The Julian Secret (Lang Reilly Thrillers) Read Online Free PDF Page A

dead?”
    She shook her head and felt the tears she had given up on brushing away spread across her face. “No.”
    The inspector stubbed out his cigarette, staring at the ashtray as though ideas for his next question might be there. “This writing he was doing, what was it about?”
    She shrugged, aware how silly her answer was going to sound. “I’m not sure. I did specific research for him, most related to Franco or World War Two, but he did the actual writing himself.”
    “You never asked?” There was a definite note of incredulity in the inspector’s voice.
    “Of course I did. At first, anyway. He would laugh and say it was nothing I would care about. Then he seemed to get annoyed when I asked, so I quit. I suppose you could access his computer easily enough.”
    The inspector’s eyes narrowed, no longer looking sorrowful. “That would be a good idea had not someone taken it apart and removed the hard drive.”
    She stared at him in shock, realized her mouth was open, and shut it before speaking. “He was careful about making backups.”
    He was groping for another cigarette. “On what—disks, CDs? We found none. Apparently, our killer was meticulous in removing whatever research and writing Señor Huff had done.”
    Sonia stood on legs that did not feel like they wanted to hold her. “Not all of them.”
    She retrieved her purse. “I have one here, a CD.”
    The inspector’s eyebrows came together. “Why would you have it? The man was so secretive in what he was doing.”
    She handed it to him. “It was perfectly safe with me. I have no computer at home. Anyway, there are pictures on it, digital pictures he wanted me to take by a photography store and ask if they could lighten some up, enhance others. I was running late, so I planned to take them by this afternoon after the siesta.”
    He held out his hand. “We will return it when we finish.”
    Sonia wondered when, if ever, that would be.

C HAPTER T WO
    Atlanta, Georgia
    Park Place; 2660 Peachtree Road
    The next evening
    A warm spring breeze gave only a slight hint of the heat and humidity a month or so away. To the two men standing on the twenty-fourth-floor deck, the city below was a handful of jewels stretching to the southern horizon, where aircraft departing and arriving at the airport resembled distant fireflies. Both men took in the scene in silence, each puffing gently on a cigar.
    The shorter of the two, a black man wearing a sports shirt open at the neck to display a golden crucifix, rubbed his stomach appreciatively.
“Deorum cibus!”
    The other, also informally dressed, chuckled. “Food for the gods, indeed, Francis. At least you appreciate my cooking. After all,
Ieunus raro stomachus vulgaria temnit
.”
    “Horace does tell us that an empty stomach rarely declines ordinary food, but that dinner was awesome, anything but ordinary.” Father Francis Narumba wrinkled his eyebrows in mock suspicion. “But then, the quality of food around here has improved dramatically since Gurt came along. I don’t mean to preach, Lang, but . . .”
    Langford Reilly contemplated the ash of his cigar. “Then don’t, Francis,” he said good-naturedly. “We heretics don’t take the same view of living in sin as you papists. Ever heard of
capistrum maritale?”
    It was Francis’s turn to chuckle, the sound of a breeze across dry leaves. “As a priest, I’ve escaped Juvenal’s marital muzzle. But your first marriage was a good one. Had Dawn lived . . .”
    Realizing he might well have touched a place still raw, Francis puffed on his cigar. Dawn, Lang’s wife, had suffered a lingering death from cancer years ago, long before the priest had known his friend.
    Francis broke the silence that was threatening to lengthen. “Gurt going to be here indefinitely?”
    Judging by Lang’s scowl, the priest had made another conversational misstep. “Ask her.”
    Francis sighed and turned to face his friend. “Look, Lang, everything I say tonight seems to