Lang took a final sip of coffee, noting it had gone both cold and bitter. “Trying to kill us in Venice and burglarizing my house was not my idea. Thanks for the coffee and the lecture. Interesting that you think it was Alexander’s remains that were taken from the church.”
Francis shook his head. “I didn’t say that.” He held out the book. “I said this guy Chugg postulates that Alexander’s remains were taken from Alexandria. It’s entirely possible the tomb robbers you encountered in Venice read the same book and accepted his theory. Stealing Alexander’s remains makes a lot more sense that Saint Mark’s.”
“And that would be why?”
“Ancient legend has it that whoever possesses the body of Alexander will never be defeated in battle, again according to our friend Chugg.”
“So now we not only have grave robbers, we have superstitious grave robbers.”
Francis placed the book back on its slot on the shelf. “That should narrow the field as to suspects somewhat.”
Ansley Park
Later that afternoon
A winter twilight was waiting on the eastern horizon by the time Lang accelerated the Porsche onto Ansley Park’s meandering streets. Streetlights were stuttering on, their bluish fluorescence painting trees, shrubbery and buildings alike a ghostly hue. There were few people to be seen on the sidewalks and the winding byways. Early evening provided the temptation to unleash a few of the horses under the car’s rear deck lid and enjoy handling capabilities daytime traffic curtailed.
With that possibility in mind, he had taken the long way around, entering not at Fifteenth Street at the park’s southern edge but Beverly Road on the north. Only in second gear, he was enjoying the throaty burble as the tachometer whisked past 5000 RPM so much he almost missed the parked car.
Lang’s house on Lafayette Drive faced one of Ansley Park’s several small parks and green spaces, a strip of sculpted trees and small waterways known as Iris Garden, a venue managed by residents rather than the city in much the same way New York residents at one time maintained private parks, of which Gramercy is the last. Unlike New York, though, Iris Garden is not fenced in. The view of its ancient oaks, babbling water and seasonal shrubbery were a primary reason he and Gurt had selected their home.
Lang had planned to round the park, passing his house on the far side across the green space, and take a left-hand sweeper at the park’s western edge, which would bring him to his driveway. Because of the narrowness of the street along the park’s northern edge, parking at the curb was for bidden, a prohibition observed by anyone not wanting to risk finding their car a victim of an anonymous collision.
But there was a car parked there, perhaps fifty yards right across the park from his house.
Lang continued past, turning right rather than left at the street’s dead end into Peachtree Circle, a wide boulevard where street parking was allowed. Pulling the Porsche over, Lang cut the engine, locked it and began to backtrack. He was careful to keep in the shadows, where the fingers of light from the street lamps did not reach.
Rounding the corner, he could see the automobile in question clearly. The lighted tip of a cigarette told him this wasn’t some careless soul who had left his vehicle in a precarious position while he ran a short errand to one of the abutting houses. Whoever was in that car was there for a more sinister purpose.
Keeping in darkness as much as possible, Lang approached until he was no more than six feet from the car’s rear bumper. Against the streetlights’ glow, he could clearly see a single person aiming some sort of device across the park. Lang didn’t have to guess. The listener was back, this time in a position not so easily observed from the house.
A dilemma: Lang could sneak away unobserved, warn Gurt the house was under audio surveillance and wait for an opportunity to find out who this snooper was. Or he could take direct action, alerting the person or persons they had been detected, and perhaps identify them.
Stooping, Lang duckwalked to the rear of the car to keep below the line of sight of the rearview mirrors. By now, he was beside the driver’s door.
His knees were already protesting his cramped posture and he was about to lose feeling in his lower legs. Nevertheless, he made himself be still. How long did it take to smoke a single cigarette, anyway?
He was rewarded when the window scrolled down. A hand with the cigarette in it appeared above his head and flipped the burning tobacco away in an arc of sparks. Like a spring suddenly uncoiling, Lang stood, grabbing the arm and twisting so the man inside was forced against the dashboard. With his free hand, Lang reached inside the car, unlocked the door and dragged the man outside, forcing him facedown on the sidewalk. He struggled and Lang wrenched the arm upward.
“Be still or it comes right out of the socket,” he snarled.
Still pushing the arm upward, Lang put a knee between the shoulders as he used his free hand to pat the man down. It took only seconds to relieve the prone man of an automatic in a shoulder holster and a wallet in a hip pocket. Lang stuffed the weapon into his belt under his suit jacket and the wallet into a pocket before dragging the man to his feet and shoving him against the car.
He ratcheted the arm up a little farther. “OK, who the hell are you and who sent you?”
The only answer was a groan of pain.
“You’ll answer me or I’ll tear it loose and beat you over the head with it.”
Lang and his opponent were suddenly bathed in light. “Hold it right there!”
Lang looked up into the headlights of a police cruiser.
Swell.
Possibly, some neighbor had witnessed what was going on, and the 911 system had experienced another of its occasional successes. More likely, it was one of the rent-a-cops Ansley Park paid to beef up the virtually nonexistent regular patrols of the neighborhood.
“Back, stand back,” the voice from the car commanded. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”
By this time, porch lights were flickering on up and down the street.
Lang slowly let go of the man’s arm and stepped back, his hands held above his head. The man beneath him struggled up, took one look at the police car and bolted.
“Stop!” the cop yelled with no effect whatsoever.
It took only a nanosecond for the officer to realize he would have to abandon one potential arrestee for another in full flight. The old bird-in-the-hand theory. A bird that required no exertion to reduce to possession.
Lang pointed at the running man. “He tried to mug me. Stop him!”
The portly officer took only a glance as the fleeing man rounded a corner, before turning his attention to Lang. “You got ID?”
Lang produced his wallet, removed his driver’s license and handed it over for inspection under the beam of a flashlight.
The officer looked up. “You live around here, huh?”
“I can vouch for him, officer.”
Both Lang and the cop turned to see an elderly man in an old-fashioned smoking jacket and carpet slippers. Lang recognized him from one of the few neighborhood-association functions he had attended. He couldn’t put a name to the face, but for once he was going to benefit from the mind-your-neighbor’s-business culture of Ansley Park.
“And who’re you?” the officer demanded.
“Frank Hopkins,” the man puffed, clearly chagrined the policeman didn’t recognize him. “President of the Ansley Park Civic Association.”
The cop nodded. “Oh, yeah, Mr. Hopkins, I recall you now. I spoke about crime prevention at the meeting at your house a year or so ago.” He turned to Lang, returning the driver’s license. “You say the guy was trying to mug you?”
“That’s right,” Lang improvised, hoping Hopkins hadn’t seen all of what had happened. “He jumped out of that car right there and grabbed me. He was going for my wallet.”