Suicide King (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series) by Shelley Singer Page A

look at my battered head right away, though, because there was a message for me written in what looked like black crayon. It was, “I could have killed you.”
    I studied the writing for a minute. Plain block letters, carefully anonymous. Then I cleaned the mirror and studied my head. A big bump and a smaller bump. The big bump would have been scabbed over if it had gotten a chance. As it was, it was a very clean wound. I wondered when the headache would go away, and considered the wisdom of checking with a doctor before I got back on a plane to go home. Both my wrists were burned, and the right one was slightly bloody. My lungs burned, too, and my throat, and my nose. I seemed otherwise to be okay.
    Whoever had undressed me— had that been for fun, I wondered, or humiliation?— had tossed my clothes onto the bed. Everything but the cut-off half of one neatly sliced sock. After I dressed and did a quick scan of the room and bathroom, finding no signs of the effects of anyone but myself, I called the desk.
    “Couple of things,” I said. “I fell and hit my head and I was wondering if there was a hospital nearby where I could get it checked.” Then I had to sit and wait while the clerk got the night manager, who then babbled questions at me. Yes, I had fallen in their room. In the tub, as a matter of fact. No, I was not blaming the hotel. No, I did not need an ambulance. No, I did not need an escort, just a cab and an address to aim for. Yes, I was fine. Stop fretting, no problem. There was something else. My bathtub drain seemed to be stopped up. Could they send someone to take a look at it? I understood that they didn’t have plumbers on call late at night. Yes, I also understood that they would make an exception in this case and take care of it immediately. And one more thing: were there any messages for me? I’d heard the phone ringing around ten or ten-thirty, when I was just getting in. He checked. Yes, a Mrs. Richmond had called. A Mrs. Marietta Richmond. She had said to call back at any hour.
    “But I really do think you should let me get an ambulance, Mr. Samson.”
    “How about I write a note for your lawyers saying I declined an ambulance and insisted on a cab?” He sighed and said he did have a release form, if I wouldn’t mind. I said I wouldn’t.
    He said he’d get me a cab.
    Before I went, I put in a call to the elder Mrs. Richmond. She answered.
    “Jake! I’d given you up. I hope you were having fun, wherever you were.”
    “Yeah. A real blast. How can I help you?”
    “That’s not the point. I’ve decided to help you. You tell me whatever you think has been left undone when you go back to the Coast, and I’ll do it. Or get someone to do it. I think you need an inside person, someone inside the family, don’t you?”
    “No, I don’t.” I was having visions of a hanged son and a drowned mother. “This could be dangerous, Marietta. We’re dealing with a killer. Is that why you called me earlier? To offer your help?”
    “Yes, and I’m going to ignore the fact that you don’t want it.”
    “I’m not going to argue with you right now. I’m on my way out. How about we talk in the morning?” She agreed to that. I grabbed my room key and headed out the door. I wasn’t in so much of a hurry to see a doctor, though, that I didn’t take the time to check that door out in passing. Sure enough, little scratch marks around the key hole. Someone had picked the lock. And I’d been so busy thinking about poor old Walter and rushing to answer my phone that I hadn’t noticed. I wouldn’t be that careless again.
    I stopped at the desk to sign the man’s paper. A cab was waiting, he said, and he lost interest in me entirely.
    The doctor wasn’t too interested, either, and said the headache would probably go away sometime the next day. I called another cab and went back to the hotel. When I got to my room door I noticed it was not quite latched.
    “Who’s in there,” I said in my meanest