Suicide King (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series)

by Shelley Singer

  “California.” She hung up.

  It could be someone trying to lead me off in the wrong direction. It could be true. I went back to the game, thinking I would probably lose a bundle after this.

  Rosie checked my face out pretty thoroughly, maybe looking for signs of impending fatherhood. My expression, I think, must have puzzled her. It was her deal. She gave up staring at me and got down to the matter at hand.

  “Five draw, guts to open— in fact, let’s make it pass-out— the game of life.” Pass-out is a form of draw poker where you can’t check before the draw. That means the opener, and everyone else, has to either bet or drop out. No choice— you make a commitment, you put your money where your mouth is, you get right in and get wet or you drop out of the game. That’s why Rosie likes to call it the game of life. She’s just full of symbolism, I thought bitterly. I don’t like the game much because it limits my options. You can’t use a ploy that I often use: you can’t check and lay back with a strong hand, watching the action and then raising the other players after someone else has opened. And I had a damned strong hand: aces and threes. I opened for a dime, scaring no one off. We drew. I still had two pairs. I checked. Artie made it a dime. Hal and Rosie folded. I raised Artie forty cents. He stuck out his jaw and saw me. All he had was a pair of tens.

  It was my deal. I called low hole follow the queen, a game full of wild cards and changes of fortune. Now that’s my idea of the game of life.

  It was a good evening, despite the phone call. Maybe the surge of adrenaline helped my poker. I made twenty bucks.

  It was midnight by the time Hal and Artie left. I stopped Rosie on her way out and dragged her back inside.

  “Jesus,” she said, after I told her about the call. “I thought you had a funny look on your face. You were kind of gray. You think it might have been a woman but you didn’t recognize the voice?”

  I shook my head. “Not for sure, not even enough to make a good guess.”

  Rosie thought about it. “And she said ask Werner… that doesn’t make a lot of sense. Why would Werner have anything to do with trying to win more votes for Vivo in the election if he’s planning to defect after the convention?”

  “He might if he thought he was going to lose the endorsement and stick with Vivo for another four years. If he loses, he doesn’t have a lot to offer another party.”

  She looked exhausted by the possibilities. I was, too. We made a breakfast date for the next morning. I left the beer cans, the chip crumbs, and the soggy two-inch remains of the chewstick where they lay and went to bed.

  – 22 –

  BEFORE getting started the next day, I put in a call to Lee at her office. She wasn’t in. She wasn’t home, either. I tried calling my father. No answer. My third productive call was to the office of Doctor Mack Frazier, Bruce Gelber’s alleged golf partner on the day of Richmond’s death. Doctor, I was told, was touring China and would not be back for a month.

  After all that success, I went up to the cottage to get Rosie and take her to breakfast. We needed to organize our thinking.

  “All fingers point to Werner,” Rosie said, stuffing a forkful of home fries into her mouth. I nodded, playing with my soft scrambled eggs. “He must be the key to the whole thing.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “We don’t know where he was when Richmond was killed. We don’t know where he was when I was given my involuntary shower. And that voice last night… the mystery contestant. Ask Werner, it said. And Richmond not trusting him. All that points to him. But it doesn’t make sense. If he wants the endorsement as a prize he can run somewhere else with, he doesn’t want Vivo getting a lot of votes in the general election. He sure as hell doesn’t want a Vivo-backed candidate to win. Why would a defector want the party he left to succeed?”

  “We don’t know he’s planning to defect. We don’t know anything about him except that he’s probably the front-runner for the nomination and that he avoided talking to you in Minneapolis.”

  I took a bite of egg and poured some hot sauce over my potatoes. Better. “You’re right. That’s true. But what about the locals? Rebecca can’t account for herself at all, not for the morning of Richmond’s death or the night of the attack on me. And who the hell knows where her stringy husband was?” I had told Rosie about the China trip. “Sexual jealousy is the best motive for murder I know. And consider the James X. Carney situation. Here’s a guy who doesn’t bother to go to the funeral. He’s a political opponent. He’s fighting Richmond every step of the way, fighting the idea of a gubernatorial candidate. How much does he care? Enough to try to screw up the convention? Enough to knock off the prime candidate?” I had a sudden inspiration. “What if he and Werner are working together? If it’s true that Werner’s a turncoat and that Carney doesn’t want to back a Vivo gubernatorial candidate— think about it. With Richmond out of the way, Werner’s the next best candidate.”

