Boise Montague, Book 3
Noir Crime/Murder Mystery
Date Published: December 12, 2023
Publisher: Acorn Publishing
Three bodies. One suspect. Zero time.
Crime Paradise
All of whom are dead.
With the dead women’s blood all over his
clothes, no memory of what happened, and no way for Boise to explain it, the
cops and the prosecutors think it’s a slam dunk. Boise knows he
didn’t do it, but no one’s willing to listen—so
he’ll have to find the killer himself.
But whoever said the truth will
set you free never saw anything like this. The people behind it are
powerful, careful…and they want Boise out of the picture for good.
Soon, Boise will face not only present danger, but past pain, because the
deeper he digs, the more skeletons he finds. And some of those skeletons are
his own. But will he finally bury them—and the past—or will
those skeletons bury him instead?
Perfect for lovers of Agatha Christi, Michael Connelly, and Richard Stark,
bestselling author Gene Desrochers’ third book in the hardboiled Boise
Montague mystery noir series will take you on an adventure into the dark
side of crime, the darker side of memory, and the danger that comes to
anyone who ventures into a Crime Paradise. Get your copy now!
EXCERPT
All I really wanted was to listen to the ocean, so I drank. The Jamaican girl with the nose ring offered me an already popped can of Old Milwaukee. Who could resist the good stuff.
Up to that moment, I could have argued that I was still a sober alcoholic. In fact, I was prepared to argue it to the death with Yarey once I located her. Then I thought, screw it, if I’m gonna be guilty, might as well do the deed.
The last thing I remembered her saying was, “You oughta grow your hair out. You’d look more manly.” She took my hat and propped it atop her head.
I’ve often wondered in the days and months that followed what might have happened if I’d resisted the urge to drink that beer. I swear, I only drank one. No one believed me.
I wouldn’t have believed me either.
The last time I passed out, I got kidnapped. This time, the consequences would be more dire.
***
A buzzing torched me out of a drunken sleep. My ear lobe erupted in pain. I smacked at the sting. Head ringing. On the shimmering sand, next to a shell, a dead horsefly. Nasty bastard, painful as a bee. The smell of charred wood and something else. Copper and hibiscus. Mouth tasted like I’d chewed on a Goodyear.
Water lapped. The temperature soared. The sun beat on me like a frat-boy with a paddle. My shoulder ached. Had Yarey really hit me that hard?
I crawled to the water’s edge, dunked my face, swallowed a mouthful of salty water and swished. The rubbery taste persisted.
When I touched the top of my head for my straw fedora, I only found damp hair. My unkempt, greasy, loathsome hair was more chic under a hat. I attempted to push-up myself out of the two-inch deep water. No dice. Aching shoulder, bad taste, exhaustion.
The ground trembled. A wave? I heaved my head a couple inches. Sand suctioned to my fledgling beard—really a sloppy growth borne of sloth. No wave. The subtle pounding continued, followed by shouts. A strong set of hands yanked me to my feet. I hovered on the edge of consciousness.
“Wha?” came my articulate interrogatory.
“Detective! Dis one ova here still kickin’!”
Splashing. Shoes smacking on the wet sand. Detective Leber’s bulbous head blocked the sun. The smell of his aftershave washed over me. I tried to speak, and wound up hacking.
I rasped, “Hey, Leber. You come to dance around the bonfire, too?”
“Jesus, Boise?” Leber fanned his face. “When was the last time you used mouthwash?”
“What day is it?” I managed.
“The day after.” As he said this, the person holding me swung me around. A massacre. Some kind of staged thing. Couldn’t be real. So much congealed blood on mouths and throats and heads. Had to be corn syrup. Something … In the distance, through my black echo tunnel, I faintly heard Leber recite Miranda warnings.
“Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?” Leber looked up from a yellow index card reflecting on his Aviators. “Boise, I need you to answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”
“Me? No?”
“No?”
“I’m not …” I fumbled for words. My nether regions felt drafty. Then a release. The officer squawked, dropping me like a sack of ripe mangos. Leber swore. My cheek hit the edge of a broken seashell.
“Boise, where are your pants?” Leber sounded like an annoyed school principal.
“It’s so hairy,” the guy behind me bellowed.
I tried to look up, but couldn’t move my neck much. Warm urine bathed my thigh, then washed away with the next lapping wave. There wasn’t much in this world more satisfying than a hot piss after a hard night.
“I get hot at night. I probably just, you know, kicked ‘em off in my sleep. They by the fire?”
One of the officers said, “But you kept your shirt on?”
Leber muttered something to the officer, who grumbled and trudged off.
“Hey, Leber?”
“Boise, don’t talk. He’s getting your shorts.”
A shout from behind me. I sensed a lot of activity around the bonfire area. I tried to push up, but the downward slope into the bay foiled my plans.
“Hey, Leber. You’re pulling my third leg, right?”
“Boise, shut up. Don’t talk, man. You remember those rights? That one about remaining silent. That’s the kingfish. Just shut up. I don’t think you did this, but man, there’s a lot of physical evidence.” He leaned down and whispered in my ear. “A lot. We can’t even give you your shorts and we’re gonna need your shirt, it’s probably covered too, only darker, harder to tell.”
I stared at him, the question plain on my face.
“Evidence. They’re covered in blood.” He paused for a swallow. “We’re bagging and tagging them along with the three dead people here with you.”
That’s when my ass started to ache, and not in a good way. For the first time since being diagnosed, I prayed that my chronic colitis was to blame for the blood on my clothes.
About the Author
Growing up in an 18-room guesthouse/wartime hospital in the Caribbean
isn’t for everyone, but it proved just the right atmosphere for
bestselling author Gene Desrochers to hone a sense of story, mystery, and
scene that would prove critical in his writing career. Born on a tiny dot
called “St. Thomas” (somewhere in the Caribbean), Desrochers
migrated steadily west over the years until he found a home – with a
wife who loves him, kids who are young enough to still think he’s
pretty cool, and a cat who tolerates him – in the continental United
States. He also found the time to earn a JD and become a practicing lawyer,
run a tennis club, and publish award-winning short fiction in publications
across the US and beyond. Now settled in the mysterious and exotic land
known as Los Angeles, Desrochers splits his time between the loves of his
life: his family, his writing, his tennis, and his ability to impress
strangers with his St. Thomian accent. Find out more about him – and
the worlds he creates – at his website, GeneDesrochers.com
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