Scorpio Rising by Alan Annand
“How’d all this go over with your parents?”
“Dad was skeptical at first. He’s been around the block and seen every kind of hustler so he’s always been wary of opportunists, especially around Janis. Maybe it’s every rich man’s fear that some no-account will sweep his daughter off her feet, marry into money and make off with the family jewels. Dad wanted a pre-nup but Janis wouldn’t hear of it. In due course the more Dad saw of Jeb the more he liked him. He’s smart, well spoken and a terrific bridge player. Mom thought he was great fun and that he’d make Janis very happy. I guess she was right for a few years.”
“Did Jeb ever work for your father?”
“Dad offered, but Jeb was more interested in banking than real estate. But Dad’s well connected and, once he saw Jeb was going to be in Janis’s life, he lent a hand in getting him started. He made a few calls and Jeb had a job offer the next week.”
“Do you know his birth date?”
“Not by heart but it’s in my calendar.” Blaikie checked his BlackBerry. “December 10th.”
“Do you know what year?”
“He was two years older than Janis. Born in sixty-nine.”
Crowe entered Jeb’s birth data into his phone app, using noon for a birth time. He studied the birth chart a few moments. Having met Stockwell he was sure that, given his fair-haired complexion, fidgety hands and generally nervous temperament, he had Gemini rising. Blaikie’s description of Jeb as a clever-witted card player lent further credence to it, and the fact that he’d been two-timing his wife put the nail in the coffin. The Mercurial types were notoriously restless marital partners. Crowe adjusted the birth time to give Jeb a Gemini ascendant.
First thing that caught his eye, Stockwell’s Moon and ascendant ruler Mercury were both in Sagittarius in the seventh house. Since the Moon and Mercury were the fastest-moving planets, this suggested a fickle love life and a roaming eye. Being in a dual-bodied sign just aggravated Jeb’s wanderlust.
“Does he travel a lot?” Crowe asked.
“He goes to San Francisco a few times a year.”
Crowe recalled the horary chart he’d reviewed while awaiting Blaikie’s arrival. All those planets in Pisces on the western horizon suggested more than trivial activity on the west coast. Blaikie’s mention of San Francisco triggered a hunch. In Stockwell’s chart, his eleventh house of friends was occupied by a debilitated Saturn, suggesting less-than-stellar acquaintances. “Does he have any old college buddies out there he stays in touch with?”
“He’s never mentioned anyone in particular.”
“Someone with a boat? Or a waterfront property?” The Moon, prominent in both Jeb’s chart and the horary chart, ruled water.
“He leases a thirty-foot sailboat in Southampton during the summer. He’s talked about buying one of his own.”
“Do you know where he usually stays in San Francisco?”
“The Hyatt Regency Hotel, I think.”
“Is it near a marina?”
“Close to the Embarcadero, where you can catch a ferry to the North Bay or take a boat tour of Alcatraz...” Blaikie thought for a moment. “Now that you mention it, Jeb said he’d learned to sail while he was getting his MBA at Berkeley. Apparently, several local sailing clubs operate out of Berkeley Marina in the East Bay.”
The more he looked at Jeb’s birth chart, the more Crowe felt Jeb was more than just a widower. “I need to go to San Francisco,” he told Blaikie.
“If it helps you root out what’s behind Janis’s death, you have carte blanche. When do you want to go?”
“Tonight.”
“Okay. I’ll drive you to the airport.”
“No, you’ve had a bad day and you’ve been drinking.” Crowe stood. “You should walk over to your parents’ place, get some fresh air and clear your head. However much you might need to be alone, they need you more. Think of your mother.”
Blaikie rubbed his face and sighed. “You’re right.” He stood and walked Crowe to the door. “But give me a call if you need anything.”
