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

by Shelley Singer

  “Yeah,” I said. “Those are some of the things we’ve been wondering. But let’s start at the beginning. Do you think we really have something to look into? That he didn’t just kill himself?”

  She shook her head. “That’s hard to say. I suppose that you’ve been talking to a lot of our people. And that none of them think he could or would kill himself?”

  Another question. I wanted her to answer in answers.

  “Most of the people I’ve talked to don’t think so. For various reasons. But what about you?”

  She laughed softly. “All right— may I call you Jake?— I’ll tell you what I think. It’s what I told the police. I think he could have killed himself. I think he was essentially unhappy. He wasn’t happy in his marriage, he wasn’t happy that he had no children, and he wasn’t happy with his… social life.”

  “Don’t be so coy— may I call you Rebecca?— and please do call me Jake. I know he chased women.”

  She looked at me, her gray eyes soft and sadly amused. “I don’t know that I would put it exactly that way, Jake. He didn’t have to chase women. They chased him.”

  It was hard for me to say, but I said it.

  “You, too?”

  The soft eyes went hard and blank. “I’m married, Jake. Happily.”

  “Rebecca, someone saw you.”

  “Someone has a vivid imagination.” She drank the rest of her wine. “I’ll be happy to give you any facts I might have that could help your investigation, but I’m not going to play games with you. Joe and I respected each other, even liked each other. Whoever said we slept together was lying.”

  It seemed to me she was taking the “lie” awfully seriously. It made her angry. There could have been any number of reasons for that. She could have been concerned about the political effects such a story might have. She could have been worried about its effects on her marriage. Or maybe she was angry because it was true. I was tending toward the last reason, mostly because she was staring so blankly at me. One of those direct, honest gazes out of Orphan Annie eyes. A gaze that reminded me of my ex-wife, who was a pretty good liar, especially when it came to this very subject— whom she had and had not slept with. I dragged myself away from that comparison. I wanted to continue liking Rebecca Gelber.

  “Look, Rebecca,” I said. “At the risk of having you hate me, I’d like to pursue that subject for just a while longer. It doesn’t matter to me whether you and Joe had an affair, except that it would help me to understand both of you a little better. I am very interested in the man’s private life. He’s dead, and I think someone killed him. I need to find out why. Sex is one hell of a motive— from disappointed lovers to pissed-off husbands. And I’m going to find out the truth one way or another. I’d rather not have to keep asking other people. I’d rather get something that feels true from you, right now. Your husband doesn’t have to know— if he doesn’t already.”

  She glanced at her empty wineglass, sighed, and looked at me with those soft, sad eyes I’d seen earlier. “You are a persistently insulting little bastard, aren’t you?” But she was smiling, almost affectionately, when she said it. “I suppose it’s common knowledge?”

  “I don’t know. I heard it from one person.” She nodded thoughtfully.

  “I think it’s probably common knowledge. But as far as I know, Bruce is unaware. And it really has no significance of any kind. It was a fluke. An infatuation that lasted a few days. We were away from home. The meeting was exciting, full of promise for the future. We were up, happy… he wasn’t happy very often in those days.”

  “What about you?” Rosie asked quietly.

  “You two are merciless, aren’t you?”

  “We try.”

  She laughed. “I wasn’t happy and I wasn’t unhappy.”

  “Then you were bored.”

  “No. Not really. There was plenty to keep me occupied.”

  “So you two were high on politics, excited about the same things, fell into bed. Okay. How did you feel afterward?” I probed.

  She studied me for a moment. One corner of her mouth went up. Her eyelids drooped. I felt the heat rise. “Sleepy,” she said.

  “I mean how did you feel when he took someone else to bed, showed interest in other women?”

  She was still smiling quirkily. She knew she’d gotten to me. “I expected it and I was relieved. Really. Of course, there was a twinge of jealousy. I think there always is unless the experience is totally repellent. But it really didn’t matter to me. Is that enough of that subject?”

