Scorpio Rising by Alan Annand
“Karate and music don’t mix, Dave. You took that fork in the road years ago. You had to protect your hands, keep those fingers limber, not stiff. All you ever wanted to be was a killer guitar player. I’ll bet the only thing you’ve ever killed is time.”
Munson thrust a kick at Crowe’s knee. Crowe had already seen the shift in Munson’s centre of gravity and was ready for it. He sidestepped the kick, grabbed Munson’s foot with both hands and pulled it up to chest level. Munson fought to retain his balance. Crowe pressed a thumb under Munson’s foot. Munson screamed like someone had shoved a hot poker up his butt. Crowe released him. Munson fell off balance and crumpled to the floor.
Crowe returned to his car and drove away. His sole purpose in confronting Munson had been to emulate a bat’s shriek and see what echoed back. Based on everything Munson had said and done, Crowe had just learned a few things. Munson and Stockwell had seen each other recently and had something to hide. Combined with Munson’s addictions, that got Crowe thinking about threesomes again. Did Munson’s recent financial windfall have anything to do with Janis Stockwell’s death?
Chapter 58
New York
Jeb Stockwell was enjoying a quiet day of mourning. Since he was supposed to have been in San Francisco for the conference, there was nothing else on his schedule this week. He’d given May Lee time off. Yesterday had unfortunately demanded his attendance at the funeral and the forced show of bereavement with the in-laws. Thankfully that was now behind him. Last night he’d drunk a whole bottle of Bordeaux by himself and fallen asleep watching TV in his king-size bed.
Today he’d woken with a throbbing head but he’d taken two aspirin and now sat in his housecoat on the terrace taking some sun. The New York Times and Wall Street Journal lay on the patio table but his mind was far from the mundane world. He was thinking of Katrina’s long legs and how he loved to twist her like a rubber pretzel into positions limited only by his boundlessly perverse imagination.
He got a major frisson just thinking about her and wondered whether this weekend was too soon to get together. He’d have to wait a respectable amount of time before he could introduce her to his world but so long as they kept a low profile, no reason he couldn’t resume enjoying her once or twice a week as he had in the past year.
The house phone rang. He picked up the cordless and glanced at the call display. He saw the 415 area code but didn’t make the connection until he heard the caller’s voice.
“It’s Dave,” Munson said.
“What the hell?” Stockwell almost dropped the phone. “You know you’re not supposed to call me.”
“I know, I know. But a guy showed up at the house just a few minutes ago asking about you. He had a picture from the Berkeley yearbook, the karate club.”
“What?”
“He wanted to know if I’d been talking to you.”
“Did you get a name?”
“He didn’t say.”
“What’d he look like?”
“Tall and fit, in his thirties, I guess. Dark hair and eyes that look right through you. And he knew stuff about me.”
“What stuff?”
“My playin’ guitar, doin’ dope, karate…”
That part about the penetrating eyes reminded Stockwell of Blaikie’s friend. Axel Crowe had visited him on Wednesday; yesterday he’d showed up at the funeral home. “What’d you tell him?”
“Nothing, I swear. You know him?”
“Could be one of my brother-in-law’s associates.”
“Your brother-in-law?” Munson’s voice went up in pitch. “He knows about your wife? What’s he doing here? Man, if he connects the dots, we’re screwed.”
“Relax, will you?” Stockwell said, as much to himself as Munson. “There’s no way anyone can put it together, never mind prove anything.”
Munson was far from reassured, and growing a little more frantic with each sentence. “I no sooner get Bernie’s place to myself and next thing I know I’m lookin’ at a room in San Quentin? Man, I don’t like the sounds of this. I’m gonna split town for a while.”
“No. Stay cool.” Stockwell made calming motions with his free hand, like a faith healer trying to cure Munson’s paranoia from a distance. “Don’t do anything that’ll make you look suspicious.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. And Dave, listen…”
“What?”
“Don’t ever call me here again. You know the drill.”
“Sorry.”
Stockwell hung up. He could feel the blood pressure pounding in his eardrums. He covered his face with both hands, trying to hold it together.
Chapter 59
Santa Fe
At the house on Piños Verdes where once a faded red Honda had rested its balding tires, a bright red BMW Z4 sat under the carport, waxed and detailed and ready to roll.
Inside, Carrie Cassidy was at her computer, fingers beating a lively tattoo on the keyboard. She was having a good day and in three hours had pounded out an average day’s production. No wine today, just lots of coffee, jet fuel for her brain.
Absorbed in her fictional world, she was startled by the flutey ringtone of Skype from her computer. She usually turned off all the phones when she was writing but often forgot to mute the computer. She toggled to the Skype window and looked at the caller ID. Green Hornet. Stockwell’s homage to Bruce Lee. She took the phone call, no video.
“It’s me,” Jeb said. “I’m calling from an internet café.”
“I don’t give a shit where you are. Why the hell are you calling me?”
“Dave just phoned a few minutes ago. Some guy showed up at his door this afternoon. I think it’s a psychic my brother-in-law knows...”
“A psychic? Are you kidding me?”
“He helps Kevin track down reluctant witnesses to testify in class action suits.”
