The Bonaparte Secret (10 page)

“Whoever’s in there isn’t going anywhere and he might be armed. I take it you’re not.”

“I do not carry weapons to drive Manfred to kindergarten, no.”

“Call 911. I’m on my way.”

Less than twenty minutes later, Lang parked in front of his home. It must have been a slow day at the 911 number. Already, the driveway was filled with police cruisers, lights flashing and the street filled with curious neighbors. A van bearing the logo
ATLANTA POLICE S.W.A.T. TEAM
was disgorging a number of figures in paramilitary dress carrying M16 rifles, who were running toward the uniformed officers already surrounding the house. Lang climbed out of his Porsche just as a tall black man in a suit exited an unmarked but obviously official car.

“Well, Mr. Reilly! I shoulda knowed this be your house, the place where there always some kinda trouble.”

Lang smiled. “Good to see you again, too, Detective Morse.”

Morse shook his head as he followed Lang up the path to the front door. “Reckon I should be thankful you called us, someone in your house, instead of you bagging him yourself like usual.”

Lang didn’t break stride. “Be fair, Detective. The only times you’ve arrived after someone got hurt was when I had to defend myself.”

Morse shook his head. “Still a mess. Between somebody taking a walk off your twenty-fourth-story balcony at your condo, blowing up your car, killing a professor down to Georgia Tech, you just plain trouble. Not to mention your condo exploding.”

Lang spied Gurt in conversation with a man who appeared to be the leader of the SWAT Team. “At least it’s never dull, Detective.”

“Maybe ain’t dull but sure gonna make retirement enjoyable.”

Gurt recognized Morse and turned from the other man. “Ah, Detective! So glad you could come!”

“Ain’t by choice, ma’am, tell you that.” His eyes focused on a small blinking red light under the mailbox. “That gizmo there what tell you somebody inside? Hate to think we got all these folks and hardware out here ’cause of a false alarm,” he added dubiously.

“I made sure . . . ,” she began.

Reaching past her and the detective, Lang flipped open the mailbox beside the door and pushed a small button. The back of a very ordinary looking postal receptacle fell away, revealing a small TV screen. The picture was black-and-white. It showed a figure pacing up and down a room, a gun in his hand.

“Our foyer,” Lang explained. “You can see there’s someone there.”

Morse’s eyes widened. “So we seeing a burglary in real time? But why ain’t he trying to get away? He gotta have heard the sirens.”

“He can’t. The minute he stepped into the room, activating the security system, steel screens dropped down from the ceiling, trapping him in the foyer. Same thing would have happened if he had broken in anywhere else.”

Morse gave Lang the expression of a man who thinks he may be the butt of a joke. “Get outta here!”

“If you liked that, you’re gonna love this.”

Lang pushed another button and a panel next to the video mailbox popped open, revealing what looked like a small speaker. Those standing close by could hear the footsteps of the man inside.

“Voice activated,” Lang explained as he leaned forward. “You, in the house!”

The figure on the screen froze for a second before turning around, looking for the source of the voice.

“You! You’ve got exactly ten seconds to drop your weapon, lie down of the floor and put your hands on your head. Now, nine seconds before we shoot in the cyanide gas.”

The man seemed paralyzed.

“Seven seconds or you’ll be dead in less than thirty.”

That got his attention. He did as ordered.

“Now what?” Morse asked.

Lang produced a key and opened the door, standing back to let the SWAT team enter. Its leader glanced nervously at Lang.

“The gas was a bluff.”

Morse watched the men enter, cuff the intruder and drag him to his feet before speaking. “Who the hell’s the architect for your house, Mr. Reilly, James Bond?”

Lang chose to laugh rather than explain how many close calls he had had in the last few years. Morse was aware of a number of them.

Conversation stopped as the SWAT members dragged the invader toward the open doors of a van.

“Caught in the act—
in flagrante delicto,
as you lawyers say,” the detective observed. “Even the Fulton County DA should be able to get a conviction if the sheriff can hold on to him.”

He referred to the fact that the current county prosecutor’s office chronically saw criminals go free for reasons of failure to timely prosecute, misplaced evidence and general incompetence. In the last year, several high-profile suspects had walked out of the county’s jail by simply giving a false name to sheriff’s deputies. In Atlanta, Fulton County, Georgia, the wheels of justice did not just grind slowly, they frequently ran with stripped gears.

