by JL Simpson
“Solomon?”
He turned his head. “What is it that you want, Princess?”
That was a loaded question. She wanted her sex life with Paul to go back to being the sweaty, spectacularly orgasmic wonder it had been before she got uptight about Sherman having sex. She wanted to keep working with Solomon even if he did annoy the shit out of her. They had achieved more in a few days working together than she'd achieved in the last month or two on her own, but right now she only wanted one thing.
“Can we stop on the way for cake?”
Solomon's smile was infectious.
* * * * *
Daisy barely let the car stop before she unfastened her seatbelt and flung the door open. Whatever was going on, she knew she'd find answers inside the museum. Her rush to walk the two blocks and get inside was brought to a halt when her foot hit the ground. Bugger. A dull throbbing ache reminded her about her sore ankle. The pain killers she'd taken earlier had worn off and her boot was feeling a bit tight. She daren't show any sign of pain or Solomon would probably make her wait in the car. She took a deep breath, slammed the passenger door and fell in step beside Solomon, trying not to limp. Despite his protestations that she'd almost broken his foot a few days ago, he seemed to have recovered remarkably well.
“I think I should do the talking.”
Solomon glanced at her. “Because that went so well last time?”
“No. Because this is my case.”
Solomon took her hand and tucked her arm around his. She thought about taking it back but it would be a waste of time. The man had sensed her weakness and having his support made walking a little easier. Why suffer more than she had to?
“And what is it you'll be saying? And who do you plan to say it to?”
“Not Linda, obviously.”
“Greg?”
Daisy shrugged. “If he's alone, why not? I have a special affinity with young men.”
Solomon grinned. “Did I tell you I saw Detective Maloney this morning?”
“No. He isn't working on anything to do with my case, is he?”
“Alas no, but he was telling me his son has developed a crush on you.”
Daisy rolled her eyes. “I'm a teenage boy magnet. It's not like I can help it.”
“And yet you've quite the thing about Sherman not having sex.”
Daisy glared at him. “I'm not having sex with Ben Maloney.”
“I never said you were, Princess. But boys will be boys.”
“I thought you agreed with my position?”
“I agree that you need to give the lad guidance, but is it worth risking your own happiness?”
Daisy frowned. “Has Paul said something to you?”
“Paul loves you to bits, Daisy. You need to show the man that you feel the same way.”
“When did you become Dr. Phil?”
“I'll not pretend to understand relationships. God knows, I've failed at enough of my own. But when you've the real thing, do you not think you should make the effort?”
“Typical.”
“What?”
“That you assume I haven’t been making an effort. Maybe you need both sides of the story before you start making judgments.”
“So tell me.”
Daisy shook her head. “I am not discussing my personal life with you.”
Solomon frowned but offered no more advice, sage or otherwise.
They slowed as they approached the museum entrance. Daisy slid her hand out of the crook of Solomon's arm. “And remember, leave the talking to me.”
*
Solomon waited for Daisy to enter the museum first before following behind. Greg was at the front counter. Linda was nowhere in sight. An elderly couple were murmuring together by the first exhibit. The sound of children's voices carried from further through the building. Daisy fluffed up her hair and approached the front counter. Solomon hung back nearer the entrance. He'd let her have her head, for now, and see whether Greg had anything of use to say.
Daisy leaned on the counter and batted her eyes at the young man. She might have left her shirt done up but she couldn't seem to resist the lure of becoming flirty Daisy when she wanted a man to give her something. It was her superhero alter ego. Batman and Superman had nothing on Flirty-Woman. She could turn men into fools at twenty paces, and bring them to their knees with lust if she got even closer. What was it about the woman that turned men stupid?
Daisy was tugging on Greg's tie so that he'd lean farther over the front desk. The kid really needed some fashion advice. His green tie was flecked with what appeared to be sauce and his shirt was buttoned up wrong and was hanging out of the back of his pants. No doubt his mother would give him hell when she saw him. Not that the thought of Linda making an appearance was slowing Daisy down at all. Once she got an idea in her head there was no stopping her.
Daisy turned away from the desk and strode into the main exhibition hall. Solomon had been too far away to hear Daisy's whispered conversation with Greg but he had been close enough to see that she hadn’t paid the entry fee. With his hand in his inside pocket, he approached the front desk. Greg's skin paled and a sheen of sweat moistened his high forehead. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.
As Solomon got closer, Greg raised his hands like it was high noon in a cheap spaghetti western.
“Please, don't shoot.”
Solomon frowned and pulled his wallet from his inside breast pocket. “Why would I be shooting you?”
Greg wilted, leaning on the desk for support. He'd been so terrified Solomon bet his mother would need to wash his underpants when he got home. He'd done nothing to scare Greg. Solomon turned his attention to the entrance to the exhibit and caught a flash of strawberry blond hair. “What was it that Daisy told you about me?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Daisy smiled as she strode through the various stages of British occupation. She'd never been to a museum before, apart from the tank museum with Paul. Not that she wanted to think about her day out with Paul since she had brought her love life to a grinding halt. The sex had been spectacular even if the location had been a little unusual and they had escaped detection. Sherman wasn't called Sherman for nothing. If the kid thought his parents having sex in the house was icky, he'd freak right out if he knew where he'd been conceived. She slowed to admire the Roman mosaic floors. Solomon entered the room, and he looked far from pleased.
