Scorpio Rising by Alan Annand
Crowe stared at Janis Stockwell’s birth chart. In his mind’s eye, he superimposed the current planetary positions, what astrologers called transits, upon the natal chart. Today’s planetary war involved Venus and Mars, rulers of Janis Stockwell’s first and seventh houses. This implied a war between husband and wife. The two planets were in Janis’s sixth house ruling competitors. This often spelled legal proceedings as a prelude to divorce, but under aggravated circumstances, warfare could take more extreme form.
“Did your sister have a solid marriage?”
“She seemed happy.”
“How about her husband?”
“What about him?”
“He’s been going through a difficult time?”
Blaikie shrugged. “Hard to know. We put on a face for the public but inside we could be suffering. Why do you ask? What’s Jeb got to do with this?”
In Janis’s chart, Jeb was represented by Mars in an antagonistic relationship with its natural enemy Saturn. Mars indicated violence, while Saturn reflected suppression. Crowe had seen instances of this in marriage where the spouse was abusive. But abuse could be imaginative and take many forms...
“He may have been seeing someone else.”
Blaikie shook his head. “I can’t imagine it. Jeb’s a good guy.”
“It’s a balancing act millions of men juggle every day. As you said, it’s impossible to know what’s going on inside a person’s mind.”
“Are you really such a cynic?”
“People call us cynics when they don’t share our ability to perceive reality. I prefer to think of myself as a realist, but bear with me. I’m sure there’s a third party...”
“What are you suggesting? A girlfriend who got tired of waiting? Someone capable of murder?”
Crowe proceeded cautiously. “Money and lust make the world go round. Your family has a lot of money. Maybe someone else supplied the lust.”
Blaikie reached for his coffee cup. He took a drink and set it back down. He ran his fingers through his hair again and hunched forward, elbows on knees, chin resting on his balled fists.
“Now that you mention it, I felt Janis turning inward this past year. She wasn’t herself. I even mentioned it to her once but she blew it off, said she was suffering a recurring migraine. I wasn’t really convinced but I didn’t push it. Looking back, maybe there was something going on behind the scenes.”
There always is, Crowe reflected. He was reminded of a famous woodcut from a Medieval astrological text, in which a seeker of truth in the real world pokes his head through a veil to discover another world with multiple layers of existence, and wheels within wheels within wheels…
“Can you work with the police?” Blaikie said. “I can pull some strings to give you access.”
“I could try, but consider this. Once I start turning over rocks, strange things may crawl out from under. What if I find something you don’t like?”
“Like what? You think she or Jeb was mixed up in something unsavory?”
“All I’m saying is, it might be more complicated than it appears. The police investigation itself may turn up something unpleasant. Whatever I do may uncover other things of which you weren’t aware.”
“All I know is, Janis was good and decent. I’ll take my chances with the outcome. I give you carte blanche to dig up whatever you can. And however unlikely I think it is, if it turns out that Jeb’s implicated, I need to know that.”
Crowe looked out the window at the kite rising and falling on the wind above Central Park. What was that line? A butterfly flaps its wings in one part of the world, and a typhoon destroys another part...
Blaikie misinterpreted Crowe’s hesitation. “At triple your usual fee, and don’t spare any expense. Go where you must and buy whatever or whomever you need to get it done. I’ll foot the bill.”
Crowe thought of his bank account and the thoroughbreds galloping through the holes in it. Truth was, he needed money as much as Blaikie needed help. He looked at Blaikie, saw grief etched in the shadows beneath his eyes, and read the plea in his gaze. Crowe nodded. More than anything else, he felt sympathy for a client who was also a friend, whose violent loss of a sister demanded resolution and justice.
Chapter 19
Albuquerque
By seven-thirty, most guests had departed the Roughrider Motor Inn, a few slinking home with cheating hearts tucked up their sleeves, the rest gone for breakfast before their round of sales visits to local businesses. A block east, traffic on the I-25 revved up as people headed in for work. Up in a cloudless sky, two turkey buzzards rode a light southeast wind, working their way down the Rio Grande.