Lang was more interested in the man being shoved into the back of the paddy wagon. “Detective, when was the last time you busted an Asian like that guy?”

Morse looked at him suspiciously. “You asking on behalf of the ACLU or somebody?”

Lang shook his head. “Not at all. Just asking because I’m curious.”

The detective rubbed his chin. “Dunno. Most them Asians around here too busy working for a living to do something like break in a house. Now, out to DeKalb County, they got theyselves a problem with some Asian gangs, but here, they run their businesses an’ what all.” He grinned. “Don’ know if you notice, but ever’ year the paper runs pictures of the top graduate of ever’ city high school. Most of ’em are Asian kids. Kids who finish top of their class ain’t got time for gangs, crime or anything else.”

The detective watched the van drive away with its prisoner. “That perp, Vietnamese or whatever, didn’t do his homework before he tried to break in here. Just random luck, his bad luck he chose your place.” He turned to face the house’s open door, where several uniforms were watching Gurt demonstrate how the steel curtains worked. “Fact is, he’d a known who you were and the sorry-ass history of people trying to fuck with you, he would’ve chosen another house, that’s for sure.”

“I appreciate your confidence.”

But Lang felt anything but confident the break-in was random.

472 Lafayette Drive, Atlanta
That evening

Lang had finished putting his freshly bathed son to bed despite the little’s boy’s every effort to negotiate a few more minutes. Lights out, Grumps already snoring gently on the hooked rug, Manfred now breathing deeply. Lang stood at the door, observing the scene limned by the hall light. He was perpetually both astonished at and grateful for the domestic turn his life had taken in the last two years.

After Dawn’s death, Lang had reconciled himself to a life without the children he had wanted so badly. His resignation to an existence alone had deepened when his sister Janet and her adopted son had perished in a bomb blast in Paris, what, five years ago? To his mind, Gurt’s unexpected reappearance with a son he didn’t know he had was nothing short of miraculous.

Now, if only he could shake off the troubles that seemed to follow him like stray dogs, he could settle down to a life of pleasantly dull domesticity. His existence would be as close to perfect as he could wish.

Or as I think I might wish,
he added as he flipped off the hall switch and started down the stairs. Running a charitable foundation was, at the best of times, a source of little excitement. The practice of law, even dealing with characters like the Reverend Bishop Groom, was at its most rewarding repetitive, and constant repetition soon equaled ennui and boredom. Job satisfaction among those of Lang’s peers who had the keenest of minds took a definite downward turn after ten to fifteen years of doing basically the same thing over and over, whether it be in the boardroom, the closing room or the courtroom.

OK,
he conceded in the ongoing self-debate,
what is it you want: a fabric of life into which is woven the occasional bright hue of action, a stew, bland other than the odd piquant morsel?
Most of his contemporaries accepted the colorless existence, the tasteless portion.

Not that he had a choice, he realized. Interrupting grave robbers in Venice, the chase through the canals, just happened. Like getting drenched by an unpredictable summer thunder shower, he and Gurt had just chanced to be there by some random process, call it luck, fate, karma or whatever. Now, for reasons he didn’t understand, his home was under surveillance and had been invaded.

His guess was that the intruder had seen Gurt leave and had anticipated the house would be empty, carrying a weapon only against the possibility of her returning earlier than expected. He had little doubt the job had been thoroughly reconnoitered. But to what end? Hardly some dopehead, desperate to rip off a flat-screen TV to exchange for a few flakes of crystal meth. Even if the law did not recognize a causal relationship because of the mere proximity of events in time, common sense did. What had happened in Venice had precipitated the break-in; he was sure of it.

But why?

The doorbell chimed as he reached the bottom step. He saw Gurt squinting through the peephole before she opened the door. He was surprised to see Detective Morse cross the threshold.

The policeman nodded to Gurt. “Evening, ma’am. Sorry to bother you.”

Lang grinned inwardly. As usual when the detective wasn’t on duty or around the other cops, the deep Southern-black accent dropped away like a discarded garment. Lang supposed the dialect was a device to disarm suspects, to conceal a sharp mind and a quick sense of observation.

