glance. “Wanna tell what happened?”
Lang noticed the two uniforms had spaced themselves so that, should he try, he could not attack both at the same time. Standard procedure when you don’t know if the person being interviewed is the perp or not.
Lang shut the door. “Sure. Have a seat?”
Morse shook his head. “No thanks. Crime scene crew’ll be here any minute. So, Mr. Reilly, let’s hear it.”
Lang related what had happened, omitting any reference to the pendant he had found. He didn’t want to have to surrender the only clue to what he suspected was an organization far beyond the understanding or reach of the local cops. He saw no reason to mention the early warning of the invasion, either. The last thing he wanted was to provoke further interrogation based on what would be perceived as some nut’s conspiracy fantasy.
As he finished, there was a knock at the door. Morse opened it, admitting a balding white man with futuristic- looking photographic equipment and a young black woman with a suitcase. Lang felt marveled at how quickly they made themselves at home.
As though agreeing with someone Lang hadn’t heard, Morse nodded to him. “Broke in here with two knives and winds up taking the quick way down rather’n stay in the same room with you, Mr. Reilly? That your story?”
“And I’m sticking to it.”
“Hard to believe perp’d kill hiss’sef like that rather’n take th’ collar. Way the courts work, wasn’t even facing major time. Sure you didn’t use some kinda persuasion to throw him out, jujitsu him through the glass there? You sure as hell be justified, him breakin’ in here like he did.”
Lang shook his head. “Nope, like I said, I knocked the knife outta his hand, hit him a lick on the back of the head and he dropped the other one. He jumped through the glass door.”
Morse ran a hand across the bottom half of his face. “You about the baddest ass I’ve seen. Where you do your workouts, Parris Island? Where you learn to handle a man with a knife?”
“Navy SEAL,” Lang said. The story was as verifiable as it was false.
Morse eyed him with renewed interest. “SEAL, huh? Thought them guys were career. You don’ look old enough to take retirement.”
“Was in Desert Storm in ’90, took a raghead bullet clearing Kuwait City harbor.”
Morse’s crime scene crew was poking around the room, moving objects on the secretary with pencils, inspecting the bottoms of furniture. Lang couldn’t even guess what they hoped to find. Grumps watched with declining interest.
“Lemme get this straight.” Morse was consulting his note pad. “That dog growls, you hear somebody foolin’ with th’ lock. ’Stead o’ callin’ 911 then, you jus’ wait for him to come in. Like, meybbe you want to bust him yo’seff?”
Lang straightened the rug with his foot. “I told you: there wasn’t time. If I’d been on the phone instead of ready for him, there’s a good chance the homicide would be here instead of down there.”
Morse’s eyes were searching the room again. “You got a phone in the bedroom. All you had t’ do was lock yo’seff in an’ call the police.”
Lang chuckled, although he couldn’t put much humor in it. “That’s what you’d do, put your life in the hands of the local 911 operators, same ones let a man croak of a heart attack last month while they argued about whose jurisdiction he was dying in? I’d be better off calling the San Francisco police.”
“Okay,” Morse admitted with a raised hand. “Meybbe all the bugs ain’t worked out yet.”
“Yet?” Lang asked, incredulous. “System was installed in ’96. The ‘bugs’ are the mayor’s friends, sold it to the city.”
“You own a firearm?” the detective wanted to know.
The change of subject almost caught Lang off balance just as he surmised it was supposed to. It was standard practice for the Atlanta cops to confiscate, or at least hold as long as possible, every handgun they could
Lang noticed the two uniforms had spaced themselves so that, should he try, he could not attack both at the same time. Standard procedure when you don’t know if the person being interviewed is the perp or not.
Lang shut the door. “Sure. Have a seat?”
Morse shook his head. “No thanks. Crime scene crew’ll be here any minute. So, Mr. Reilly, let’s hear it.”
Lang related what had happened, omitting any reference to the pendant he had found. He didn’t want to have to surrender the only clue to what he suspected was an organization far beyond the understanding or reach of the local cops. He saw no reason to mention the early warning of the invasion, either. The last thing he wanted was to provoke further interrogation based on what would be perceived as some nut’s conspiracy fantasy.
As he finished, there was a knock at the door. Morse opened it, admitting a balding white man with futuristic- looking photographic equipment and a young black woman with a suitcase. Lang felt marveled at how quickly they made themselves at home.
As though agreeing with someone Lang hadn’t heard, Morse nodded to him. “Broke in here with two knives and winds up taking the quick way down rather’n stay in the same room with you, Mr. Reilly? That your story?”
“And I’m sticking to it.”
“Hard to believe perp’d kill hiss’sef like that rather’n take th’ collar. Way the courts work, wasn’t even facing major time. Sure you didn’t use some kinda persuasion to throw him out, jujitsu him through the glass there? You sure as hell be justified, him breakin’ in here like he did.”
Lang shook his head. “Nope, like I said, I knocked the knife outta his hand, hit him a lick on the back of the head and he dropped the other one. He jumped through the glass door.”
Morse ran a hand across the bottom half of his face. “You about the baddest ass I’ve seen. Where you do your workouts, Parris Island? Where you learn to handle a man with a knife?”
“Navy SEAL,” Lang said. The story was as verifiable as it was false.
Morse eyed him with renewed interest. “SEAL, huh? Thought them guys were career. You don’ look old enough to take retirement.”
“Was in Desert Storm in ’90, took a raghead bullet clearing Kuwait City harbor.”
Morse’s crime scene crew was poking around the room, moving objects on the secretary with pencils, inspecting the bottoms of furniture. Lang couldn’t even guess what they hoped to find. Grumps watched with declining interest.
“Lemme get this straight.” Morse was consulting his note pad. “That dog growls, you hear somebody foolin’ with th’ lock. ’Stead o’ callin’ 911 then, you jus’ wait for him to come in. Like, meybbe you want to bust him yo’seff?”
Lang straightened the rug with his foot. “I told you: there wasn’t time. If I’d been on the phone instead of ready for him, there’s a good chance the homicide would be here instead of down there.”
Morse’s eyes were searching the room again. “You got a phone in the bedroom. All you had t’ do was lock yo’seff in an’ call the police.”
Lang chuckled, although he couldn’t put much humor in it. “That’s what you’d do, put your life in the hands of the local 911 operators, same ones let a man croak of a heart attack last month while they argued about whose jurisdiction he was dying in? I’d be better off calling the San Francisco police.”
“Okay,” Morse admitted with a raised hand. “Meybbe all the bugs ain’t worked out yet.”
“Yet?” Lang asked, incredulous. “System was installed in ’96. The ‘bugs’ are the mayor’s friends, sold it to the city.”
“You own a firearm?” the detective wanted to know.
The change of subject almost caught Lang off balance just as he surmised it was supposed to. It was standard practice for the Atlanta cops to confiscate, or at least hold as long as possible, every handgun they could
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