04 - Shock and Awesome

by Camilla Chafer

  "I know you from somewhere," said the husband again. His mouth wrinkled with thought as he tried to place me. He tapped one finger against his mouth and frowned.

  "I really don't think so."

  "Yeah, you do look kind of familiar," agreed Rick. Great, now the guys were ganging up on me too? On the plus side, maybe their familiarity would help me out.

  "Maybe it's through my volunteer work," I lied. Everyone likes a volunteer, right? I was sure I volunteered at something. Sometime. Somewhere.

  "No, that's not it," said Mr. Chic.

  "Are you sure? I volunteer a lot." I nodded to Rick. Rick frowned. So much for giving myself a good reference.

  "Nope." Mr. Chic shook his head. "Can't think of it yet, but it'll come to me."

  Hopefully, I'd be at home with a lease agreement in my pocket by then because if I slept with him and forgot — although I was pretty sure that didn't happen — I wasn't sure it was a story I could confess to Lily. Also, fairly certain I'd never been into blondes of any shade, I was sure that couldn't be it. Not one hundred percent sure, but, you know, fairly certain.

  "I know!" blurted Mrs. Chic, looking up, "You're the private investigator. I saw you in the newspaper!"

  "Who? Me? No, I don't think so." I stepped back, shaking my head vigorously.

  "Yes! It was you! You shoot people!"

  "I do not!" Well, not often. Sometimes I just stab them, but only when my life is in danger, which justifies it just fine for me.

  "That sounds dangerous," mused the realtor, edging away from me and closer to the Chics. "I think I've read about you. You were at that hotel convention. The one with all the weirdoes killing each other."

  "I'm not dangerous," I assured him, with my best ditzy smile. Also, exaggeration. Much?

  "She's really dangerous," Mrs. Chic insisted to no one in particular. She focused on the clipboard and began to scribble furiously, as if submitting the form first would definitely give her an edge. "Guns. Murderers. Snooping."

  "I don't think the landlord will like that," Mr. Chic said, cottoning on to his wife's massive hints that I would not make a good tenant. He sidled next to the realtor, adding in a low voice, "I work in IT and my wife's a kindergarten teacher. Two very safe professions."

  The realtor looked from me to them, clearly weighing up who was more likely to blow up the apartment and his commission. With a sinking heart, I realized I could not come out on top in the race for this apartment.

  Whatever. It was too small anyway.

  "We'll pay more than she can offer too. We have two salaries," added Mr. Chic, emphasizing my single status in the most charming way. Not.

  "Done," said Rick, accepting their paperwork and smiling broadly. The men pumped hands and grinned at each other.

  I looked at my clipboard. I hadn't even filled in my name. "Shame. I was going to offer an extra five hundred bucks a month for the next two years," I said with a shrug as I returned the clipboard. Rick's smug face dropped a little. "Enjoy your new place. See ya." I turned on my heel and strode out of the pretty little apartment, leaving the happy couple to negotiate their way out of paying too much, just as Rick repeated the figure I dropped.

  Climbing into my car, I told myself it just wasn't meant to be. Getting the first apartment I saw was too easy, and there were more to see. Even if they didn't work out, it wasn't like I'd be homeless at the end of the month. I still had options. Sure, one option was hearing my best friend and brother humping, or I could stay with my parents and get roped into whatever my mother's latest obsession was. Admittedly, they weren't great options, but options all the same, and that was a lot more than some people had. Another thought occurred to me. I had the Lexi-is-a-millionaire-for-two-minutes house to look after while I continued the assignment. What were the odds that the owners would let me stay on a while longer while I pursued my house search? Possibly about as high as my ever owning the perfect, yellow bungalow that had long been the object of my house porn obsession. That thought cheered me as I drove to my next viewing. I wouldn't mind extending my stay in Chilton if it were anything like Solomon's house.

