All In: An Anthony Carrick Mystery

By Jason Blacker

Anthony Carrick is asked to help his friend, John Roberts, Captain of LAPD's Homicide Unit in solving a mysterious murder. A well dressed middle aged man is found with a gunshot in the middle of his forehead in a less than classy hotel.

On the victim is one thousand dollars, a casino chip and a New York Giants' Super Bowl ring that obviously doesn't belong to him. It doesn't look like a robbery gone bad, but then again, in this part of LA anything is possible.

From the somewhat seedy hotel to local poker games and high class hookers, Anthony has to uncover the true motive of the murderer to make any sense of this crime at all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lemon Tree Publishing
• Release date: Dec 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781927623480

Jason Blacker

Jason Blacker was born in Cape Town but spent most of his first 18 years in Johannesburg. When not grinding his fingers down to stubs at the keyboard he enjoys drinking tea, calisthenics and running. Currently he lives in Canada.  Under his own name he writes hard boiled as well as cozy mysteries, action adventure, thrillers, literary fiction and anything else that tickles his muse. Jason Blacker also writes poetry and daily haikus at his haiku blog.  You can find his haikus and other poetry at his website www.haiqueue.com.  For FREE books and to stay up to date and learn about new releases be sure to visit www.jasonblacker.com where you can find more information about his writing and upcoming projects.  If you enjoy space opera in the tradition of Star Trek then take a look at Jason Blacker’s pen name “Sylynt Storme”. It is under the name Sylynt Storme where you can find both sci-fi and vampire fiction written by Jason Blacker.  “Star Sails” is the space opera series and “The Misgivings of the Vampire Lucius Lafayette” is his vampire series.

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COPYRIGHT © 2016 Jay Beezles

PUBLISHED BY: Lemon Tree Publishing

Visit www.JasonBlacker.com to get FREE books and other cool stuff!

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

ONE

One

IT was a quiet night in Santa Monica, and the lazy hum from the cars driving by was like the soft kiss of the sea. It ebbed and flowed with the tide of traffic lights always thinking independently and never sequentially in this part of time. I had a paint brush in my hand with a dollop of red paint on the end. Might've been mistaken for a knife with red blood. But I was painting. It was something called Time's Mistress. I didn't have a clue what it was about, but I was painting like my life depended on it.

And it did. Rent was a week away, and the last painting I'd sold was back when Rembrandt was sitting on his father's lap in knickers. Pirate needed food, and I needed a drink, but the drink could wait until I had the money to pay for it.

It was getting harder to find a decent gig in this town for an ex-homicide detective now working as a PI. Murder and Sons were still on double shifts but folks trusted the cops to figure it out, and that wasn't a bad idea, normally. What most of them didn't realize was that only about one in three murders in this city of sleepy angels gets solved.

Though the movers in shakers in Hollywood and Beverly Hills who could afford a gumshoe like me got better service and higher clearance rates from LAPD's finest.

What I'd been feeding myself with were discreet infidelities. What that really meant was the wife was looking to catch her dandy of a husband but couldn't afford to pay me my regular rates, because you know, he might see the missing money from their joint account.

Now I'm not really complaining, a couple hundred bucks for a day or two's work wasn't nothing. It kept paint on my brush, a cigarette in my mouth and Scotch in my glass, but it wasn't gonna top up my 401(k).

Work had dried up like the antifreeze in my LeSabre last time I'd been out to Death Valley. It had gotten so bad I'd been looking at the help wanted section, and thinking about clipping hedges and mowing lawns. At least speaking English was a plus.

But right now I was lost in my painting, streaking the canvas with red paint that looked more like arterial spray when my cell phone buzzed. I looked at the screen. It was my old pal John Roberts. I picked up the phone.

Johnny Rotten, I said.

A laugh on the other side.

You busy tonight, Anthony? he asked.

You asking me out on a date?

More laughing.

Keep telling yourself that. I've got a guy here who's not saying much. Figure you used to be a murder whisperer.

Where are you?

I'm at the Malamar Hotel down on North Sepulveda Boulevard. You know it?

Practically my second home, I said to him, lying.

Good, then I'll see you in a bit.

I hung up, and already my mood had improved. Not because I'd heard from Captain Roberts, but because there was some money to be had for helping LAPD's boys in blue. I got out of my painting overalls that looked like I'd been in a paintball fight and put on my old detective clothes. Brown slacks and a blue shirt. I grabbed my fedora and headed out to see what the night had dragged in.

I took the Pacific Coast Highway, which at times thinks it's a long dead president before changing it's mind again. The traffic at around two in the morning was quiet. It's about the only good time left to drive down Route 66 nowadays, except the cops are out looking for speeders.

That didn't bother me, I drive slow. I've never mistaken the LeSabre for Ford GT, and Roberts is fed up with canceling my speeding tickets anyhow. Besides, there's no rushing the dead, and driving along the PCH with my windows down and the salty air in my nose reminded me of the good old days. The forties and fifties. When I wasn't even a twinkle in my father's eye.

I arrived at the main parking lot of the Malamar Hotel which was crawling with black and whites and an ambulance which wasn't needed. Sometimes the medics just come out for a look see when their shifts slow. This must've been one of those nights.

The Malamar Hotel is one of those places that thinks putting lipstick on a pig means you can charge for a tenderloin. It ain't so. The place might have been swanky in the seventies. Nowadays under low lights it's pickpocketing tourists and Angelinos who just don't know any better. Not saying it's a bad place. In fact this is the first homicide here I'd heard of. But a couple of coats of paint and an indoor pool that'll gas you with its chlorine stench ain't worth two hundred bucks a night. Not when the hum of traffic is louder than a wasp's nest under your bed.

I donned my fedora and asked one of the young officers where Roberts was. He was on the third floor. I cursed under my breath and headed to room 303 to see what the fuss was about. The Malamar didn't even have an elevator.