  “Not quite. You say you knew he was with other women. Which women? How did they take his love ‘em and leave ‘em ways?”

  “Oh, I think you’re misunderstanding Joe. It wasn’t that way. He honestly cared about everyone. He did not have a Don Juan attitude. He expressed his affection.”

  “Just a sweet, simple guy, right?”

  “Well, sweet anyway. And attractive. And sexy.”

  “And about one inch deep.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Monogamously involved?”

  “Not exactly. Okay, okay. Forget it.” I couldn’t help but laugh. She’d gotten me again. “Tell us about some of his women.”

  “I only know of two others, for sure. Pam and Gerda. And I have no idea how they felt about him, or how far things actually went with them. I suspect he and Pam were still seeing each other when he died.”

  “If you don’t mind,” I said, “I think I would like that second beer, now.” I needed some time to breathe and we still had questions that needed answering. She asked if Rosie wanted one. Again, Rosie declined. Rebecca left the room.

  She’d given in and told the truth about her affair with Richmond, but she was such a clever woman that I couldn’t be sure the whole process hadn’t been planned. Maybe she had not made a big show of telling the truth so we’d believe the rest of what she said— that she had felt just fine about getting dumped after a night of passion. Sometimes it’s very difficult dealing with people you suspect might be smarter than you are. I prefer feeling superior.

  “Let me ask her about Minneapolis,” Rosie said. “You’re doing too much of the work.” I thanked her.

  Rebecca came back, handed me the beer, and sat down again. Rosie picked up the questioning.

  “You were in Minneapolis for the funeral, right?” Rebecca nodded. “Was your husband there with you?”

  “No. He had a full schedule that week. He stayed here.”

  “Where were you later that night, after the funeral? Say, after—” she glanced at me.

  “Ten.”

  “After ten?”

  I was creating an interesting image of this tall, sturdy-looking woman stripping me and tying me down in the shower.

  “Well, let’s see. I spent the early part of the evening meeting with some local party people, but I think we broke by nine or so. I went back to my hotel and went to sleep. Why? Was someone else killed?”

  “Not quite,” I said.

  Rosie changed the subject to politics.

  “His death gives you a better shot at the campaign, doesn’t it?”

  “A better shot, but hardly a clear one. Phil Werner is the most likely candidate, at this point. Unless someone else appears from out of the blue. In any case, I’ve still got some very strong competition. It’s possible, you know, that James X. will come out on top.”

  “About Werner,” I interjected. “There’s a rumor that he’ll bolt Vivo if he’s nominated. Take all his marbles and try to hand them to a major party. Joe Richmond apparently believed it.”

  She gazed at me, disturbed and surprised. “I’ve not heard anything like that. I know Joe didn’t trust him, but— no. I’ve never heard that. I don’t believe it.”

  “Werner and Carney,” Rosie returned to the original subject of relative standings. “Are those men as strong as Joe Richmond?”

  “Probably not. But they’re men, in any case, and that makes them a little st
ronger than they would be otherwise.” There was no malice, no sulkiness in her voice. She was making an objective political judgment, as far as I could tell.

  “What do you think your chances are?” I asked.

  “I have a good chance of being endorsed— good to fair, I should say, and no chance at all of being elected.”

  “What do you really want, then? I mean you as a person, you as a politician?” I was getting interested in spite of myself.

  “I want us to make a strong showing. To be recognized as a viable power. To be the magnet for an ecology coalition. To qualify as a party.”

  “Then what?”

  “There’s some disagreement about what comes next. Most of us, I hope, want to gather enough support and enough money to win the governorship next time around. Or the time after that. I want us to run people for the legislature, and for Congress. I want us to create a strong national organization and run a presidential candidate. We want change, and we want people in office to make that change happen.”

  “Well, good luck,” I said. “So maybe you could run as an independent this time and lose, and get a Vivo nomination next time and win. Maybe you could run for president in a few years. Does your husband want that, too?”

  “Not enough to kill for it, if that’s what you’re driving at.”

