Murder in Hindsight by Anne Cleeland Read Free Book Online Page B

afoot. “I see—he must love his little boy very much.” Doyle had sat in when Acton interrogated Solonik, and the suspect—not knowing the constable who accompanied him was Acton’s wife—had tried to blackmail Acton by threatening to harm his wife. In return, Acton had threatened to harm Solonik’s child, and Solonik had immediately conceded the stand-off, and plea-bargained to a long prison term. So; Doyle revised her theory to surmise that her rescuer was now assigned to make certain no harm came to Acton’s wife so that no mistaken revenge would then be taken against Solonik’s son—Acton being a revenge-taker of the first order.
    In this, however, she was again mistaken, as the pale eyes were suddenly intent on hers. “Solonik has a little boy?”
    “Never you mind,” retorted Doyle a bit crossly. “And I am grateful for what you did, my friend, but it is like pullin’ teeth to carry on a conversation with you.”
    He ducked his chin, considering this, then concluded, “Very painful.”
    “Like licorice at Christmas,” she confirmed. “And I thought we agreed we weren’t to speak of all this again.”
    “Solonik asks that you meet with him.”
    Doyle stared at him, yet again completely astonished. “In prison ?”
    He gave her a look. “Of course—where else?”
    After a moment, Doyle smiled, almost relieved, now that she had hit upon the final and correct theory for these strange events. “No.”
    But he was not to accept her bald rejection without demur. “He asks me to tell you he wishes to apologize, and say prayers with you for the forgiveness of his soul.”
    “No.” Doyle explained kindly, “Mr. Solonik is only tryin’ to get Acton’s goat.”
    Her rescuer stared at her blankly.
    She sighed; honestly, it was like being one of those foreign language translators at the Crown Court on docketing day. “It means he’s tryin’ to find a way to annoy Acton, and I can assure you, that would do it nicely. I won’t be aidin’ and abettin’ him.”
    He thought about this for a moment, studying her, and his next comment seemed off-topic. “You did not want to tell Acton of last night; why is this?”
    She decided this was none of his business, and replied in a mild tone, “I won’t be visitin’ Solonik, and I’m sorry to disappoint you if that was your errand, because I am ever so grateful to you. You can tell Solonik that I’ll accept his apology from afar, and that I’ll be prayin’ for his poor, misguided soul.” Put that in your pipe, Solonik; you’re in dire need of prayers, you are. She concluded, “Thank you again, but I should be gettin’ back to work.”
    He nodded, but as she turned to leave, he said, “Wait.”
    She turned to him and raised her brows.
    “Why does Solonik wish to apologize?”
    There seemed no harm in telling him. “He threatened to kill me, but he didn’t know I knew of it.” She paused. “It’s rather a long and complicated story.” He made no response, and she turned and left, walking back to work with a steely resolve not to glance behind to see if he followed. Turning over their strange and disjointed conversation in her mind, she tried to decide whether Acton had to be told. Her husband hadn’t touched the scotch last night—too busy touching her, he was—and he was to stop therapy; the last flippin’ thing he needed was to hear flippin’ Solonik was having Savoie’s people follow her about—Acton would probably blow up the flippin’ prison. And strange as it sounded, she knew her rescuer meant her no harm, even though he was not sure what to make of her. With any luck, this would be an end to it.
    Struck by a sudden thought, once back at the Met, she asked the desk sergeant if she could have a look at his laptop—Acton sometimes monitored her laptop and she didn’t want to give him any clues about her misadventure in the projects. With quick fingers, she drew up the homicide docket for the Metro area in the past twenty-four