  “But what about the chemical-plant sabotage?”

  “A red herring?”

  “Sending us to Werner?”

  “Well, maybe. So he can lead us off in a wrong direction.”

  Rosie looked skeptical, with good reason.

  We spent some time going over the ground about who was in Minneapolis and who wasn’t, who was covered for the morning of Richmond’s death and who wasn’t.

  “His wife was sitting in her house in Bel Air,” Rosie said.

  “Probably,” I agreed.

  “Ron Lewis was in a meeting with some money people.”

  “Pam, Gerda, and Cassandra were in a meeting, too, talking over the benefit.”

  “His mother probably didn’t do it.”

  “Or his brother. And speaking of money people, I’m setting up a meeting for us for this afternoon with Carl Maddux. Pam’s tracking him down.”

  Rosie finished her coffee. “Don’t I remember you saying that he wasn’t in that meeting with Ron?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I wonder why not. I wonder what he was doing.”

  I shrugged. “Probably investing in hog futures or something. Who knows what people that rich do with their time.”

  Rosie laughed. “Let me know when we’re going to see him. There’s one more left on my original list— Noel Chandler. I think we should see him today, too. Then I think we should do some traveling.”

  No question about it.

  I drove us home. There were three messages on my machine. The first was from Marietta Richmond.

  “Jake, dear, this is Marietta. I’m sure you’re out doing wonderful things.” She paused. I thought I heard her take a swallow of liquid. I could imagine her, lounging in something long and silky, sipping orange soda. I could imagine the orange mustache it left behind, too. “I also have been doing wonderful things. Emily is still staying with her family. I have had someone following her. I can report without any reservation that she goes nowhere and does nothing. But I’ll keep trying to catch her. Bye-bye.”

  The second call was from Pam. We had an appointment with Carl Maddux at his house in Ross— not, she said pointedly, the house in San Francisco— at two o’clock. I called Rosie and told her, so she could try to set things up with Noel.

  The third was from Lee. She was now at her office. I called there.

  “I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” I said. “And I still don’t know what to say. This is a very big thing you’re talking about. I can’t take it lightly. I can’t make a decision just like that. I need to see you and talk to you in person about it.”

  “Yes. All right. When?”

  “That’s the problem,” I said. I heard her sigh loudly. “No, I mean it. Really. I’m working on a case, you know that. And it may be bigger than just the death of one man.” I liked the sound of that. And if the sabotage tip had any truth behind it, the line was true. She sighed again. “I have to leave town for a couple of days. I should be back by Tuesday at the latest. But I may really be in the thick of it by then. I can’t just stop working when I’m on the edge of coll
aring someone.”

  “God, Samson, you’re full of shit.”

  “No, I’m not. Can we make a tentative date for Wednesday, and I’ll try, really try not to put it off?”

  “All right. Wednesday. Be at my house at eight, okay?”

  “Okay.” Or what? If I get there at nine will I find you busy conceiving with the meter reader?

  I still had some time, so I dialed my father’s number in Chicago again. My stepmother answered.

  “Eva! It’s me, Jake. How are you? I got a message Pa called.”

  “Called? Sure he called. Why wouldn’t he call? Your father loves you, Jake. I love you. Everything’s fine here. Is everything fine there?”

  “Yes, fine.”

  “And how is your tenant, the Italian?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “Such a beautiful girl. It’s a shame she wears those boots.”

  My father and stepmother had been out visiting last summer and had met Rosie. Eva had never gotten over Rosie’s cowboy boots. As a matter of fact, it was their visit that had led to my meeting Lee. She was a niece of Eva’s, and Eva had pushed us together. See what good comes of that sort of thing?