  Frederickstown it was fair to say, was not at the top of my "really want to live here" list, but the apartment sounded nice in the listings and was on the nicer side of town. Or, at least, the listing seemed nice. But as I pulled up to the curb and surveyed the building, my heart just couldn't get excited. It wasn't because the building wasn't nice. It was actually pretty good, judging by the run-down neighborhood's standards. But I knew I didn't want to live miles away from my family and friends and work, not to mention decent coffee shops. Even if I had to be practical when it came to my future habitat, I still wanted to live well and not spend extra money on cab fares or never having a drink again just so I could drive home.

  The realtor met me at the door. She was young, fresh-faced and eager to please. Or eager to get the apartment rented. Either way, she was a lot nicer than the last guy.

  "I'm Renata. This your first place?" she asked with a hopeful smile.

  "Nope." I shook her soft hand. "Just got to move."

  "Oh." She shrugged and didn't ask anymore, choosing instead to fiddle with her keychain until she found the right key for the door. Opening it, she indicated that I follow. "It's top floor," she told me, over her shoulder. "So no upstairs neighbor noise."

  "Great." I tried to sound enthusiastic, but failed as I plodded after her. We didn't see any other residents until the third floor when a man hurled past us, forcing Renata and me to plaster ourselves against the wall. With his jacket collar turned up, and a Yankees cap pulled low over his head, he bulldozed past us without so much as a “Sorry.”

  "Excuse us," snipped Renata, not too subtly or quietly. The man paused for a fraction of a second on the landing below. His chin turned upwards, revealing a stubbled, square jaw, and from what I could see, the lower half of a handsome face. Then he plowed on, casually flipping us the finger.

  Nice neighbor.

  "You're going to love the apartment," Renata continued as we made our way to the top. "It’s freshly painted and the furniture is all included. You can move in right away."

  I decided not to move in thirty seconds after she opened the triple-locked door and showed me a beige space. Sure, it was light and someone had clearly made an effort, but the fresh paint job didn't take away the lingering smell of cigarettes and the faint scent of something rotten. The laminate floor was cheap looking, and I'm pretty certain Renata got an electric shock when she flicked the kitchen light switch to show off clean, but desperately old units.

  All the same, I checked the price with her as we made our way from tiny kitchen to tiny bathroom, which had no bath. On to the bedroom, the window of which showcased a panoramic view of the brick exterior of the building next door. A building less than two yards away. "It's really the best I have," Renata confirmed when I asked. "A lot of buildings here are going owner-occupied. People want to get on the property ladder while they still can. Frederickstown is very up and coming. It might well become unaffordable in a couple of years after the area renovation is completed."

  What a depressing thought. Then a mouse ran across my foot. Renata screamed, concluding the apartment's plus points (i.e., affordable, no human roommates), which failed to outweigh the negatives that were too numerous to count.

  My final appointment of the day looked promising. On paper. Seriously, what was it with realtors? Why did they have to waste my time by giving a glowing description for a less than average apartment? Why couldn't they just be brutally honest? The big plus for this one was that it wasn't far from the agency. Close enough, in fact, that I could walk there daily and thus save money on gas. Gas money to offset the super high rent. But when coupled with the location - within easy walking distance of stores, coffee bars and one of several of my favorite bars - there was a certain lure to it. Unfortunately, it took me thirty minutes of driving in circles before I found a parking spot; time spent that only dropped my mood lower. It was a
lso time enough to see one attempted mugging; but the thief was unceremoniously lambasted by an old lady's purse and ran away limping. "You go, girl!" I cheered from the safety of my VW.

  I knew I wasn't taking it before I ever stepped inside the building, even with a parking space I grabbed with one quick swing of the steering wheel, minutes from the door. I don't know what did it for me - the screaming couple in the lobby, or the Rottweiler slobbering at the doorman's desk, or the open dealing of narcotics - I really couldn't decide.

  "It's not for me," I told the grumpy realtor. Unlike Rick and Renata, he clearly lost all enthusiasm for his job.

