I was missing work at the landscaping company. There are some big gaps in my memory, Father. Next I knew, I was on the street. That’s been . . . oh, been at least two years ago.”

  Lang looked at Francis questioningly. “You’re the only expert on addiction I know. Sound reasonable?”

  Francis shook his head sadly. “All too reasonable. Every time I do my homeless shelter ministry, I hear pretty much the same story.”

  “Yeah, Father,” Leon interjected. “But I’m clean now.”

  “So were 99 percent of the people I see. Problem is staying that way.”

  “What are the odds of that?” Lang wanted to know.

  “No better than 10 percent.”

  Gurt gently slapped Lang’s second attempt for the bread before turning on Francis. “Shame on you! You and your church preach forgiveness and redemption, yet you are against giving Leon a chance at both.”

  The priest raised a defensive hand. “Whoa! I never said I was against anything.”

  “Well, I am,” Lang said. “No matter what good deed Leon here did, you heard Francis: there’s a 90 percent chance of him going back to whatever fucked him up in the first place. You want to take that risk with Manfred around, not to mention whatever we may have of value in the house?”

  Leon was following the discussion, head turning from speaker to speaker as though watching a tennis match.

  As was so often the case, Lang had lost the war before being given a chance to muster his forces. He might get the last word of the argument, only to later realize those words were the beginning of a new argument.

  “Why don’t you and Francis go into the library and have a drin
k before dinner?” she suggested sweetly. “Leon will be getting settled in the guest room in the pool house. We can use some landscaping around here.”

  Recognizing defeat, Lang led Francis into the library, a room where overflowing bookcases were built into three of the paneled walls with a window looking onto the pool in the fourth. A flatscreen TV and old-fashioned record turntable stacked with vinyl 78s shared space with books.

  From beneath the screen’s blank stare, Lang knelt and opened the doors of a cabinet. “Same old?”

  Francis nodded.

  Lang took out a Lalique decanter of Macallan scotch and poured into two Baccarat highball glasses, tinkled in some ice, and handed a glass to his guest. As he stood, the distinctive bravura trumpet of Harry James began the opening notes of Little Things Mean a Lot. Kitty Kalan was in full soprano voice by the time he crossed the room to sink into the leather club chair across from the one occupied by Francis.

  Neither man spoke in deference to the single malt. In unison, both nodded approval before Lang shook his head. “Don’t know what Gurt had in mind, taking in a street person and a dope addict at that.”

  Francis smiled. “All God’s children, Lang. Here, this one has a better chance than most.”

  “And an even better chance to rip off everything in the house soon as he gets back on whatever shit was running his life. Let’s face it: the man has reached rock bottom and has started to dig.”

  Francis tut-tutted between sips of scotch. “There’s a little bit of good in the worst of us, Lang. He may work out fine. I mean, a street person, probably grew up in the projects . . .”

  Black. Bankhead Courts.

  There was an idea sniffing around the perimeter of Lang’s mind like an animal just outside the light of a campfire. From experience, he knew, sooner or later, it would step into the light.

  CHAPTER 44

  472 Lafayette Drive

  The Next Morning