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

Dana smiled, held her drink up, “Yes. Did Leber tell you that?” She watched my face. “Yeah, he fancies himself an amateur profiler, but really he’s only good at lame observations about regular people like us. Serial killers go right over his head.”

Evelyn had accused me of being too nice during our relationship. I often wondered if that’s why she cheated, because I wasn’t dangerous enough.

I walked out to the waterfront and headed west. My head needed clearing. Part of me hoped a passing car would swerve and knock me into the water.

Chapter 33

Lindberg Bay lay southeast of Cyril E. King Airport. Since returning to St. Thomas, the small beach had called me back time and again. The ancient dock that seemed to weather every storm had the worn look of driftwood.

In my youth, I’d spent days lounging and playing here. The airport was sleepier then. The memories of relaxing afternoons fishing with Roger and Lucas gave me a sense of peace.

On the way, I’d picked up a spool of fishing line, a sinker, some small hooks, squid, and a bobber. Flies buzzed around the purple cephalopod carcass next to me as the line plunked into the turquoise water.

The sun beat down, baking my skin like a cookie. I wasn’t much of a sunscreen user, being partly African, I figured I was good. Stupid, I know. Everyone can get skin cancer. I fished a length of floss out of my pocket and threaded it between my teeth. A hunk of hamburger popped out and bobbed in the water above my bait.

On the beach, broad sea grape leaves waved in welcome or warning. A plane shuttled down the runway and roared into the sky. Further down, a couple wearing bathing suits exited The Beachcomber restaurant and grabbed two lounge chairs. They laughed about something.

Dana had no business in my business. Drinking was my business. I was good at it. I wasn’t good at much.

“Fuck her,” I muttered in the direction of the cheerful couple, who were now walking toward the lapping blue water hand in hand. “Screw Dana, and screw Irene.” Then I thought, Yarey on the other hand ... she’s not so bad ... yet.

A foul mood descended after these cases. One thing seemed to have an overarching effect on all relations: avarice. Gilroy wanted the distillery because, as Leber had informed me, he and Dominic Bacon had been lovers. In numerous love letters they’d found in a shoebox under Gilroy’s bed, Dominic had promised to leave Francine and give the distillery to Gilroy. He’d never made good on that promise.

Presumably, he had tried to use those love letters to convince Francine he should get the distillery, but how did he reason killing her would achieve that end? Stupid, Boise. He didn’t. I recalled the argument between Gilroy and Jermaine. She wasn’t supposed to die. Neither Jermaine nor Gilroy could control Jermaine’s bloodlust. He drowned her. He was only supposed to scare her. Hold her over the edge and let her blood drip into the water from the cut on her arm in the coroner’s report. Probably promised sharks would come. Instead of holding, he dropped her. She sank like a bullet.

Critical thinking became a casualty of avarice. I’d seen it before, bad judgment heaped on bad information. Garbage in, garbage out.

Instead of being grateful for what he was getting, a half-million dollars, or whatever it finally came out to be, the man wanted more. Believed he was owed more. Maybe he was. From Kendal’s notes, it appeared that half-a-mill was all Francine Bacon was willing to give to anyone involved. She wanted to be equitable without being taken advantage of. “An equitable bitch” was the term Kendal had written in the margin notes.

Francine was as tough as granite and her calculations on present value of work done appeared to provide minimum wage level reparations. That’s all she was willing to do. Furthermore, via Kendal’s notes, she argued, and on this front, Kendal had agreed, that Gilroy Antsy had personally been paid quite well, among the best salaries in the rum business, for his position over the past seven years. The sufferings of his ancestors were his in a sense, but not entirely. At least that’s what she appeared to believe.

A valid question in all reparations discussions always raised hackles: where does the guilt stop? Sins of the father and all that crap.

It all seemed so obvious now, like I should have known it was Gilroy. The fact that the man received half-a-mill made me doubt his resolve. Problem was, I viewed his motives through my eyes, and probably the eyes of all the other people being compensated who had expressed gratitude when informed of the attempted generosity of the Bacons. Gilroy Antsy’s ambitions fueled self-righteous thoughts to action. At that point, all he needed was someone willing to carry out his plan.

Enter Jermaine LaGrange, a man who opted to finance his niece’s dreams by becoming an assassin. It turned out he was wanted for questioning in two other jurisdictions. He already possessed the skills, why not put them to profitable use. Gilroy really only wanted a credible threat. What he got was bloodthirsty action. It made no sense to off Francine, but renegotiations required brinkmanship and real brinkmanship required risk. Nothing more risky than bringing a psychotic killer along as your partner in crime.

I whispered Gilroy’s words again. “She wasn’t supposed to die.”

A couple of things still gnawed at me. Why was Isabelle LaGrange training on that timed targeting Jermaine made her do on the archery range? You are not timed in any pressing fashion in archery competition. This question nibbled at me like the little fish that swam around picking dead skin off your feet in shallow water. Dead skin. And Jermaine had mentioned Isabelle being unbeatable at “all of it” and doing special things.

On a completely