  "No kidding," he replied, with a wry smile. "I just can't find a renter for this place."

  "Can't think of why."

  We both looked at the drug-dealing doorman. "Me neither," said the realtor. "Maybe the lobby needs a palm tree. Make it look classy."

  "Yep, that should do it," I agreed, although I suspected he might not be joking. We took one last look at the dealer and left. My phone rang as soon as I climbed into my car, and Solomon flashed on the screen. Well, not flashed. That would be awesome. His name flashed on the screen. Even so, I had a hot flush just thinking about him.

  Naked.

  Him. Not me.

  "I need you," said Solomon.

  Holy cow, said a little voice inside me.

  "Okay," I squeaked.

  "Now."

  Yes! Though... "Uh, what for?"

  "I need a ride home."

  Typical. "Don't you have a car?" I knew he had a car. When I parked my car next to it, the VW looked like his Lexus LX's baby.

  "I do. But it won't move."

  "So... fix it?"

  "I have many talents, but fixing cars isn't one of them. My mechanic can't pick it up until tomorrow morning. So, I need a ride home from the office."

  I tried not to think about his many talents. He was right though. He had many talents. "You're leaving kind of early."

  "I have plans."

  It was and wasn't news to me. No one really knew what Solomon did in his free time, though I had the opportunity to enjoy his free time on more than one occasion. I knew he could cook and he liked sports and was in the process of redecorating his house. But unless I was part of the plans - not recently - he never elaborated on what he did in his free time. Apparently, he wasn't going to now either. Not that I cared or anything.

  "So..." he prompted.

  "I'm near the office. I'll be by in ten," I told him. I pondered what plans were so important that he couldn't miss them and had to beg me for a ride. Of course, I still didn't care.

  "I'll wait out front," said Solomon before clicking off.

  It occurred to me as I pulled up outside the agency, that Solomon must have known I was nearby, otherwise why call when time was essential? Though now I thought about it, he did know I wasn't actively on a job yet, so he wouldn't be waiting hours. All the same, it would have been easier for him to call a car service. I said as much to him when he climbed in, folding his long legs under the dashboard, and sighing as he pushed the seat as far back as it would to go to give him some extra room. I'm fairly certain I didn't gasp audibly at the sight, but if I did, I would blame it on a backfiring tailpipe.

  "I knew you weren't on a job," he explained. "Since I only assigned you one case and you haven't started yet."

  "I have. I've been reading the background information you left this morning."

  Solomon arched a brow as if to say I proved his point. "You weren't performing surveillance," he replied, which was pointless because, well, I already knew that. "What were you doing on Tenth Street?"

  "How did you know I was on Tenth?"

  "Fletcher saw you."

  "And he called to tell you that? What a snitch." I feigned mock shock, but seriously, what a snitch.

  Solomon grinned. "No. We were talking on the phone already and he mentioned he saw you go into a building and come out again two minutes later. You don't know anyone on Tenth." It wasn't a question. He knew too much. How annoying.

  "How do you know?" I asked and Solomon raised his eyebrow again. "You're such a stalker. I was apartment hunting."

  "What's wrong with your place?"

  "It's sold. I have to be out in a month."

  "Ah."

  "More like 'argh!' Do you know how hard apartment hunting in Montgomery is right now? I saw a mouse."

  "Did you shoot it?" Solomon smiled broadly.

  Weird idea of a good time, but to each his own. I rolled my eyes as I pulled out into an open gap in the traffic. "I didn't have my gun because I didn't think I'd need it apartment hunting. Besides, I don't think that's the best pest control."

  "But effective," Solomon countered. When I thought about apartment number three, I wondered what kind of pests I'd have to shoot to get a peaceful home life.

  Since we were too early for rush hour traffic, we made it to Solomon's house in half the usual time. I parked outside his house, not bothering to pull into the vacant parking spaces, when he apparently didn’t intend to make any moves to invite me in.

