The Solomon Curse

“Unfortunately, not yet. As you might imagine, with the rebel crisis, that’s all anyone has time for. But I haven’t forgotten about it,” Manchester assured them.

When Sam and Remi left the politician’s office, Manchester watched them walk to their vehicle from his window, his expression troubled. His receptionist eyed him as she worked on a sheaf of documents. “Don’t forget you have a five o’clock meeting with Gordon Rollins,” she said.

“Oh. Right. That’s today, is it? Thanks for the reminder.” While Manchester had kept his clandestine meetings with Rollins secret, he couldn’t avoid all public contact with him or that, too, would seem suspicious. They’d agreed to continue to have periodic meetings, as before, so if scrutinized, their behavior would seem normal. So far, the plan was working perfectly.

Manchester checked his watch and, with a final glance at the Fargos pulling out of the parking lot, returned to his office, his footsteps heavy on the polished wooden floor.

CHAPTER 44

Gordon Rollins’s neighborhood was the very best in Honiara. His home, a sprawling affair sitting on a bluff overlooking the ocean, was an area landmark. When Orwen Manchester arrived in the brick drive, the gardening staff were finishing up for the day, their khaki shirts soaked through with sweat, their skin chocolate brown from the relentless sun’s rays.

A blue 1963 E-Type Jaguar roadster sat in the driveway, its chrome gleaming—one of Rollins’s eccentricities but one he could well afford, coming from old money as he did and having invested wisely during his long life. Rollins turned from the discussion he was having in front of the house with his assistant, a shapely island woman named Sandra who had been with him for a decade, and offered Manchester a wave. Manchester shut off the motor of his Honda sedan and smiled as he slipped from behind the wheel—Rollins had always had flair and he’d lost none of it as he’d aged. “Orwen, old man, good of you to come,” Rollins called, shaking his silver mane of hair. He leaned into Sandra and said something. She smiled at Manchester, displaying two rows of blindingly white teeth, and then sashayed up the steps to the front entrance, leaving Rollins and Manchester to their business.

“Always my pleasure, Gordon. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

“Not as hot as yesterday, fortunately.” He held up a silver key on a fob. “I was thinking we might want to nip down to one of the pubs and have a quiet draft. Have you joined the ranks of the temperate lately or can you fit that in?”

“I’ll do whatever I must to make you feel comfortable,” Manchester said, smiling.

“Good man. That’s the spirit,” Rollins said, approaching the Jaguar.

“I take it this isn’t entirely a social call?” Manchester asked quietly as he opened the passenger door.

“Regrettably, no. But I see no reason not to mix business with a little pleasure. Besides, all this seriousness is a thirsty affair. I’m parched.”

“We make the sacrifices that are necessary,” Manchester agreed. “What have you got up your sleeve now?”

“The Crown is concerned about our recent unrest and the direction these beastly rebels have taken—most alarming, I think you’ll agree. And if she who must not be mocked is concerned, that means that I am—and you should be as well.”

The Jaguar exploded in a blinding flash when Rollins turned the key. A fireball shot into the sky like an orange fist, and a door flipped lazily through the air before landing on the immaculately groomed lawn. The staff stood transfixed in horror as the Jaguar belched black smoke, the cockpit and engine engulfed in flame, the chassis crumpled like a discarded soda can.

Sirens keened in the distance several minutes later, but by then it was obvious to the gathering crowd that the only job remaining for the emergency crews would be extinguishing the wreckage.

—

Remi shifted in frustration as she and Sam sat in the Honiara police station, talking to the police chief, Sebastian Fleming, a forty-something islander with a face like a losing fighter and a gaze that was quickly distracted. Vanya had arranged for a meeting, but from the very start Fleming had been defensive and standoffish, and the discussion had quickly degraded from there.

“Wait. So you’re saying that you have no idea how many missing persons reports have been filed over the last five years involving children? How is that possible?” Remi demanded. “Don’t you have computers?”

“Mrs. Fargo, that’s not how it works. I’m afraid you have some misunderstandings about the system,” the chief said in a condescending tone.

Remi fought to control her temper at Fleming’s brusque dismissal. “Really? You’re the police chief. People have been filing reports. But somehow I’m confused when I ask you how many have been filed?”

Sam knew Remi was simmering and that it was only a matter of time before she’d explode in the face of obdurate stupidity. He quickly moved to intercede, heading off a potential disaster.

“What my wife means to say is, surely there’s a record of any open missing persons cases, isn’t there?” Sam tried.

“Oh, well, put that way, of course there is.” Fleming stared at them with dead eyes.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Sam said. “Our question is, how many are still open after five years?”

“Oh, I understand your question perfectly. I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose that.”

“Why not?” Remi snapped, her color rising.

“Because it’s police business, ma’am, and you’re not a member of the force.”

“Why is it confidential?” Sam asked, his color rising as well.

“Because it is,” Fleming said as though that explained everything.

“Wait. We’re members of the public you serve and we’re asking a direct question and you can’t answer it?” Remi fumed.

“It’s not that I can’t answer it,” Fleming corrected. “I won’t answer it. To be precise, I’m choosing not to.” Fleming held up a hand to counter any objection. “And before you start protesting, let me clarify something you seem confused about. I don’t serve you. You’re visitors here, guests to the island. You aren’t citizens and you don’t pay my salary and I don’t have to answer any of your questions, especially when they’re framed in such an insulting ma

Sam could practically hear the safety flip off Remi’s detonation button and he quickly interceded. “Officer Fleming—”

“It’s Chief Fleming.”

“Chief Fleming. We’re looking into a troubling trend here of missing children. Surely you don’t mind helping us?”

“Mr. Fargo, let me make my position clear. The number of missing persons reports filed with this department will remain confidential unless you get a court order requiring me to divulge it, which is unlikely given that you’re not an islander.” He frowned and looked at the clock on the wall. “Now, is there anything else?”

“Don’t you care about missing children?” Remi demanded in a low voice.

“Deeply. What I don’t care about is two privileged foreigners showing up in my office, telling me what I have to disclose to them because they’ve appointed themselves special investigators. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other demands on my time. Thank you for dropping in and good luck with your research.”

Remi was seething as they descended the steps from police headquarters and Sam knew better than to say anything. They walked the block and a half to the hotel, and Remi had calmed down somewhat by the time they reached the room.

“I can’t believe nobody’s worried about a rash of disappearances,” Remi fumed, her temper stoked by Fleming’s lack of interest. “If my kids vanished, you can bet I’d raise holy hell.”