Free Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 13 - The Diamonds of Ghost Bayou by Kent Conwell Page B

couple of
degrees.
    She jabbed a finger at the first glossy and glared at Brasseaux.
“Now, how you explain that, old man?”
    Brasseaux just snorted. “Simple. The passing cars, they wipe
the tracks out.” He shook his shaggy head of white hair. “There
be nothing supernatural about that.”
    She snorted. “You ain’t worth talking to, you know?”
    I pushed to my feet, figuring I’d leave before the two came to
blows. “I appreciate the information.”
    She smiled at me. “Come back anytime. We open seven days
a week. After church on Sundays.”
    Out in the pickup, I glanced at my notes, concentrating on
the diamonds. Any of the names on my list could have discovered them. Unfortunately, three of them were dead. Shaking
my head, I slipped the note cards into my shirt pocket and
started the engine. I couldn’t question dead men, but I could
question those who knew them.
    The sun baked down from directly overhead when I pulled
under the carport and parked beside the Cadillac. I didn’t even
want to think about how the heat would have intensified the
smell of clove.
    I sighed with relief when I saw that the windows were thrown
wide open. I rolled my eyes, knowing my ex-wife was waiting
for an explanation-one that I still hadn’t managed to fabricate.

    I opened the storm door and winced as the odor of clove hit
me. I called out, “Diane! It’s me, Tony”
    “Back here,” she replied from the kitchen.
    I looked past the snack bar but failed to see her. Then she
poked her head from behind the open refrigerator door. “I was
going to make a sandwich. Want one?”
    “Sure,” I replied.
    Closing the door, she placed dressings and lunch meat on the
table. She hadn’t changed clothes from the day before. “What
happened last night? The house reeks of clove.” She crossed the
kitchen and opened the breadbox. “Huh?”
    Up to that second, I had no answer, and then a response just
rolled off my lying lips. I touched a finger to my jaw. “I had a
toothache. I had a bottle of clove oil, but I dropped it, and it
broke. Sorry.”
    She smiled and slid in at the snack bar. “Accidents happen.
Fix your sandwich however you want it,” she added, pointing to
the ingredients on the table.
    We made idle chitchat over a light lunch, after which she announced that she planned to take a nap.
    That was fine with me. I had work to do on my laptop, and I
wasn’t any too keen about anyone looking over my shoulder.
Later that day after I dropped her off at the hospital, I planned
to pay a visit to the Sparkle Paradise. Guzik was dead, but
maybe I could learn a little about him. He had bought the house
from Big Tim Strollo, an influential mobster. Maybe I was
grasping at straws, but at the time, I had nothing better to
grasp.
    All I needed was to come up with an enticing offer so
the new owners of the Sparkle might consider loosening their
tongues.
    Booting up, I went online using my mobile broadband network card and contacted Eddie Dyson, my savior more than
once.
    At one time, Eddie was known as Austin’s resident stool pigeon. Since then, he had become a computer whiz and wildly
successful entrepreneur.

    Instead of sleazy bars, back alleys, and dirty money, he’d
found his niche for snitching in the bright glow of computers
and the comforting security of credit cards. Any information I
couldn’t find, he could. Personally, I figured he had hacked
into some kind of national database. What kind, I had no idea,
but he always came up with information, information that
suggested his total disregard of the principles of the 1974 Privacy Act.
    There were only two catches if you dealt with Eddie. First, you
never asked him how he did it, and second, he only accepted
VISA credit cards for payment.
    I never asked Eddie why just VISA. Seems like any credit
card would be sufficient, but considering the value of his service, I never posed the question. As far as I was concerned, if
he