  "You read up on all the suspects?" he asked, his hand lingering on the door catch.

  "Yep. And I scanned the files of the previously linked crimes and read the witness statements too."

  "Anything stand out?"

  "Not a thing. You?"

  "Not yet."

  "Actually..." I paused, pursing my lips as I thought about not what was in the files, but what wasn't. "Actually, I can't see an obvious motive for any of these four guys to be the thief. Are you sure the suspect pool isn't wider?"

  "I asked the same thing. Helen Callery assures me the criteria she narrowed the suspects down to was stringent. I had Lucas double-check and he agrees, but if we don't get any leads, we'll start on the next pool." He must have seen me pull a face. "Look on the bright side," he told me, amusement in his eyes. "Free dinner. No washing up."

  "Yeah, can hardly wait. Just me, a millionaire, oh, and you listening at the end of the wire. How romantic."

  "Sounds a lot better than some dates."

  "I'll think of it as practice."

  Solomon paused. "What for?"

  "For real dating."

  Solomon's eyes darkened for the briefest of moments, then he gave me a puzzled look and shook his head. "I left the keys for my neighbors’ place at the office. I should have given them to you earlier so you could check it out. Thanks for the ride, Lexi."

  A car honked behind me and I pulled in towards the sidewalk to allow it to pass. "Anytime, boss," I replied although I hoped he wouldn't take me too literally. Solomon climbed out and by the time the other car passed, Solomon had ascended the steps to his house and was pulling keys from his jacket pocket. Not that he needed them. As I watched, the door to his home flew open and a startlingly beautiful young woman stepped into the doorway. She was nearly as tall as he, with straight black hair that hung to her elbows, and a perfect, hourglass figure. She was wearing a dark brown pencil dress only a few shades darker than her flawless skin. She threw her arms around Solomon and drew him inside.

  The door shut behind them without a backward glance, leaving me to wonder just what Solomon's plans were that made him hurry home, and did those plans include the glamazon who was waiting for his arrival?

  Chapter Five

  After three days of failed and uninspired apartment hunting, combined with frustrated lurking and monotonous thumb-twiddling at the office, I scored my first date with a millionaire.

  "It's on," said Solomon, his head suddenly emerging from the office. We'd barely spoken since the night I dropped him off, and honestly, I wasn't sure if I were sulking or not. Seriously, just how beautiful was that woman who opened the door? She was clearly younger than I too. Did I wait so long for him to make a move that I forfeited the opportunity to make one of my own? Not that I even planned to make a move. I was still a big, old pile of confusion when it came to the men in my life. "Go home and change. I sent the details to your phone
and there's a Ferrari Italia in the lot downstairs. Enjoy." He tossed me the keys and I caught them, quick as a flash. It surprised the hell out of me. Catching something, that is, not the cool car. "What color is it?" I asked breathlessly.

  "Like there's a whole bunch of Ferraris to choose from," laughed Solomon. "Go!"

  I was out of there as fast as my four-inch heels could carry me, and minutes later, I made excited, squeaking noises as I slid into the cool leather interior of the cherry red Ferrari.

  If this was how millionaires felt, I wanted to do it every day. I exited the Ferrari and planted my hard-earned Louboutin heels on the sidewalk, handing the keys to the valet before strutting towards the glass facade of the art gallery to meet suspect number one, David Markham. The gallery took up the first floor of what was once clearly an industrial building of some kind. On first glance, not a lot of work was evident, but after a double-take, I noticed the polished concrete floors, and sandblasted-bare brick walls and blinked at the clearly loaded clientele. The exhibition featured a visiting New York artist with a reputation for being edgy and raw. I knew that because Solomon made me search the Internet prior to the date so I would have some conversation topics. So far, all I'd come up with was, "My nephew, Sam, is an artist of similar methods", "The stripes are cute," and "Really? How much?"