She hurried to the door in the back left corner, flung it open, and dived through as Solomon's footsteps approached. She needed to talk to Graham Harrison before Solomon caught up with her. She didn't have time to listen to Solomon's lecture on how not to interrogate a witness, not that Greg was a witness. From the expression on his face, Solomon wasn't best pleased with her. Whether he approved of her methods or not, she got the job done. Greg had squealed like a stuck pig. Sometimes sex didn't work and you had to revert to the threat of violence.
Greg had directed her up the stairs along the corridor, fifth door on the right. The dull ache in her ankle had become a throbbing pain, but she had no time to dwell on it. Teeth gritted, she took the stairs, leaning on the banister for support. The door she'd just come through banged shut. Solomon was on her tail. She pushed on, reaching the top and scurrying down the corridor as Solomon started to make ground on her. She stopped at the fifth door, raised her hand and knocked. She tilted her head but heard nothing.
“Hello?”
Solomon arrived at the top of the stairs and walked toward her with a face like thunder. Time to move the investigation along. Daisy turned the handle and pushed the door open. A cloying sickly scent filled the air. The body in the chair was beyond recognition, his face a bloody pulp. One of the man's eyes slipped from its socket and came to a bouncing halt, suspended against what was once a cheek. Daisy's stomach revolted. They shouldn't have stopped for cake. She slapped her hands over her mouth but it was too late. She barely made it to the man's office bin before hurling her chocolate muffin and doub
le shot mocha.
Stomach empty, she continued to dry retch. The office door closed with a soft thump. A warm hand brushed against her cheek as Solomon pulled her hair back from her face. Once she was done, Solomon passed her a handkerchief and then enfolded her in a hug. She buried her face in his shoulder and clung to him. A shudder ran up her spine. Whoever had killed Graham Harrison had done it with style. The Roman expert bashed to death with a Roman Centurion's helmet. The murder weapon lay in the man's lap covered in blood and brain pulp.
Linda would never talk and without answers from Graham Harrison, they were never going to find out what was going on. Had her snooping through Tomas Jenks’ life caused this? Was she the angel of death? It was certainly starting to look that way. One dead body in a case was unexpected. Two or three in every case was a curse. With the way things were going, she'd be surprised if they found Maura Sidebottom alive and well.
Solomon grasped her shoulders and eased her away from him. “Are you alright now?”
She started to turn her head toward the desk, but Solomon placed his hands on her cheeks and kept her focused on him. His blue eyes were full of sympathy.
“Don't look over there, Princess. Keep your eyes on me.”
Daisy swallowed; her throat was dry and her mouth was full of the bitter taste of vomit. “What are we going to do? Greg knows we're up here. The police are going to think I did this.”
Solomon let her face go and rubbed a hand over his short-cropped hair. “Do you not think I'll be the main suspect after your little game downstairs with Greg?”
“I needed him to tell me where Graham Harrison was and flirting wasn't getting the job done.”
“Convincing him I was a man with a vicious temper and a gun I wasn't afraid to use if you didn't get what you want was your go-to solution?”
Daisy put her hands on her hips. “We found Graham Harrison, didn't we? If I’d been able to walk faster, I could have walked in on the killer.” She shuddered at the realization she had been minutes from death.
Solomon pulled her in for another hug. “Thank God for high-heeled shoes.”
“This isn't funny.”
“Indeed it's not, darlin', but can I not take a moment to rejoice that you're safe from harm before we turn our minds to the grizzly reality sitting in the chair?”
“What are we going to do?”
Solomon brushed his thumbs over her cheeks. “How about you go back into the museum and admire the exhibits and leave this to me?”
“Leave what?”
After stepping back from Daisy, Solomon tugged a pair of purple surgical gloves from his pocket.
“Why do you need gloves?”
“I've no desire to leave any fingerprints. As far as the police will know, you opened the door, found the body, left the contents of your stomach on the scene, as is your custom, and then called the cops for help.”
Daisy was torn between wanting to punch him for the comment about her throwing up, and to quiz him about what he planned to do that the police would never know about. Curiosity won the day. “So what is it that the police won't know about?”
Solomon pulled the gloves on, snapping them into place before flexing his fingers and moving toward the desk. Daisy kept her eyes focused on the far wall, not daring to turn toward the body in case her stomach decided to revolt again. “It's a long shot. No doubt our murderer took what we need to solve your case.”
“What are we looking for?”
“That I don't know.”
“You think it's in the desk?”
“I'll start with the body.”
Daisy chewed on her thumbnail. “I could look in the desk.”
“Do you have your washing up gloves on you?”
“No. Why would I have?”
“Never know when you might want to avoid dishpan hands.”
“You're not funny.”
Something groaned and Daisy decided to assume it was Solomon. The thought of a dead body talking was too freaky to consider. “If rubber gloves were such a stupid idea, why are you wearing a pair?”