Chapter 51
Santa Fe
As far as writing went, this wasn’t one of Carrie Cassidy’s best days. As far as staying sober, it wasn’t her best day either. But the day was far from over. Maybe she’d sit at the computer again and pound out a really good chapter. Or maybe she’d finish the bottle of wine and pass out on the couch dreaming of Oprah’s Book of the Month. So many highways, so many back roads to drive.
She reflected on something Frances had said of her years ago when they’d quarreled over her mother’s decision to remarry. You’re an impatient narcissist. You think it’s all about you, and you want it all now. Carrie admitted now there was truth in that.
Writing wasn’t the best career for a narcissist – too much risk, too much waiting, too little reward. Because she’d gone so far down that road she felt bitter she had so little to show for the time she’d wasted. Desperation had crept in one day at a time until she felt like a coyote caught in a trap, literally no way out, forced to chew her leg off to escape.
Distressed at this image of entrapment, she decided to leave the house for a while. She took the Honda and headed south on US-285. Santa Fe BMW was just off Cerrillos Road. Maybe she’d take a closer look at some of the cars she’d seen in this month’s Car & Driver.
Last year’s performance review, Walt had received a big bonus. He’d been so pleased with himself he’d bought a fully loaded X5. She’d hoped a little generosity might have spilled over onto a Beemer for her too, nothing big, she’d have been happy with just a 3-series. But with Walt it was all I-me-mine and apparently her automotive needs didn’t warrant a second thought. So Walt was toast now and the X5 that should have become hers was a hulk of blackened metal and melted plastic. In due course she’d get the insurance money but she was fed up with her current ride and ready for something nicer, the sooner the better.
When she entered the BMW lot she was greeted by Sandy Bishop, the dealership’s top salesman. “Howdy, ma’am. Lovely afternoon, isn’t it?”
“Sure is.” Carrie looked at him. In slacks, blazer and loafers, he reminded her of a young Bob Barker on The Price is Right. Her first thought was that she’d like to break his nose and give his flawless face some character.
“What can I interest you in today? One of our SUVs, maybe?” He glanced at the sun-faded Honda she’d arrived in. “I could give you a little something for that Accord. What is it, a ninety-nine?”
“Ninety-eight.”
“So, what are you in the mood for?” He gave her a big smile to go with the double-entendre. He patted the fender of an X5. “You like ‘em big and powerful?”
“Yes, I do,” she smiled in return, “but I was thinking of something a little sportier.”
“Like our Z4 Roadster...?”
He walked her down the row of demo vehicles, past the sedans to the Z4 at the end. It was red too, but a Technicolor world away from her washed-out Honda, and the white leather interior was like the skin on a high school beauty queen. He opened the door for her. She sat in the driver’s seat and laid her hands on the wheel.
“Does this come in black leather too?”
“Whatever you like, so long as you like black, tan or white.”
“How about a test drive?”
“Sure. I’ll go get the keys.”
When he returned he opened the driver side door but Carrie didn’t budge. She held her hand out for the keys. He hesitated.
“Maybe I should do the driving and you could just ride along.”
“Why?” Her green eyes gave off a bit of cold fire.
“I believe I smelled alcohol on your breath.”
“I had a glass of wine with lunch. Is that a crime?” In fact she should have said, ‘two glasses of wine for lunch’, but was that any of his business?
“One glass?”
“Yes.” One glass, two glasses – mere details.
“Okey-dokey.” He gave her the keys and went arou
They buckled up. She started the car, adjusted the rearview mirrors and drove off. They went south on Cerrillos a couple of miles, passing under the I-25 and then she looped around and got on 25 North.
“It’s a three-liter engine,” he told her. “Six-cylinder, two hundred and twenty-five horses. Zero to sixty in five point nine. Top speed, a hundred and fifty five. Not that you would ever want to...”
His patter faltered as she accelerated up to the speed limit. He glanced at the speedometer and saw eighty. She looked at him and smiled, the wind fluttering her hair. His right hand gripped the door handle and his left hand, too embarrassed to clutch his balls, turned into a white-knuckled fist on his knee.
