Free The Nassau Secret (The Lang Reilly Series Book 8) by Gregg Loomis Page B

stucco houses abutted the sidewalk. Judging by small, tasteful signs, most of the ground floors were occupied by office space, doctors, lawyers and the like. Although there were no street numbers Lang could see, he had little trouble finding Image Printing, the fourth print shop he had visited in the last sixty minutes. He had gotten the address from the Google app on his iPhone
                  An overhead bell jingled as he pushed through the door. Copying machines and devices Lang did not recognize cluttered the space behind a counter running the width of the single room. The air was heavy with the smell of ink and paper.             
                  A young Bahamian woman wiped her hands on an apron with multi-colored smudges. Her smile was mega-watt.
                  “Con I hep you?” she asked in a tone that said she might really want to.
                  Lang took one of the library flyers out of his pocket, unfolded it and held it up for inspection. “Did you print this?”
                  The woman looked at him a moment, apparently unsure what to say. “Why you wont to know?”
                  Not the first time in the last hour Lang had fielded the question. Bahamian printers, at least those in Nassau, were a curious lot. “I like the font and your selection of light orange.”
                  “Apricot, it’s called ‘apricot’.”
                  “OK, apricot, then. Whatever, I’ve got an event coming up and I’m going to need a couple of thousand flyers. I’d like to have the same person do mine as did these.” 
                  She shrugged, a matter of little consequence. “We done those.”
                  “With whom did you work? I mean, what person ordered them?”
                  Lang could see a veil of suspicion drop over her face. “I tolt you: We done them flyers. Why you wont a name?”
                  “I want a reference. It’s very important the job gets done smoothly.” Lang feigned touch of impatience. “You want the work or not?”
                  He could see equal measures of uncertainty and desire for profit on her face.
                  As usual, the profit motive won out.
                  “The Chief librarian, Miss Abigail Albury.”
                  Lang was already headed for the door. “I’ll be back soon as I speak with her.”
                  Lang was less than surprised to learn from the current librarian that, after thirty-six years, Miss Abigail Albury had unexpectedly announced her retirement. The present holder of that post was unsure but believed her predecessor still resided at an address in Fox Hill, a native settlement that dated back to colonial times.
                  Fox Hill was a neighborhood in transition. A number of bungalows, each fenced by blooming hedges and obviously newly constructed, occupied beach frontage and ocean view lots. A couple of small hotels clearly catered to vacationers. Further inland, Fox Hill Road displayed shabbier dwellings, mostly cinder block construction with peeling paint and yards filled with uncut weeds.
                  The cabbie pulled up in front of a police station and pointed across the street to an unattractive single story fourplex in need of both paint and exterior maintenance. “Dot be de place, mon.”
                  Lang saw no street number or other indicia this was the address he had been given but got out. “I’ll pay you to wait.”
                  The driver shook a head of dreadlocks. “I’ll wait but you pays me fo’ ‘d trip out here now.”
                  Seeing no alternative, Lang peeled off two tens.
                  “Be another ten fo’d’wait.”
                  Thirty dollars lighter,