  It was, but I denied it and repeated the question.

  She sighed. “Well, of course he does. Why wouldn’t he?”

  I must have stared at her. She meant it. This incredibly intelligent woman apparently saw no reason why her husband might not want to be the first gentleman of California, or even of the country.

  “Rebecca,” I said. “Look at history. How do you think Pat Nixon liked it?”

  It was her turn to look at me as if I were out of my mind. “What in the name of God do you think I have in common with Richard Nixon?” Rosie was grinning. She found that amusing.

  “Politics,” I said. “The desire for power.”

  Rebecca didn’t get angry. She nodded slowly and gave me a cool but friendly look. “Sometimes,” she said, “people are more interested in what they can do with power than in the power itself.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “At least that’s what they say.” I finished my beer. “We won’t keep you any longer, but I’d like it if we could talk to you again, Rebecca.”

  “I’d like to see you again. Both of you. And I’d like to help if I can, although I’m not sure there’s anything to help with.” She stood. We stood. “Jake, I’m sorry you’re convinced you have to act cynical. I’m sorry you’ve been so disappointed. You must have been quite an idealist once.”

  I took her hand, pretending to shake it good-bye. “I must have been. But I don’t remember.”

  – 21 –

  I don’t usually have my poker games on Thursday nights. Unless something really important intervenes, they’re on Tuesdays. But since I had been 2,000 miles from home on Tuesday, I’d put it off a couple of days.

  I’d also managed to put off until Thursday the return call to Lee. Her answering machine informed me she was not available but would call me back. I told it that I would not be available after eight o’clock that night but would be around first thing in the morning.

  Lee had never come to a poker game, she said because they were always on weeknights instead of the weekend when she felt more free to make the drive. I’d always thought that was too bad, since I think I cut a pretty dashing figure at the poker table. This night, however, I did not think it was too bad. I was glad I did not have to feel obligated to invite her. I needed to relax. Certainly there was something to work out between us, but everyone needs a night off, right?

  Hal Winter came. Hal always comes, busy as he is. I’d met Hal in 1976, back when I first moved to the East Bay from Marin County. I met him through a friend who was having a legal battle with his landlord. Hal, a black man, got his start with civil rights and tenant’s rights cases. He was a passionate man back then, with real heroes and real enemies, a man with a sense of history. He’s still a passionate man, but true to the eighties, he has now moved on to the corporate world, where he is making very good money.

  “I think it’s my duty,” he likes to say enigmatically.

  The only thing I don’t like about Hal is that he eats like three pigs and stays skinny. He had already swallowed a bowl of corn chips by the time my other old pal, Artie Perrine, showed up.

  Artie and I have done each other some favors, too, and we go back a few years. He’s an editor at Probe Magazine, in San Francisco, and it’s his letter of credentials I carry around to legitimize my illegitimate investigations whenever that becomes necessary. The letter says I do freelance work for the magazine. Artie’s idea was that he might get something out of that someday in the form of information for one of Probe’s articles. He has, once or twice. He also got free detecting once when his nephew was accused of killing a guy in Mill Valley, where Artie lives.

  Hal, Artie and I sat around drinking beer, poking at the fire in the Franklin stove— evenings in the Bay Area are warm only in August and September, if then— and talking. Hal, of course, wanted to know what was happening with the case, and Artie was instantly interested in the possibility of a story on Vivo. I gave them both some bare bones to chew on and admitted that Rosie and I were at the running-in-circles stage. Then we sat around for another few minutes, waiting to see who else would show up. The three of us were the hard core, Rosie played from time to time, and a couple of other people showed up more or less regularly. There’d been only a few weeks when we hadn’t come up with at least four, and we usually had five.

  Rosie arrived around eight-thirty, with Alice. Alice had a rawhide chewstick, which may be her version of poker. We sat down at the table and I began to count out chips, ten dollars each. We used to play for three, nickel ante. But over the years, we’ve all gotten a little more solvent, and we were up to a racy dime, quarter, half, instead of the old nickel, dime, quarter. I’ll play for more in Tahoe, of course, but this living-room stuff is just a game and a chance to see each other.

