Ready. Set. Psycho.

Chapter Six: Solomon

           

Solomon's phone chimed. He lay in bed. The room was filled with the smell of fish. He opened his eyes. It was dark. The shades on the window blacked out all but a slim trail of light cast at his feet. He closed his eyes again, and his phone chimed twice. He reached lazily over and pulled the phone from his dresser, removing it from its cord where it was plugged into the socket. He read the texts.

The first read, Amber Lynn, 13, 3 days. Hyacinth Frogue, 14, 3 days. No sign of P. Father at same address. The next two texts had addresses for Amber and Hyacinth's parents. Solomon exhaled and pushed himself out of bed. He went down the hall, showered, shaved, and returned to his room. He dressed in his taupe suit. He smelled his shirt from the day before but turned it aside and took his other shirt from the drawer. He left the drawer open and kept his eyes fixed down. He fidgeted in his suit pocket and took out the note.

"You or I," he huffed. He returned the note to his jacket pocket and removed his jacket. He took his shoulder holster out of the drawer and put it on. He next took his SIG MK25 P226 out — same model as his service gun. He was comfortable with it. He walked to his bed, put his hand under the mattress, and pulled out three clips, loading one into the gun and placing the others into his holster slung across the opposite arm where the gun would sit. He holstered his gun and walked back to his drawer, removing his jacket and putting it on. He closed the drawer, went to the door, and opened it, stepping into the hallway.

He stopped and went back inside, opening the drawer again. He reached in and pulled out a leather wallet, flipping it open and looking at his badge before putting it into the inside left breast pocket of his jacket. He left his room, locked his door, and walked out of the Y into the early morning sun, finding the subway.

He came out again at 5th and West 59th, near the Plaza. He went into an apartment building nearby, flashing his badge to the doorman. The doorman stopped him anyway. "Who are you here to see? I'll call and tell them you are coming up."

"John Graham. Tell him Sol's here," he said, heading for the elevator. The doorman went to his phone and made a call.

Solomon came to the door as a maid was walking out. He nodded at her. At the door was John, graying hair and thin, dressed in a gray cashmere robe. "An hour, Rosario." He called after the maid. "Come back in an hour." Solomon entered, and John followed, locking the door behind him.

"There's no one else here," he said.

Solomon sat at the table where breakfast had been half-set and then abandoned. He helped himself to the coffee as John went to the kitchen and poured another cup. The room was larger than the entire floor of rooms at the Y. The finishings were old-money finishings, golds and mahoganies and plush. John came back to the table and sat.

"Is it over?" John asked.

"Have you seen Justin?"

John's face soured. He stood with his cup of coffee and went to the liquor cabinet nearby. "I had hoped the next time I saw you would be the last." He poured whiskey into his coffee. It was a forty-year-old vintage.

"You're drinking a week's salary, John."

"Sorry," he said, coming back to the table and offering the bottle to Solomon while taking a seat. John added, "I just ... I had hoped it would be over."

"You really shouldn't mix this." Solomon drank the rest of his coffee in a few gulps and then poured the whiskey into his mug. "And I had hoped I'd have killed your son, too, by now. I dream about it every fucking night. How's Marjory?"

"Dead," John said. "Dead three months."

"I'm sorry. Lovely woman. How did she die?"

"Knowing," John said. "Knowing it killed her."