The Nassau Secret (The Lang Reilly Series Book 8) Read Online Free PDF

master about getting paid. I’m talking to him.”   
                  “ Touché . The woman you need to contact is Celeste Harper. I’m going to give you her cell number. Tell her I asked you to call. She should be able to pay for your services. Don’t be too much of a gentleman to ask.”
                  “Have I ever been?”
                  “If there’s any problem, call me back.”
                  “Depend on it.”
                  After reciting the phone number, Lang wished his investigator a nice evening, clicked off and headed back to the dining room. Celeste should be in a position to pay. Now the he had lateralled her off to Phil, his only worry was that dinner had gotten cold.
                  That tuned out to one Lang Reilly’s biggest mistakes ever.    
                     

 
                                  
    6.
    Columbus Tavern
    Paradise Harbour Club
    Nassau, Bahamas
    The Next Day
     
                  To Phillip McGrath, Nassau in general and Paradise Island in particular pushed Las Vegas for first place in over-the-top tourist tacky. Almost all the buildings were pink stucco, the landscaping was contrived at best and people, the tourists, well. . . Not exactly the type one would expect to meet in, say, Monaco or St. Bart’s if you got his drift. And for this the client was paying $325.00 per night off-season rate at the Comfort Suites plus what the card in the room described as an “energy surcharge” and a “gratuity surcharge.”
                  Now, how do they do that, Phil wondered. A gratuity by definition is something freely given. Politicians weren’t the only ones to twist the English language.
                  But he wasn’t here to admire the architecture or analyze to local customs. He was here, the only person sitting at the bar, watching one or two tables of swim suit-clad customers finish up a late lunch. There was sand on the wooden floor, gorgeous views of the harbor and the beach and old-fashioned wooden-bladed fans high overhead that kept the place pleasantly cool despite the fact it was totally open on three sides. It was the sort of place where one would not be terribly surprised to see Ernest Hemmingway nursing a gin and tonic, easy on the tonic.
                  Phil did not feel comfortable in a T and Bermudas. He usually did business in conservative suits; or, occasionally, sport coat and slacks. But neither would fit very well in this bare foot or flip-flops setting. Blending in was the first commandment of the private investigation business. He felt particularly uneasy knowing the Glock 9mm was back home in his bedside table, but that couldn’t be helped. His Georgia license to carry was no good here. Besides, the local dress code would have made it difficult to conceal.
                  He had ordered a beer, a local Sands. That was almost thirty minutes ago. Despite the paucity of clientele at the moment, the Hawaiian-shirted bar keep was busing himself polishing glasses. Phil told himself he was on island time now where ‘in a minute’ could mean the rest of the day. He also knew that making a white patron wait was a means of both establishing superiority and avenging wrongs real or imagined but certainly distant in history.
                  The beer and the woman arrived at the same time. The beer in a sweating bottle; the woman in what could best be described as a Muumuu, one of those loose, flowing garments attributed to large Hawaiian women and shared by women of similar size worldwide.
                  “Mr. McGrath?” she asked.
                  A good guess since he was the only one seated at the bar and certainly the only recent arrival, judging by the lobster red sunburns at the two tables.
                  Phil slipped from his bar stool