Nine miles and five minutes later she took the Old Pecos Trail exit, looped around and got back on 25 South. At his urging she took it a little slower this time and they were back at the Cerrillos exit in six minutes. But instead of taking NM-14 North she headed south and within a mile they were on a two-lane undivided highway and she was passing everything in sight. Up ahead a semi-trailer was approaching and they were in its lane.
At the last possible moment Carrie jerked the Roadster back into her lane and the semi went by with air horn screaming. Carrie tossed her head back and let out a rebel yell. She shifted down, hit the brakes and skidded to a halt in the yard of an abandoned service station.
She turned to Bishop and said, “I love it. I’ll take it.”
He flung open his door, leaned out as far as he could and puked up his big green lunch of avocado and chicken salad.
Carrie handed him a tissue to wipe his chin. “But I want it detailed first.”
~~~
Back at the Cassidy ranch house on Piños Verdes a white Econoline van with decal signage reading Esmeralda Electrical backed into the carport. In the driver’s seat Agent Black shifted into park and picked up a walkie-talkie.
As soon as the van came to a halt Agent Blue was out of the vehicle. Screened from street view he picked the side door lock to the house. In the living room he mounted a chair, reached atop a bookcase and took down a stereo speaker cabinet. There was a one-inch porthole in the speaker enclosure that gave the bass its oomph, and stuck inside this porthole was a lithium-battery remote camera. He extracted the camera and replaced the cabinet atop the bookcase.
Out in the van Agent Black glanced at the dashboard clock. One minute and counting. The only thing moving on the street was a senior citizen on a Segway scooter going up and down the cul-de-sac in careful practice laps.
Inside the house Agent Blue entered Carrie’s office, crawled under the desk where her laptop connected to a cable router and removed from one of its ports a device that had allowed a remote viewer to capture everything that appeared on her computer screen. He pocketed it too and left the house, locking the door behind him.
As Agent Blue slipped back into the passenger seat, Agent Black put the van in gear and drove away, nodding to the old guy on the Segway as they exited the cul-de-sac.
The senior citizen, with a big grin on his face like a kid who’d just learned to ride his first bike, waved both arms and called out as they passed, “Look, no hands.”
Chapter 52
New York
Axel Crowe took a cab from Central Park South back to Washington Square, using his phone en route to check flight schedules. There was a Delta flight out of JFK at 8:25 PM, getting into San Francisco just before midnight local. He booked it and called Tracey.
“What’s up?”
He told her what was happening. He could hear the let-down in her voice. Tell the truth, he was disappointed too. “I hope to be back in a day or two. We’ll see each other then.”
“Send me a postcard,” she joked. “Having a terrible time. Wish you were here.”
Crowe checked out of his hotel and took a cab to the airport. He’d been less than fifteen minutes in the departure lounge before the PA announced boarding for his flight.
As soon as they were aloft and leveled out, the flight attendants came around offering reading material and refreshments. Crowe took a Wall Street Journal and a Perrier with a wedge of lemon, no ice. He read a few articles and checked his stock portfolio. He wasn’t obsessive about this and hadn’t looked at quotes in a week, since most of his investments were mid- to long-term. So far he was up ten percent on the year. Better than the horses but not as much fun.
The passenger next to him was an attractive woman about forty years old with auburn hair and trendy aquamarine-framed glasses. Crowe noticed her hands were somewhat square-ish with short fingers but her lightly-tanned skin was as youthful as a teenager’s. Her index finger was unusual – almost the same length as her middle finger. Her nails, as if compensating for her blunt-tipped fingers, were long and done in a French manicure. When the attendants came by she’d asked for a Vogue and a martini with extra olives. The magazine was now tucked into the net pocket before her, the martini inside her.
“Hi.” She offered a dry and muscular hand. “My name’s Miranda Flanagan.”
“Axel Crowe.”
“I am totally whacked and desperately need a nap but I’m also famished. Could you wake me up when they serve dinner?”