“How’d he find Dave?”
“Damned if I know. But he sure as hell threw a scare into him.”
“You too by the sounds of it.”
“He’s ready to cut and run. I warned him to stay cool but, tell the truth, I don’t like it either. This shouldn’t be happening.”
“There’s no way to connect you and Dave.”
“Tell this guy. Apparently he already knows we were roommates. He even had a picture of the Berkeley Karate Club.”
“Did he mention me?”
“You’d have to ask Dave.”
“I’m not calling Dave. We’re not even supposed to be calling each other.”
“We’re not supposed to be having this problem either. What’re we going to do?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“How?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“You’re right. I don’t.”
She hung up and looked for the number of her troubleshooter.
~~~
Jemez Springs, New Mexico
Zeke Zabriskie sat on the front porch of his single-storey house overlooking a clearing in the trees where his Dodge Ram pickup was parked. He wore a tattered T-shirt, cut-off jean shorts and a pair of huaraches that looked like they’d walked all the way up from Mexico. He used a cleaning rod to push an oiled swab down the barrel of his 12-gauge pump shotgun. As he worked, he took alternate pulls on a Marlboro and a can of Coors.
When his cell phone rang, he grabbed it off the porch railing and said, “Yeah?”
“Hey,” Carrie said. “You’re up and about?”
“For you, darlin’, I’m always up.”
“Are you busy?”
“Never too busy for you.” Zeke fed Polymag see-through cartridges into the magazine.
“I can do without the stroking, okay.”
“Well, it’s just so darned nice to hear from you too. It’s been quite a while.”
“Listen. I need you to do something for me.”
“Sure. All you gotta do’s ask.” Zeke pumped a shell into the cham
“I’m not asking for a favor. It’s a job.”
“That’s the problem with you. All business and no pleasure.”
“Just shut up and listen, okay?”
Because he had both a soft spot and a woodie for her, Zeke did as he was told. It didn’t take long to hear her out. He went to the kitchen to get a ballpoint and wrote an address on the back of an envelope.
“Any questions?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then saddle up and get moving.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She hung up.
He returned to the front porch. Out by the shed, the squirrel had finished digging a hole and was looking at it like he’d forgotten whether he was going to put something into it or take something out. Zeke picked up the shotgun, took a bead on the critter and clucked his tongue. The squirrel looked in his direction. Zeke’s finger tightened on the trigger until it was just a pussy hair short of firing a load of number four shot that would shred the target into itty bitty pieces. He took a deep breath, then relaxed his finger and raised the barrel. The squirrel scurried off into the underbrush.
Zeke laid the shotgun over his shoulder. Within his heart, which had experienced every kind of pain and sorrow known to man, he had only a small reserve of pity for the innocent, and he’d just used up his daily quota. Anyone else crossed his path today, they’d better have God on their side.
He went inside and got ready to go hunting.
Chapter 60
San Rafael
Axel Crowe waited in his rental car a hundred yards down the road from Marin Bay Park. He’d been here half an hour. The downside risk was some local citizen might get suspicious and call the police; upside, he didn’t expect to wait much longer. As soon as he’d left Munson, Crowe had noted the exact time and used his astrology app to produce another horary chart. Question was, when will Munson leave the house? According to an esoteric technique, Munson should do so after forty-three minutes.
Crowe checked his watch. A few more minutes to wait. Mentally he connected the dots in a possible scenario. Janis Stockwell was killed while her husband was in San Francisco. Jeb Stockwell stood to inherit millions. Years ago Jeb shared an apartment in Berkeley with Dave Munson. Could Munson have killed Janis Stockwell on behalf of his old roommate?
Crowe used a Yogic technique to test this question. With a finger he closed each nostril in turn and breathed through the other. Guruji said the dominant flow in the nostrils alternates between left and right throughout the day and night, reflecting the shifting balance of prana within the body’s nadi, or nerve channels. Currently his right nostril was flowing stronger. Rule was, if the right nostril was dominant when a question was asked on a Tuesday, Saturday or Sunday, the answer was positive. But since today was Friday, the answer was negative.
So if Munson didn’t kill Janis Stockwell, why had he been so unnerved when Crowe mentioned Stockwell’s name?
A yellow Porsche roared out of the gated community. Crowe trailed it west on San Pedro Road and through downtown San Rafael. They crossed the freeway and followed Francisco Boulevard East past a marina before turning into the Country Club Bowling Lanes. Crowe idled past as Munson exited the car with a tote bag for a bowling ball.
Crowe went inside a few minutes later. The place had a dozen lanes and an elevated lounge area where people could have a snack and watch the action. Crowe spotted Munson in a blue polo shirt about five lanes away, tying on his shoes. Another guy in the same lane was hurling a ball at the pins. This time of day only three other lanes were occupied and the collective rumble of balls was subdued.
Crowe entered the lounge which was deserted except for an elderly couple playing video poker and a girl behind the food counter. He looked at the menu display. The clerk, a redhead in her twenties, wore a name tag that said Tammy.
“Help you?” she said.
“I’ll take a lemonade. No ice.”
She held a drink container under a spigot. “Something to eat with that?”
