Suicide King (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series) Read Online Free Page B

of some business right now, but you’re going back to the East Bay later, right?” I nodded. “I wonder if I could beg a ride with you? I came over with someone who’s staying in the city.” I told her sure, Rosie and I would be delighted. She patted my shoulder, smiled— she liked me again— and went to talk to the graduate student. Then intermission was over, and the aging rock star came on to shrieks of audience happiness. He was pretty good, but not as good as I remembered. The impressionist was better.

– 4 –
    NOT every woman, or every man for that matter, is capable of appreciating a 1953 blue-and-white Chevy Bel Air. One of the things I’d first liked about Lee— besides the way she talked, looked, and moved— was her admiration for my admirable classic.
    But Lee was a problem. Besides a tendency to work ten or twelve hours a day, she also got involved in community projects a lot. She would work herself into a state, sometimes, and drop out of sight for weeks. Of course, I could respect that, and understand it. But I didn’t like it much.
    So I was pleased when Pam showed good judgment about cars, too.
    “Beautiful,” she said, standing back a couple of feet to admire it. “I think my mother had one of these.”
    Rosie slid unobtrusively into the back seat, so Pam took the passenger side next to me. She was quiet going over the bridge, responding briefly to my comments about Three Mile Island, her own performance, and the old rock star. When I said I thought Joe Richmond was one terrific guy, she said, “Yes.” Rosie brought up her conversation with Rebecca Gelber, and we got some mileage out of that.
    Rosie said she had admired Gelber’s work for years and had been thrilled to finally get a chance to talk to her. Not only had Gelber been involved in environmental causes for a long time, she had been one of the early and leading lights of the women’s movement back in the sixties. She hadn’t spent a lot of time in the spotlight, but she’d dipped at least one hand in everything that had ever amounted to anything. The name had, now that I thought of it, sounded vaguely familiar.
    Pam admitted that deciding between Gelber and Richmond had not been easy for her. She didn’t say what had finally convinced her. We crossed the bridge and headed for Berkeley. She directed me to the University Avenue exit. I drove all the way up University, turned north to go several blocks, then east again toward the hills. The house was not in anything like the same class as the Pacific Heights mansion, but it was big enough and nice enough. She’d inherited it, she said, from her mother. When she invited us in, I accepted happily, looking at Rosie for confirmation. She seemed to think it was a good idea.
    The living room had a big fireplace that projected round like an igloo from the plastered wall. But the look was Southwest. Pueblo? I don’t know. All the doorways were rounded arches. The rug was definitely Southwest Indian, the furniture overstuffed and in earth colors. There were two paintings in the living room, both by that guy who paints Indians. I liked the room a lot. She offered us wine, and we sat down.
    We didn’t stay long. We talked about the Vivos, about the convention that was coming in just a month. Somehow, the way Pam explained it, the Vivo election plan didn’t sound quite as ridiculous— not quite— as it had seemed at first. There’s a lot of stuff involved in becoming a real party: You have to caucus and choose officers. You have to file formal notice with the secretary of state, who then lets the counties know they should be on the lookout for the number of voters registering as members of your party. If you can register a number equal to one percent of the total vote in the last election for governor, you qualify. Or you can go another route, the one the Vivos had tried, and qualify by petition, collecting signatures equal to ten percent of the total vote. What that all means, though,