  “And Lee? Are you still seeing my beautiful niece?”

  “Now and then, Eva.”

  “What does that mean, now and then?”

  “It means sometimes.”

  She clucked at me. “Such a Mister Cool. Your father wants to talk to you, Mister Cool.”

  “Okay. Bye, Eva.” She was already gone.

  “Jake?”

  “Hi, Pa. How are you?”

  “Fine. You’re fine?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “What kind of trouble are you getting into?” I didn’t think he was talking about Lee. On that last visit, he had finally figured out that my work could be dangerous— he got a bump on the head himself strolling down my driveway in the dark— and had decided I was involved in something secret. I think he liked the idea and worried all at the same time.

  “No trouble, Pa. Taking it easy.”

  “Liar. You’d be home more if you was taking it easy.”

  “I gather you’ve tried to reach me more than once?”

  “He gathers. So? I know you can’t talk about it. So okay. Just take care of yourself. And Rosie? How is Rosie?”

  “Terrific.”

  “And Lee?”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Okay. That’s good.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Don’t forget next week is Eva’s birthday.” Then, louder again, “So, keep in touch more. Don’t get hit on the head.”

  “Good-bye, Pa.”

  “Good-bye, Jake.”

  I ordered some flowers to be sent to Eva— I knew if I waited until the next week I’d never remember— and spent a couple of hours going over my notes. I felt like we were getting close to something, but I couldn’t figure out exactly what it was.

  – 23 –

  CARL Maddux lived in a town in Marin County where the rich don’t have to get richer, they already are.

  Ross sits cozily in a heavily populated corridor of Marin, north of Mill Valley, Corte Madera, and Larkspur, tucked along Sir Francis Drake Boulevard on the way to Fairfax.

  Sir Francis Drake continues out through the West County, where the landscape grows increasingly rural, and ends at Highway 1, the coast road, at the tiny crossroads town of Olema. That’s where you’ll find the entrance to the Point Reyes National Seashore. Where you can find some of the most beautiful beaches in the world.

  I used to live in Marin County, a long time ago. I ended up there in the early seventies, after some time spent wandering up and down the Coast. I lived in a bunch of those towns at one time or another— in one of them with a woman I was married to for a while. An ugly story, that one, full of lies and sneaking and meanness. Friends who knew what she was doing and stayed silent, as if silence were a moral stance, as if neutrality had anything to do with friendship. But those were the cool, “you do your thing, I’ll do mine” days of doublespeak Me-babble, not too far removed from the hit-on-a-joint, tab of windowpane, laid-back revelations of eternity we’d all wallowed in a couple of years earlier.

  What really amazes me is that I still love Marin County, even though I’ve lived in the East Bay, now, for over a decade. It’s beautiful, and the beauty was always there, through all the shit, and maybe kept me sane, or nearly sane, anyway.

  People keep telling me, these days, that Marin has gotten tight-assed. Rosie complains that fewer and fewer of those great beaches allow dogs. That does seem to indicate a certain tidy, suburban twist of mind— what’s a beach without dogs chasing seagulls and tossed driftwood? And I keep hearing that the kind of people I knew there, the odd ones tucked away in the hills, the poor artists and writers and itinerant carpenters and knights-errant, don’t live there anymore because they can’t afford to or because the atmosphere is no longer right. Except possibly in the West County towns, San Geronimo, maybe, or Lagunitas. But see, it was always that way in Marin. There was always an “except in.” I’ve been back to a couple of places I used to live in. The houses cost a hundred thousand or so more now than they did then, sure, but that’s true in Berkeley, too. And nothing looks all that different.

  And I can’t ever drive to Marin County without having a small, scared feeling of homecoming. You can get off the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge right onto Sir Francis Drake, so that’s what I did. In about ten minutes, we were cruising through Ross. Maddux lived off Shady Lane, which has nothing to do with naughty ladies. I found the house, even though I couldn’t see it from the road, and even the address, out at the mailbox, was hard to read. The front of the property was screened by a ten-foot-tall, dense hedge of prickly, mean-looking holly. The gate was closed, but not locked. It swung back easily and I drove through.