“No problem.”
“Thanks.” She put her earphones on, tipped her seat back and went to sleep.
Crowe took out a book and read for a while. When the flight attendants returned forty minutes later to serve dinner, he woke his neighbor up. Miranda glanced at the menu, interrogated the attendant about what wines were available and selected one to go with the chicken. Crowe had already chosen pasta and a tomato juice. Their meals were promptly served and Crowe set his book aside.
“I pride myself on keeping up with the latest bestsellers,” Miranda said with an impish smile, “but I think I overlooked that one. What’re you reading?”
Crowe glanced at the book on his armrest. Like the text within, the jacket title was in Sanskrit
“The Yoga Sutras, by Patanjali.”
“Patanjali? Who’s that, the new Deepak Chopra?”
“More like the old one. Several centuries years old.”
“Are you some sort of Hinduism scholar?”
“A student of Vedic philosophy.”
“Have you been to India?”
“Many times.”
“To see your guru?”
“No. My guru lives in Toronto.”
“So instead of sitting under a mango tree you meditate beneath a maple tree?”
“All winter long. But in the spring I get a little maple syrup to reward my diligence.”
Miranda laughed. “I hung out at a spiritual commune during university – back in the late eighties – with a guru called Babaji Hanuman. He was very fond of Coca-Cola.”
“Where did you go to school?”
“Stanford.”
“Where you studied law?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I’m good at guessing things.”
“And what takes you to San Francisco?”
“A little assignment for a friend.”
“You make it sound rather mysterious. Has your friend lost a valuable objet d’art or something like the Hindu equivalent of the Maltese Falcon?”
“As they say in your business, I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”
“Oh, I don’t practice law anymore. I got out of that a few years ago. The legal profession in America is a pack of dogs chasing money like a bitch in heat.”
“What do you do now? Something to do with publishing?”
“Say, you are good!” Miranda beamed. “I’m a film rights agent. I look for books that might make good movies and acquire the rights for my clients. So I travel a lot between New York and LA and read a lot of books.”
“But you live in the Bay Area?”
“Sonoma. My husband owns a vineyard. Do you like wine?”
“I used to, but I don’t drink much any more.”
“I try to be both.”
“What’s the name of your guru?”
“Guruji.”
“Isn’t that just a generic salutation?”
“He’s a pretty generic guru.”
She made a face. “Now you’re just being evasive.”
“I get that from my guru.”
“Come and visit us sometime. I met my husband at an ashram and he enjoys Eastern philosophy. Are you in San Francisco for long?”
“I’m not really sure. Hopefully, just for a day or two.”
“Just long enough to find the Maltese Falcon?” Miranda joked.
Crowe nodded. “And the Lindbergh baby.”
Chapter 53
San Rafael
Detective Jim Starrett spent the morning in the office. After catching up on paperwork he called the regional FBI office in San Francisco, to whom the JPEGs of Mystery Man from the Larkspur ferry terminal had been sent yesterday.
“I talked to Quantico this morning,” the technical liaison officer said. “They’re not getting anywhere with those JPEGs. They ran them through their facial recognition database but got no hits. Quantico said either your guy’s not in the system or the image is too poor to make a match.”
“Any suggestions?”
“Submit the whole video clip. Maybe someone can find a better image to work with.”
“How long will that take?”
“How important is this?”
“It’s a potential homicide case.”
“Potential?”
“We got this guy on video hot-wiring a vehicle involved in a fatal hit-and-run.”
“Get your senior officer to endorse the request, I’ll send it back to Quantico. They’ll put it in the queue relative to priority and workload. You know how it works.”
~~~
Starrett hooked up with Manny Cantata at lunchtime. Cantata was thirty years old, wore his hair long and had rings in both ears. Today he wore jeans, running shoes and a basketball jacket. They walked three blocks to where Manny kept his ride, a black ’03 Mustang, in a private parking lot a discreet distance from the SRPD.