Ready. Set. Psycho.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Solomon

           

Solomon picked up his phone and dialed the last number that called him. Someone answered but said nothing.

"Justin," Solomon said.

"Gave up?" Justin said.

"Not at all," Solomon said. "We were not finished talking. Sounded like you wanted to ask me something."

"You just walked away from the clue. You miss it? You too old and dumb to save her?" Justin said. "Why did you just fucking leave? Don't you care?"

"Justin," Solomon said, "It's two in the morning. I'm not playing this game."

"Then the girl will die."

"I didn't say I would not pay the price to save her."

"So you're going to off yourself?" Justin asked.

"No."

"What then?" Justin asked. "She dies or you die. That's the game."

"I'll die," Solomon said. "But you can kill me. Isn't that a better idea?"

Justin did not respond. He took the phone away from his ear and paused.

"Did you hear me, Psycho?" Solomon said. "You want me dead be a fucking man and do it yourself."

"I heard you," Justin said. "I'm just trying to decide how I will do it."

"Well, you just fucking think about that and call me back when you get a fucking clue."

Solomon ended the call and tossed his phone back onto the dresser. He tapped his right index finger against his thigh and exhaled. He lay back down in bed and tossed and turned. His phone rang again, and he ignored the call. He stood up and stretched out as far as he could, wincing in pain and grabbing at his back when he went too far. He shook his head and grabbed a towel, walking out his door toward the showers.

He passed a trio of old men speaking Russian in the hall. They sat around an electric stovetop where large shrimp were grilling. They nodded at Solomon, and he nodded in return. He made it to the shower and took a short, cold turn, enough to soak himself but not to wash. He shut the water off and took a long breath, patting himself mostly dry and walking back to his room with the towel tied around his waist.

Back in his room, he closed the door and dropped his towel. He picked up his phone and made a call. "Clive?"

"Yeah?" Clive asked.

"What are you doing?" Solomon asked.

"Oh, you know.  Sleeping. I was fucking sleeping, Sol. I assumed you were dead. Is someone dead? I don't normally get calls like this unless someone is dead."

"You're a coroner, Clive," Solomon said. "Someone is always dead."

"So they are. And I get this type of call frequently," Clive said. "Coming over, or are we just going to talk?"

***

Clive filled Solomon's glass with another shot of whisky as Solomon stood in front of the fireplace looking at a painting of a knight on a horse. "Truly spectacular," Solomon said.

"You think so?" Clive asked.

"Truly. One of the worst paintings I've ever seen in my life. Did a teenager do this? Someone talented but stupid? I mean, it shows skill, but why this subject matter? It was done less than ten years ago. The only people who would paint a knight on a horse now are deluded children."

"Or coroners," Clive said.

Solomon stepped closer to the painting and noticed the CM in the corner. "Truly terrible, Clive."