  We drew for the deal and it was Artie’s. He called seven stud.

  My hole cards were the two of hearts and the six of spades. First up was queen of diamonds. Hal was showing a five of hearts, Rosie the eight of clubs, and Artie the queen of hearts. I, first queen, tossed in a dime. Everyone else thought that was a good idea.

  Fourth card, Hal picked up a nine of clubs, Rosie a king of clubs, I got a five of diamonds, and Artie gave himself a seven of clubs. Rosie checked. So did I; so did Artie. Hal bet a dime. I decided to stay in because what the hell, this wasn’t Tahoe, and nobody else was showing anything all that great.

  Third up, Hal was showing five of hearts, nine of clubs, king of diamonds. Rosie had an eight and king of clubs and jack of hearts. I had picked up the four of clubs, which gave me four on an inside straight— whoopee— and Artie gave himself an ace of diamonds, to go with his queen of hearts and his seven of clubs. Hal checked. Rosie checked. I checked. Artie checked. Fourth up: Hal, still nothing showing; Rosie, another club, the three, for three showing on a flush; me, another four for a tiny pair; Artie, another queen. Artie bet a quarter. Hal folded. Rosie folded. I decided not to let him get away with it, and tossed in my bet. Last card, down: nothing to go with my fours. Artie had me beat on the board.

  I thought about bluffing, but Artie doesn’t cave in too easily and he likes calling my bluffs.

  Hal called draw, jacks or better to open. Rosie couldn’t do it. I had a pair of queens and assorted garbage and tossed in my dime. Everyone stayed in. On the draw I took three and got nothing. Rosie bet a quarter. Was she bluffing? I decided yes and stayed in. Artie folded and so did Hal. Rosie had two pairs, fours, and aces. She’d drawn the second ace. I was getting off to a slow start.

  Rosie’s first deal, she called five card stud, suicide king wild. The suicide king is the king of hearts. Like all the royalty in most decks, he has a pained look on his face.
But this guy has a good reason. He’s holding a sword and it looks like he’s sticking it right through his own head. I don’t think it’s an accident that the suicide king is the king of hearts. I also didn’t think it was an accident that Rosie had suicidal royalty— not to mention the king of hearts— on her mind. Neither of us had been totally convinced by Rebecca Gelber’s insistence that her peccadillo with Joe Richmond had meant nothing to her.

  I, however, wanted to put the case out of my mind for a couple of hours. I called flip-flop, a really stupid game where you keep choosing one of two cards to show until you have four showing and one in your hand. The one in your hand is wild. I am the only person I know who doesn’t hate flip-flop.

  The deal went around a couple more times. Then, around ten, the phone rang. I thought about letting the machine catch it. Lee didn’t expect me to be home, or answering the phone, I reasoned. Still, she could be trying. And maybe I should answer it. Maybe I was beginning to feel guilty about sidestepping this baby thing. Maybe I didn’t like my hand. It wasn’t very good. I tossed it in and went to the phone in the bedroom. My message was just about finished. I picked up the receiver and shut off the machine.

  “Hello.”

  “Is this Jake Samson?” The voice was a whisper.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I have to tell you something.” Did the whisper sound familiar?

  “And what is it you have to tell me?” I felt silly, talking to Deep Throat on a perfectly normal evening in Oakland.

  “They’re planning something terrible.” The voice sounded female, but it did not have an accent. That let out Gerda, unless she was capable of affecting an American accent. Who the hell was it, anyway?

  “Who is? Who’s planning something terrible?”

  “They’re going to sabotage a chemical plant, make it look like a toxic accident. Right before the election.”

  “Who is? And where is this plant?”

  “Some of the people involved with Vivo. So they’ll get more votes. I don’t know who. Ask Werner.”

  “Where? Where is the plant?”