“Well, Detective,” Lang said, “this is a surprise. I don’t recall a visit from you that wasn’t in response to some sort of mayhem.”

Morse was looking around curiously. “Tell me about it! This isn’t a social call, though.”

“Well, you’re welcomed nonetheless.” Lang gestured. “Come on back into the den. Can I get you something, perhaps an adult beverage?”

“Thanks but I won’t be staying that long. I’ve got a couple of questions, though.”

Lang led him from the foyer, past dining and living rooms and into the den. “I’d be surprised if you didn’t.” He went to the bar and poured himself a shot of scotch. “Sure you won’t join me?”

Gurt sat on the sofa and motioned the policeman into a chair across a glass coffee table. “Perhaps a Coke?”

Morse shook his head. “Mighty kind of you, but no thanks.” Reaching into a pocket, he produced a small notepad. “Don’t suppose either of you have ever seen the perp that was in your house?”

Both Lang and Gurt shook their heads no.

“Should we have?” Lang asked, adding ice and water to the glass.

The detective gave him a long look, the stare of someone who thinks he is perhaps not hearing the entire truth. “The question you asked me, the one about Asian criminals. Almost like you weren’t surprised at being burglarized by someone other than some homey looking for something to fence in a hurry.”

For not the first time, Lang realized the man’s perceptiveness was usually hidden behind his speech. He said nothing as he sat on the sofa next to Gurt.

“The guy’s Chinese, best we can tell. Least he seemed to understand one of our guys who speaks Mandarin, though he wouldn’t respond to it. And a pro, like he’s been in a police station once or twice, I’d guess, and I don’t mean to contribute to the Policemen’s Benevolent Association, either. No ID on him. A real hard nut. Only words he’s spoken since he was busted has been to ask for a lawyer, fellow named Wan who practices in DeKalb County. Mostly defends gang members. Why do I think to you all this isn’t news?”

Lang shrugged. “Detective, I can assure you, we were not expecting to be burglarized, not by a Chinese or, for that matter, a Frenchman or Sherpa.”

Morse gazed around the room. “For someone got his house secure as Fort Knox, you weren’t exactly expecting Girl Scouts selling cookies, either.”

“Last time I looked, Detective, a man’s house is his castle. He’s free to use any security measure he chooses unless it’s illegal like a spring gun or something else that potentially could injure emergency personnel.”

Morse gave him another long look. “You’re right, counselor. But you can understand why I might be curious as to the, er, rather elaborate precautions. I mean, what other house you know got steel curtains drop down from the ceiling, cameras and an intercom? And I’m far from certain the cyanide gas was just a bluff.”

Lang sat back, crossing his arms. “You know I seem to draw trouble, Detective.”

“Like sugar draws ants.”

“Now that I have a family, it seemed only reasonable to take certain . . . precautions.”

“OK, conceding that you’re just a cautious man, why would some Chinese guy be interested in your house?”

Lang rattled the ice cubes in his glass and took a sip. “Until you told me the man’s nationality—or should I say ethnicity—he could have been any number of people of Asian descent.”

Morse stood, stuffing the notepad in a jacket pocket. “See if I got this right: you had no reason whatsoever to think you’d be burglarized, and even less by a Chinese.”

Lang stood. “You got it.”

The detective glanced upward, perhaps checking this room for cameras also. “These real-time TV cameras that showed the perp in your foyer. I don’t suppose they make a tape, too.”

Lang shook his head. “No need. The purpose is to be able to see an intruder, not produce evidence.”

“You sure about that?”

“Very.”

Morse’s eyes narrowed. “Let me be very clear, Mr. Reilly. You hiding something pertinent to my investigation, I won’t hesitate to charge you with interfering with an investigation, obstruction, spitting on the street, parking overtime or whatever.”

Lang smiled disarmingly. “So you’ve told me.”

Morse pointed an accusing finger. “Ever’ time, there’s something I feel you aren’t telling me. This time . . .”

Lang crossed to the doorway between the hall and den, his good humor undiminished, a clear indication the conversation was at an end. “Thanks for stopping by, Detective. Anytime.”