The Julian Secret (Lang Reilly Thrillers) by Gregg Loomis

cigars are five or six times larger than my cigarettes. I smoke one, two cigarettes a day—it is the same, yes?”
    There was a logic error there somewhere, but Lang wasn’t sure where. At least he had gotten her habit down from over a pack a day. If she didn’t quit, she wasn’t going to be around long enough to become the next Mrs. Lang Reilly. So far, though, he had had little luck in persuading her into marriage. Instead, she seemed perfectly content, pointing out that their relationship worked just fine as is. He had had no success in finding the logic error there, either.
    Minutes later, they were getting out of a taxi in front of a building with the unmistakable facade common to 1930s-era dictators, a style of architecture Lang referred to as Fascist Modern. After they passed through metal detectors found in public buildings worldwide, a uniformed officer directed them to the office of Inspector Mendezo.
    Blinds against the still-fierce afternoon sun created an artificial twilight. Silhouetted by a dim lamp, a thin figure rose to extend a hand and a
“Buenos dias.”
A chink in the blinds behind him allowed sunlight into the two visitor’s chairs in front of the desk, an arrangement that made it difficult to see the face of whoever was behind the desk, a setup Lang was certain was intentional.
    In Spain, manners required the usual prefatory discussion of the weather, Lang and Gurt’s accommodations, their impressions of Seville, and the inspector’s recommendations as to local restaurants, a suggestion that was amended when he learned of their arrival by private plane. Lang guessed his potential dinner tab had doubled.
    Preliminaries out of the way, the inspector produced a pack of cigarettes and looked at Gurt. She nodded, producing a pack of her own. Lang, unable to say a word, prepared for a double volume of secondhand smoke.
    Or double lungful.
    The inspector leaned across the desk with a gallant flourish to light Gurt’s smoke with a lighter encased in gold. Pushing a cheap glass ashtray across the desk, he asked in heavily accented English, “So how may I help you?”
    Although he couldn’t see the face because of the light in his eyes, Lang would have bet the policeman was giving Gurt an appraising stare. “The Huff murder,” Lang said. “His daughter asked us to look into it.”
    “Hmmph!” Lang could not tell if the snort was derisive or angry. “Americans. They see too many detective programs on the televisions, believe every crime can be solved in sixty minutes with time for advertising. Even in your country, I think crime is not solved that quickly.”
    “Of course not,” Lang said, “but the woman, Miss Huff, is emotional and cannot understand the diligent efforts you and your department are making. If you would be so gracious as to explain them to me so I may comfort the unmarried daughter of an old friend . . .”
    “Diligent?”
    “Working very hard,” Gurt supplied, flicking an ash into the tray.
    Lang made a mental note to keep the language simple.It was difficult enough to carry on a conversation in a tongue not native to all participants. Employing unusual words would only alienate the Spaniard.
    “We are working hard,” the inspector said. “You see, here in Seville, or all of Spain, for that matter, we have less murder than in, say, your New York. Almost always a
hombre
. . .”
    “Man,” Gurt supplied.
    “. . . man killed, it is because he and a friend get drink. A woman, gamble, you know? Narcotics also. Sometime, not many, a . . . man, he bust into house to take, steal, get caught, he kill to get away. Here, Mr. Huff, look like only papers get stealed, yes? Very difficult, this thing, this killing. It was . . . How you say? Like your gangsters.”
    “Execution?” Lang offered.
    “Yes, execution. Bullet to the back of the neck, powder burns on skin. Very intentional.”
    “Do you have any idea why someone would kill Huff to get his manu . . . his book?” Lang