“Is that popcorn fresh?” Crowe said, looking at the popper.
“Just made it this afternoon. You want butter, salt?”
“Plain, thanks.”
Crowe took a table near the railing and watched Munson and his friend. He ate his popcorn and sipped lemonade. Munson was good, usually downing a set of pins with one or two balls.
The redhead appeared with a couple of napkins. “You might need these.”
“Thanks.” Crowe wiped his fingers even though they didn’t need it.
Tammy was still standing there. “You lost?”
“No more than the average person. Why do you say that?”
“You’re not here to bowl.”
“You know that line from Being There? Maybe I just like to watch.”
“I’ll bet you do.” She had freckles and something of a tomboy manner, the way she stood there with a hand on her cocked hip, giving him a hint of her attitude.
“No law against that.”
“You look like a cop. Or a suspicious husband.” She scanned the lanes. “Is that your wife down there, the one who laughs?”
Six lanes away a blonde was bowling with a muscled guy a few years older than her. Each time she knocked down a few pins she whinnied like a horse.
“Thankfully, no,” Crowe said. “You want some popcorn?”
She sat in the opposite chair, took a single kernel and munched it thoughtfully as she studied him. “Are you an Aries?”
“No, but it’s not a bad guess. Why do you say that?”
“That scar on your forehead. Lots of Aries get a knock in the head.”
“Lucky for me I’ve got a hard head.”
“Yeah?” She licked her fingers and wiped them on a napkin. “How hard is it?”
Crowe looked at her and shook his head. I’m not goin’ there. She blushed. On a redhead it looked like she was about to spontaneously combust.
He pretended not to notice. “That guy in the blue polo shirt.” Crowe pointed at Munson. “Is he a pro?”
She turned to look. “Dave? He’s what you’d call semi-pro. Plays a lot of tournaments. He was in New Mexico for nationals earlier this week but his boyfriend got killed in a hit-and-run and he had to come home.”
“Really? What day was that?”
“Tuesday. It was in the paper. Everybody around here was talking about it.”
“Doesn’t look like a guy in mourning.”
“Dave’s not completely all together. He’s had his share of uppers and downers, if you know what I mean…” She angled her head back and sang a plaintive Mick Jagger, “Goodbye, Doobie Tuesday...”
“Thing like that could set a guy back, make him revert to bad habits.”
“I think he’s got it under control. Hope so. Be a shame to blow his inheritance.”
“The boyfriend left him a bundle?”
“According to the rumor, a coupla mil.”
Behind them a video poker machine whooped like a police siren as a torrent of coins clattered down a metal chute. The elderly couple embraced and began a lively waltz among the tables.
Tammy nodded toward them. “Ain’t love grand?”
~~~
Crowe didn’t wait around for Munson to finish his game. He returned to his car and used his phone to locate the San Rafael Public Library on E Street. Fifteen minutes later, he was seated in its reading room with all the local newspapers. He hit pay dirt with the Wednesday edition of The Marin Independent Journal. The headline for the story read ‘Hit-and-Run Claims Local Venture Capitalist’.
The article said Bernard Lang had died instantly after being struck at 6:55 PM Tuesday evening by a Jeep Cherokee while jogging on San Pedro Road. The Jeep reported stolen from Larkspur terminal was later discovered at San Rafael bus station.
The article described 50-year-old Lang as a flamboyant entrepreneur who’d got his start in the used foreign
He was survived by two sisters in Philadelphia. In lieu of flowers, donations were suggested for the San Francisco AIDS Hospice.
The police were still investigating Lang’s death. Anyone with relevant information should call Detectives Starrett or Hutchins at the SRPD.
Crowe stared out the nearest window. Bernie Lang had died at 6:55 PM Pacific. According to the NYPD, Janis Stockwell had died at 10:45 PM Eastern. The time zones were three hours apart, which meant Lang had died at 9:55 PM Eastern, less than an hour before Stockwell.
What were the odds? Jeb Stockwell and Dave Munson had been roommates in Berkeley a decade ago; their respective partners had died the same night. It looked like more than a coincidence.
Crowe opened his astrology app and produced an event chart for the hit-and-run. With Virgo rising, a dual sign suggested the perpetrator was a visitor, not a local. Seventh lord Jupiter was debilitated on the axis of the moon’s nodes, so the person may have been an alcoholic or drug user in a disguise. The seventh house contained an ordinary Mars but exalted Venus, so the perp was successful in life, but unhappy.
Crowe wasn’t entirely satisfied with this analysis but sometimes that’s the way it went. Perhaps in Guruji’s hands this chart might have revealed more. For now he’d be content with what he’d learned and take it to the next level another way.
Chapter 61
San Rafael
Crowe walked to the San Rafael Police Department at 1400 Fifth Avenue. He told the duty officer he had information regarding the Lang investigation. The duty officer made a quick phone call and sent Crowe back out onto the street.
“Detectives are in another building, one block east. Twelve-ten. Detective Starrett will meet you there.”
When Crowe arrived at the address, a tall man with a wind-burned complexion stood just inside a door with a keypad lock. He opened it and Crowe entered.