By P. J. Brooke
The ancient urban of Granada is vivid with the spectacle of its Easter processions; its bars and streets brimming with lifestyles. yet excessive within the adjoining Alhambra hills, gypsy guitarist Paco is located lifeless in a Sacromonte cave.
Sub-Inspector Max Romero is introduced in to enquire Paco's demise. An at first easy inquiry, it quickly colours into anything extra sinister whilst Max unearths a hyperlink with a massive estate hypothesis within the appealing Sacromonte valley less than the Alhambra Palace; person who contains laundered drug funds, urban corruption and Opus Dei.
As Max sinks ever deeper right into a political quagmire, he clashes with previous foe Inspector Ernesto Navarro. He discovers that, even in vivid Granada, amid its attractiveness and drama, the lifeless can succeed in out to the dwelling.
Read or Download A Darker Night (Inspector Max Romero, Book 2) PDF
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Extra resources for A Darker Night (Inspector Max Romero, Book 2)
Anyone who’s involved in our little world has their own story about what she’s up to, where, how, and who with. . But the stories all agree on one point: she’s never been sentenced in any court, because her files are too explosive for her not to be covered in any circumstances. And it’s a fact that over the past five years, when lawsuits and trials have mushroomed, no legal practice has boasted of having her as a client. She hasn’t worked for any outfit exclusively for a long time now, but her name crops up—occasioning scorn, admiration, anger, or amusement—whenever people are looking for something vaguely sensational to talk about.
She seems taller than she is, just coming up to his shoulder, although she looks long and willowy. She smiles as she tells him about her project, he hardly listens to the list of authors she hopes to include in the series, he presses a cup of coffee on her, unable to concentrate on what she’s saying while the photographer is scampering around the twenty-five hundred square feet of the apartment. He hears him opening the french doors to the balcony and joins him, feeling infuriated. The idiot is leaning over the guard rail.
Even Pierre Frank, in a short paragraph at the end of one of his articles, had mentioned François’s book. He’d had a few successes, nothing vulgar, nothing over the top. He’d been noticed, but he hadn’t won any prizes. He was still under thirty then, and convinced that one day he’d get the Prix Goncourt. He didn’t have any doubts. And he didn’t suspect anything. He counted the potential jury votes as he wrote his books. He had a prominent publisher, Le Seuil, and he’d been short-listed three times.