  The drive must have been an acre long, if something can be an acre long. It was lined with redwood trees, and they weren’t babies. The house was tucked into more trees, but not so many or so big that the rooms got no sun. It was hard to tell how big the place was, because there seemed to be more of it everywhere I looked, behind every bit of native California landscaping. Windows and decks and levels, all in the same, although denatured, redwood that sheltered them.

  It was almost like camouflage. The best houses are like that, I think— part of their hill or canyon or ravine. I glanced across the front seat at Rosie. She smiled and raised her eyebrows in appreciation.

  I thought I heard a stream running somewhere. Now that was really something. Almost anyone in Marin can have a winter stream, but this was May and it hadn’t rained in over a month. Big money.

  Of course, I already knew that. We found the door and pushed the bell. I didn’t hear anything, but figured that maybe somewhere, deep inside the house, soft chimes played Bach.

  Maddux made it to the door in under a minute, so I guessed he must have been waiting for us. He was dressed more casually than he had been the last time I saw him, in slacks and sweater and open-collar shirt, but he still managed to look inhumanly clean and neat. Of course, I understand that it’s easier to look that way if someone else washes and irons your clothes and you have more clothes to start with. But this guy looked like he had someone following him around brushing him off and spot-pressing. I became more aware of the mustard stain on the front of my shirt.

  He took us into a medium-sized room of wood and leather and books, with a wall of French doors leading out to a large deck.

  We sat on brown leather couches at right angles to each other, Rosie and I on one, he on the other. There was a large decanter on the coffee table, on a tray with brandy snifters. He offered us some; I declined, Rosie accepted. He poured hers, but he didn’t pour any for himself.

  “It occurred to me after I talked to Pam,” he said softly, “that it might have been more convenient for you to visit me in my San Francisco house. I spend several days a week there.”

  “Oh no. This is fine,” I said. “Very pleasant
.” Pleasant. Like a rustic Taj Mahal. I had remembered that he spoke quietly, and had the nearly invisible quality of an old-fashioned butler. I hadn’t remembered the paper-like quality of his skin. Pale, thin, dry, almost powdered-looking. He was thin, too. But he didn’t look sick. I was betting he’d looked the same way when he was ten years old. Now? Probably somewhere right around fifty-five or sixty, fifteen or twenty years older than I am. I wanted his money.

  “We don’t want to take any more of your time than we have to,” I said. When you want someone’s money, you have to be polite, by way of making up for it.

  “I’m sure you won’t.” He smiled slightly, cracking fault lines all down his cheeks. “I remember seeing both of you at the benefit. I don’t remember hearing you were detectives.”

  “We try not to brag,” Rosie said. She doesn’t usually come up with wisecracks during interviews. Either she was crazy about this guy and felt instantly comfortable with him, or she didn’t like him at all.

  He smiled again. “Why don’t we begin, then?”

  I started out slowly, by asking him some background questions: when and how he’d gotten involved in Vivo; why. Then I went on to some tougher ones, like why he was so involved in putting together money to support a losing candidate.

  Maddux had, he said, been a member of various conservation, wildlife, and ecology groups since the sixties. He saw Vivo as being part of an international network that included the Greens, and he had been interested for several years in organizing backing for a major candidate who would represent a new, “relevant” political direction.

  “Organizing backing, you said,” I interjected. “Exactly what do you mean by that? It has to do with your PAC, right? Your recipient committee? What is that, anyway?”

  He nodded ruminatively. “Well, let me see if I can… a PAC is a Political Action Committee, a non-party political group.”

  “You mean like a special-interest group?”

  “Not necessarily. On the state level— you seem to already know this— they’re called recipient committees, which seems self-explanatory. Committees formed to receive funds for candidates.” He smiled humbly. “I don’t have a lot of time to dedicate to these things. But I do have a lot of money.”