Dead Certain

PROLOGUE

The young Duty Manager looked at the DO NOT DISTURB sign, cleared his throat, straightened his tie. He glanced at the substantial figure of the Housekeeping Supervisor, who stopped chewing her gum long enough to say, “Go for it.”

“I can hear something. Someone talking.”

“The television’s on.”

He paused a moment longer, then knocked resolutely. “Mr. Raeburn? This is the Duty Manager…”

The Housekeeping Supervisor sighed. “Hasn’t answered any of my room attendants. Not going to answer you.”

“Mr. Raeburn…?”

The television blared as he opened the door to a wall of cold air. He walked down the short entrance hall and stopped. “Jesus.”

Collis Raeburn lay sprawled on the bed, his head turned away as though hiding his face. One arm hung over the edge so that his hand touched the plush beige carpet near an overturned tumbler and a scatter of pills. There was a pungent stink of whiskey.

Reluctantly, the Duty Manager touched his shoulder, then his face. “Jesus,” he said again.

The Housekeeping Supervisor killed the television.

In the silence her matter-of-fact voice was too loud. “Offed himself.” When the young man beside her didn’t respond, she added, “Get the Manager and don’t touch anything.”

“Do you know who this is? Collis Raeburn, the opera singer.”

The Housekeeping Supervisor was already walking towards the door. “Yeah? Whoever he is, he’s still just as dead.”