“I've started keeping a pair on me since we started working together again. You never know when you might trip over a dead body. The world seems to be littered with them of late.”
“You're still not funny.
“Am I not?” Daisy could hear the laughter in his voice.
“Do you have a spare set?”
“Not on me.”
Daisy looked around the room, making a conscious effort to avoid the body. A box of man-sized tissues sat on a book case near the door. Daisy crossed the floor and grabbed a handful.
“You'll be needing more than a few Kleenex to clean up this mess.”
“I'm not cleaning up. I'm going to help you search. This is my case, you know.”
“You never stop telling me long enough for me to forget. Start with the bookshelves.”
“I was going to.” She was, it was the farthest away from the faceless monster Solomon was busy examining.
*
Solomon hunted through the man's pockets and placed the contents on the desk. A pen, cigarette lighter, comb, wallet and a train ticket to London. Not much to sum up a man's life. He opened the wallet. Other than a few pounds, a bank card, and a couple of credit cards, it was empty. He placed the items back on the body and turned his attention to the desk. Apart from a few pens, pencils, and random items of stationery, the first three drawers held nothing of interest. Solomon squatted next to the body and tugged at the bottom drawer. It refused to budge. He tried again but it was locked. A pair of black boots appeared next to him.
“Have you found something?”
As he took his lock picks out of his pocket, he glanced up at Daisy. “I'll not know until I get this open. How about yourself?”
“I've got a pile of papers that might be interesting. Can I borrow your phone to photograph them?”
“Why can you not use your own phone?”
Daisy grimaced. “Battery’s flat, again.”
Solomon placed his lock picks on the floor, pulled his phone from his pocket and handed it to her. She was remarkably calm considering she was barely feet from a dead body, and a particularly gruesome dead body. He might turn her into a half decent PI one day. She took the phone and he got back to work. The lock took a little more finessing than he had expected, but within seconds he had the drawer out and the contents spread across the oak desk.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Daisy flicked through the pages photographing what looked important. They'd need days to search everything, but somewhere there had to be something that showed a link between Cameron McAlister, Tomas Jenks and Graham Harrison.
“Daisy?”
She turned to look at Solomon. “What?”
“Have you found anything to do with a safety deposit box?”
“No. Does he have a safety deposit box?”
“Indeed he does.”
She crossed the room and took a key from Solomon. She turned it over in her hand, “How do you know it's for a safety deposit box? Do you have one?”
“What I do or don't have isn't important.”
She frowned. More secrets. “If we have the key, what else do we need?”
“A swipe card.”
“What does it look like?”
“Blue with a gold key logo.”
“Did you check his wallet?”
“I did.”
“If you had something to hide, where would you keep it?”
“In a locked drawer.”
“You checked the drawers. Where else?”
Solomon looked around the room and then crossed to a large print showing the floor plan of the museum. He reached up and lifted it off the wall. Daisy held back a squeal of excitement. “A safe. Can you crack it?”
“No need, Princess.” He pulled the handle and the door swung open. Daisy crossed the room and peered into the steel box before reaching out and retrieving an envelope. She froze as footsteps sounded o
utside the office door. They paused but then carried on down the corridor. Solomon took the envelope she was holding, checked the contents, and slipped it into his coat pocket. He closed the safe and she got busy putting the papers she'd found back on the shelf. Solomon shoved everything back into the desk drawers and she met him at the door.
He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Ready to go?”
She nodded. He opened the door and they came face to face with a man in a dull brown duffel coat. He lunged for Daisy. Her ear-piercing scream echoed down the corridor, loud enough to wake the dead.
*
Shite! Daisy had no idea who she was facing but Solomon did. He'd seen that face before outside Tomas Jenks's house and sitting the opposite side of the table to Solomon in an interview room a lifetime ago. Their previous interaction had done nothing to further either of their army careers. Former army captain Damian King stared at Solomon. Whatever Graham Harrison had been involved in with Cameron McAlister and Tomas Jenks, it seemed to have gotten him killed, and King would be the last man to fall under suspicion.
Solomon winced in empathy as Daisy's knee crunched into King's testicles. His coat flapped open as he buckled in the middle. His breathing sounded ragged and choppy. He let out a low moan and cupped his bruised bollocks. Solomon lifted his arm and dropped his elbow with as much force as he could manage on the back of King's head. With a grunt, the man collapsed to his knees. Despite the pain King was in, Solomon doubted he'd stay down for long. Solomon grabbed Daisy around the thighs and tossed her over his shoulder. She squealed and wrapped her arms around his waist as he vaulted over the now prostrate man and sprinted down the corridor.
Daisy wiggled. “Wrong way.”
“No, it's bleedin' not.”
“Stairs are the other way.”
“Lie still and trust me for once in your miserable life, unless you want me to drop you on your head.”
The print hiding the safe hadn't been pretty but it had been informative. Daisy's scream would have drawn the attention of anyone left in the building. While they were all running up the main stairs, Solomon would be getting away via the fire escape. He kicked the fire door open and made a left, pounding up the stairs to the third floor. Daisy held on so tight he could barely breathe. No one was following them, and now they were in the stairwell, they were out of sight.
