Sweet Paradise by Gene Desrochers (most read books in the world of all time .txt) 📕

“Woman killers are rare, man. Rare. I mean, come on. What’s there like one serial killer who was a woman? Lots of dudes, right? What about war? Women don’t fight much.”

“They weren’t allowed in the past. I think that’s changing,” I said.

“Yeah, well. Why’d they want that? Shoot, they should be happy. No getting shot.”

“In archery competitions, why are men and women in separate categories? It’s a test of accuracy? Distances are the same, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah, but men would win.”

“Why?”

“Longer arm, stronger pull with tighter string, and faster arrow velocity. Less arc.” He curved his hand then straightened it. “Flatter path. Man, it’s gotta give better accuracy ‘cause wind has less effect. Just physiology, man.”

“But for killing someone or for an individual woman, she could do those things. Right?” I countered.

“Hey man, sure, you could have some uber-strong chick with long arms and shit who could do whatever, I suppose. But, on average, they’d get smoked.”

“But you’re saying a woman couldn’t have killed Kendal, not because she couldn’t physically do it, but because of her mental makeup or emotions or something?”

“Now you’re on it. Yeah, not their bag emotionally. Maybe if this Kendal dude cheated on her, and she caught him with his pecker in another chick. Then, maybe.”

“Wow. Okay, glad we cleared that up. Did you and Isabelle date?”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out something small, popped it in his mouth and started chewing. “Yeah, we had a thing.” He pointed at me with conviction. “But it was after she turned eighteen. Hey man, this killing talk has made me a bit tense. Waves at Carat are kickin’. I got a spare board. Wanna join?”

I needed to get away from this guy. Women were capable of killing. Sometimes for different reasons, but nonetheless, very capable. If I had to listen to any more of his bullshit, we were going to have another homicide.

“That’s okay. I’ll call you later.”

Junior trotted over as Harold booked.

“Any news?”

I wanted to speak privately to Junior, so I asked if we could get some lemonade. We stood off to the side under a tamarind tree, sipping the sugared drinks.

“What’s up?” he asked when we were alone.

“Do you know Isabelle?”

“Harold’s student? Yeah, I know her. She’s a babe who can shoot arrows better than any dude on this island. I had a crush on her when I was fourteen. Her dad and uncle keep her on a tight leash. Regimented training. Not for me.”

“You know why she does interval training?”

He puzzled that for a minute, becoming a statue as usual. He came back to life. “You mean that fast shooting she was doing today? I noticed that, too. Not a typical competition archery thing. There are time limits, like two minutes to shoot three arrows, but it’s nothing like what she was doing.”

“Could it be something else?”

“What else? She’s a competitive archer. Everything she does is to kick ass at hitting targets from distance. Her mission in life is to win the Olympics.”

I smacked at the mosquito sucking on my neck. “You know about your uncle and her?”

“No, but I can guess. Harold’s not shabby with the ladies. If he hangs out with a good-looking chick for long, it ends up one way. They love his surfer, archer vibe. Besides, he has that easy smile and perfect teeth.”

True, Harold’s teeth were bright as the white of a baby’s eye. It reminded me that I was due for a trip to the bathroom to brush.

“Someone shot Kendal, and she’s one of the best. From what everyone at the range was saying, that was a hell of a shot. You think she’s capable?”

At first Junior’s face contorted into a that’s-ridiculous look of bewilderment, but then it shifted and he became still.

“How would I know?” he noted philosophically. “People kill people all the time and someone’s gotta do it. She could make that shot. But so could Harold and a bunch of others on a good day. She’s not the only one.”

“How many?”

“How many what?”

“How many people around here could make that shot?”

“I don’t live here all the time. I didn’t recognize many of the people at the club today. I think you’re better off asking Uncle Har.”

My phone buzzed. An unrecognized number. I excused myself to the club’s driveway to answer anyway. As I exited, I narrowly missed crushing a brown lizard with a white racing stripe down his back scurrying by on the concrete.

Leber.

“What can I do for you, Detective?”

“I’d like to share with you, if you’ve got anything worth sharing.”

“Detective, you’ll forgive my skepticism, but I’ve never, never had any police officer or detective offer to share anything with me unless they felt they’d get the better end of the deal.”

He groaned. “I already showed good faith. You know something, you’re too busy trying to act tough. You’re not.”

My turn to groan. “So, because you agreed to show us the crime scene, I owe you? I thought that was some agreement between you and Harold or his officer buddy.”

“Eddie,” he muttered.

A clattering erupted from my earpiece, then an expletive. Moments later, Leber said, “Sorry, damn phone case ... slippery. Look, I need your assist. Can we meet?”

Cops hadn’t given me a warm, fuzzy feeling since the sheriff in Los Angeles shut me down and threatened to arrest me if I didn’t let go of Evelyn’s case. They had my respect as a group. Individually, some were as bad as the criminals, and the bad ones didn’t have a tattoo announcing “bad cop.”

Tough? I didn’t act tough. Fuck him. I’d ram one of those cop billy clubs up his ass. I didn’t need Leber to like me. Barnes, either.

“Fine, we’ll meet. Text me a time and place,” I grumbled before clicking off.

Back inside, I found Junior intently focused on his phone. He pulled up YouTube and rapidly keyed in Olympic archery 2016. A Korean man named Ku Bonchan, whose skin looked cool as a rose petal, ran away with the gold, besting a French