Read Online The Cathar Secret: A Lang Reilly Thriller by Gregg Loomis - Free Book Online

his name. Never saw him without that ugly mutt. However, his mother was really hot. A tall, blond German woman. Every time she came out to do yard work on a weekend, every man in the neighborhood developed a sudden need to cut the lawn no matter how recently the landscaping service had been there. Manfred had been born in Germany from what Wynton had heard. There was something a little strange there. For some reason, his father, name of Lang Reilly, had not seen the boy until the kid was already three, or so the talk on the street went. In Ansley Park, everybody's business was everybody else's business. Reilly and his wife had worked together somewhere in Europe before Reilly married his first wife, who had died a long time ago. And his current wife kept what Wynton guessed was her maiden name, Fuchs. Pronounced very differently in German and English, Wynton gathered, judging by the number of jokes in questionable taste going around the Park. Whatever. Manfred was unfailingly polite if he tended to be a little on the quiet side.
         Wynton put down his shears long enough to wipe his forehead with a shirt sleeve. "I'm pruning these trees so they'll have more blooms this summer."
         Manfred twisted his mouth from one side to the other, thinking this over. "Pruning?"
         "Yeah, cutting the smaller branches so they'll come back thicker."
         With that abrupt change of subject not necessarily peculiar to children, Manfred asked, "Where is Wynn?"
         "Taking a nap."
         Manfred gave this pronouncement serious consideration, too. "He is tired?"
         Wynton shrugged. "Guess so. Little kids take naps. You don't?"
         Manfred stood, the trike between his legs. "I am now four. I no longer take naps. Wynn is but three."
         Four wasn't so far from three, was it? What had that old bat at St. Philip's said, something about increasing contact with other children? He didn't remember seeing Manfred among his son's playmates.
         "Maybe you and Wynn should play together. After all, you live next door." He put down the shears and checked his watch. Pruning was harder work than he'd thought. "Tell you what: it's about time for Wynn to wake up or he won't go to sleep tonight. Why don't you ask your folks if it's okay for you to come over for a glass of lemonade or something? The two of you together can think of something to play."
         Wynton had no idea if any such beverage was in the refrigerator, but he did know that if it was sweet enough, a kid would be delighted to drink whatever was available.
         "I would like that. Thank you."
         He pedaled furiously around the corner of the house, dog trotting behind. He reappeared in seconds with his father. Behind them, Wynton noticed for the first time a stream of water. Reilly was washing his car again, a silver turbo Porsche. Reilly's car was almost as much an object of admiration and envy among the neighborhood men as his wife.
         Wynton didn't know Lang Reilly well, only enough to speak to upon sight. He did know Lang ran some sort of international charitable fund and practiced white-collar criminal defense. He had defended Atlanta's mayor against a number of corruption and racketeering charges a few years ago. Got "Hizhonor" the mayor off with a twenty-two-month sentence for

tax evasion instead of the six or seven years Wynton thought he deserved. Reilly hadn't gone to one of the top law schools—Harvard, Yale, Virginia—Wynton was fairly certain. But the man had an air of self-confidence that he wore like a familiar sweater, the legal equivalent of bedside manner.
         One thing Wynton was sure of: if he ever got into deep shit with the law, Reilly was the man he would want at his counsel table.
         Reilly was wearing a pair of cutoffs, an Atlanta Braves T-shirt, and no shoes. A bit skimpy even with the unseasonable weather.
         "Manfred says you invited him over for lemonade and to play with Wynn."