Sweet Paradise by Gene Desrochers (most read books in the world of all time .txt) 📕

After a suitably intense reporter-stare-down, Pickering did what he does best, barked some more orders while rubbing his bald head.

“Everyone, start snapping.”

He was right. We needed to get our own evidence before the paramedics and cops took control. All three of us snapped photos and video. Junior didn’t move. That was fine, keeping track of a statue was easier.

Chapter 3

The cops arrived ten minutes after the paramedics pronounced Kendal dead.

They asked us to wait outside. We inhaled the salty air like we’d been held under water for the last hour. My office might never smell normal again. Not to mention Kendal’s open, staring eyes. Big, dead eyes.

An unmarked Crown Victoria out of a nineteen-eighties episode of Simon & Simon lumbered onto the grass despite three open spaces not ten feet away. Something about cops and especially detectives, no matter what city or state, they loved to park anywhere but in a marked parking space. They behaved like a dog that could piss on a bush, but would rather piss on your mailbox.

Two burly men emerged. The driver wore a long-sleeved white button-down tucked into blue dockers. The other detective dressed like he’d spent the day in a sports bar: t-shirt, White Sox cap, jeans. White Sox had a beard, but the driver looked cooler in a pair of oval sunglasses and a goatee. The skin around his goatee shimmered in the tropical light. I’d seen enough metro-sexuals in Los Angeles to know the look. He liked facials. Had facials really made it this far into the Atlantic?

Walter shook his head while he stared at this phone.

“Was Kendal married?” I asked.

Walter nodded. Junior had parked himself next to the railing on the steps.

“Who’s the kid?” Walter asked.

“Junior. Was here to see Kendal, but he wandered into my office first.”

“Kendal came looking for this kid and what, an arrow found him?”

“That’s about the size of it. You look like you could use some sleep, el presidente,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. It was too soon.

“This is no fucking time for your shit, Boise. I gotta tell a man’s wife he’s been shot with an arrow in our place of business. Hell, I gotta tell all my other reporters that one of them was just killed in our building and I gotta have someone write the story for tomorrow’s edition. Do you believe I’m enjoying those things?”

A firm finger tapped my shoulder. Goatee stood there, cool as a block of dry ice. His dark, satiny skin stood out in stark contrast to his dry-cleaned white cotton shirt.

“That your office?” He had a thick voice, honed by years of intimidation practice in the field.

“Yes,” I said. I tried to swallow, but my saliva had dried up.

In my experience cops tended to dislike private operators, like we were in competition, although to my mind, I’d always thought the two groups should help each other.

“What’s with that door?” he asked.

“I was painting it when all this went down.”

“I see.” He typed something into his phone.

“Hey, Boise?” It was Junior from his perch on the steps. “How much longer? I’m gettin’ a bit hungry.” He gestured putting food in his mouth. “Long flight, you know?”

“Who’s that?” Goatee asked.

Junior walked over. “Hey, officer.”

“Detective,” he said, indicating the shield clipped to his belt. “Major crimes.”

“Sorry, sir. I got in from Georgia not long ago and I’m gettin’ to where I could eat a bushel o’ peaches.”

Goatee nodded, then sauntered over to his car and came back with two Snickers bars.

“On me. You want a bottle of water?” He raised a James Bond eyebrow.

“Uh, no. Thank you, sir.” After accepting the proffered snack, Junior started to move back to his spot.

“Wait. We all gotta talk.” He eyed Pickering, then pointed at me and Junior. “How about us three have a discussion in my car.”

Through a mouthful of chocolate, caramel, and nuts, Junior said, “You got a-c?”

Once in the backseat, I said, “What about Walter?”

“I know Mr. Pickering. I know where he works and how he thinks. He’ll tell me what I need to know, then I’ll read all of it in the paper tomorrow. No worries there.”

I’d been questioned extensively by cops in my life. Everything from information gleaned while investigating cheating spouses for the firm I worked for when one of them wound up dead later, to the prolonged questioning involved with Evelyn’s death. One thing they liked doing was dividing up suspects and witnesses to see if the stories were consistent. His choosing to question Pickering and Givens separately probably had more to do with checking out if our stories lined up than the fact that Pickering was a reporter. Then again, maybe Goatee really was worried Pickering would report everything he heard.

A team of forensic techs trotted up the stairs and entered my office. White Sox leaned in to whisper something to one of them. He ambled over, hitched his jeans again, then plunked into the passenger seat. Removing his hat, he leaned close to the vent, his eyes narrowing as the cool air buffeted his face.

Goatee patted his partner’s shoulder. “This is Detective Barnes. I’m Detective Leber. We are in the major crimes division. We’ve been assigned to investigate the death of,” he looked at his phone, “Adirondack Kendal. Is that right?”

Barnes nodded his bulbous head, still leaning into the vent. “At least we got an easy I.D. for once, huh? What’s that name all about?”

Leber shrugged, “Mountain range, I think.”

“It’s in New York state,” I added helpfully.

“So, why was Adirondack Kendal in your office, Boise?” Leber asked.

Junior and I hadn’t discussed this question, but I’d agreed that our conversation was confidential. I intended to keep that promise.

“I’m not really sure why Kendal came down. A visit, I believe,” I said.

Detective Leber stared at me from between the front seats, at least it felt like he was staring at me, his sunglasses were so damn dark. He robotically shifted his attention to Junior,