Sweet Paradise (Boise Montague, #2) by Gene Desrochers

Author:Gene Desrochers
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: murder, murder mystery, private detective, caribbean noir, noir, mystery, private investigator, caribbean, tropical thriller
Publisher: Gene Desrochers
Published: 2021-04-06T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 19

The bar at the Greenhouse glowed like honey in sunlight. Some kind of special paint had been used below the varnish to give it a shimmering appearance. The Aussie bartender, Willy, said some Russian artist named Vlad, who was hiding out from the mob, had agreed to paint it during the last renovation in exchange for a month’s worth of chow.

“It was worth it,” I said every time I showed up there and he turned on the overhead lamp. The special thing about this type of painting, which apparently was as secret as the Coca-Cola formula, was that it became brighter or darker depending on how much light shown on it. The glow made your glass of alcohol seem even more heaven-sent at the end of a long day.

As I slugged my first gulp, movement on the stool next to me. Leber. He clapped me on the back like we were old pals.

“Boise. What up, da man?”

I gave a weary nod. “You’re in a chipper mood, Detective.”

He put his finger to his lips and hunched toward me. “Let’s be incognito tonight.”

“Whatever, man.” I chased my beer with heavily salted peanuts. “I’m not super-fond of police officers or detectives or anyone with a badge. What do you want from me?”

He ordered Bacardi and soda, then adjusted himself on the stool. “Preferred it better when the stools here had backs.” He rubbed his lower spine and winced. “Some kinda slipped disc, my chiropractor says. You believe that?”

Willy frisbeed a green Heineken coaster in front of Leber and set his drink on it.

“You friendly with Corey Hart?” I asked.

“Who’s that?”

“Never mind.”

Corey Hart sang the hit tune, I Wear My Sunglasses at Night. I loved the song, but found that the real guys who did this were douche-bags. Luckily, most of them lived in Holly-weird.

Then Leber surprised me. “You makin’ fun of my glasses?” He pulled them to the tip of his ample nose. His deep brown eyes peered at me over the rim. A predatory dog sizing up the enemy. “I got sensitive eyes. Work-related accident. Some bastard turned on a very intense light while enhanced-interrogating me a few years back. I see fine, but can’t stand bright light or even faint light much anymore.”

“That didn’t disqualify you from police work?”

“You think competent detectives are coming out of the woodwork around here. The department’s lucky if we can find anyone with a college degree and no record.”

“Sounds like every cop I’ve been involved with,” I said. “So, what is it you want?”

“Boise, drop the cop-hating act. I know you don’t feel that way about folks trying to do the right thing and putting their lives on the line.” He waited while I silently acknowledged he had a point. He continued. “Pickering’s being a hard-ass about Kendal’s laptop. Says he doesn’t know where it is. I could bring him up on obstruction, but I know him, he doesn’t care about that.”

Pickering had shown me the laptop only days ago, so I knew he had it.

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