Unit 12 opened and Zeke Zabriskie stepped off the curb, letting the aluminum screen door bang against the frame. With an unlit cigarette stuck between his lips, a tan rawhide vest over a white shirt, and a crumpled black cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes, he had the hard lean look of a Marlboro Man, except harder, leaner, and possibly meaner. Thirty-five years old, he was an unemployed jack of all trades, almost none of which constituted grounds for legal employment. He lit his cigarette, coughed once and spat a bullet of phlegm far out into the parking lot. He took keys from his pocket, climbed into a mud-spattered black Dodge Ram pickup and drove off.
Half an hour later, a young Mexican woman in a green uniform emerged with a linen trolley and a vacuum cleaner from the motel office to began her morning round of cleaning up after everyone else’s mess.
A few minutes later, Unit 12 opened again and Dave Munson emerged with a bowling ball in a tote bag. He was a good-looking blond with a mustache, wearing a blue nylon windbreaker that said Bay Area Ballbreakers across the shoulders. Also thirty-five years old, Munson was an unemployed musician whose dreams had lost their fizz over the years, like a beer left standing at room temperature. He still had the looks that could have graced a CD cover but that was all he had, and even it wouldn’t make a difference this late in the game. Once upon a time he’d had aspirations of a rock star lifestyle but fate had kept him on a blues budget.
He locked the motel door behind him and climbed into the white Cavalier rental from Alamo. A couple of minutes later he was headed up I-25 toward Rio Rancho, a north end community on the other side of the river, to which many of Albuquerque’s professionals had migrated in response to new homes in new subdivisions in close proximity to new shopping malls.
Having driven this route four times already, Munson no longer referred to the complimentary map provided by Alamo. He took the Paseo del Norte exit, crossed the river and turned onto Coors Boulevard. He entered a huge parking lot that was filling up fast. He locked the car and walked toward the big pink stucco building whose marquee read Rolling Thunder Bowl-a-Drome.
He showed his player’s pass at the gate and entered a bowling complex the size of a Boeing hangar, twenty-four lanes of gleaming hardwood as far as the eye could see. His ears tingled at the joyous thunder of dozens of balls rumbling down the alleys, players warming up for the day’s competition. In the galleries were team players, friends, family and assorted fans to cheer on their favorite teams.
Munson checked the schedule board to see which lane his team was playing in the opening time slot. One of the organizers hustled up to him, peered at his nametag and waved a message note in his face.
“Dave Munson? You got a call from the San Rafael Police. They want you to phone them right away.” He handed Munson the message slip, a name with a 415-area-code number. “You want some quiet, you can use my office.”
Munson followed him to an office with a window looking out on lanes 18 and 19. He closed the door and sat at the organizer’s desk, bare except for a computer, a telephone, and a picture of the man with his wife and three bambinos.
Munson called the number and spoke to a Detective Fred Hutchins, partner of Detective Jim Starrett, the name on the message slip. Hutchins laid it out in twenty-five words or less. Bernie Lang had been struck by a hit-and-run driver while jogging yesterday, and died on the
“Why didn’t you call me yesterday?” Munson said with rehearsed annoyance.
“We tried your cell phone number last night.”
“I’d turned it off. I was bushed, made an early night of it.”
“My partner left a message.”
“I hadn’t even turned it on this morning. I was going to call Bernie this evening.”
“What’s your relationship with Mr. Lang?”
“We lived together. We’re… we were a couple.”
Hutchins, no stranger to Bay Area mores, didn’t skip a beat. “Does Mr. Lang have any blood relatives?”
“He’s got some family in Philly. A couple of sisters, what I recall, and at least one nephew.”
“You got names, so we can contact them?”
“They never came out to visit or anything and Bernie only ever referred to them by their first names. Probably he’s got their numbers somewhere on his computer but I’d have to look for them.”
“Anyone else we should notify?”
“There’s no one else to handle arrangements but me. Where is he now?”
“County morgue till the coroner’s done with him.”
“And then?”
“Funeral home of your choice.”
Munson looked at his watch. “Okay, I gotta make a phone call, see how soon I can get a flight back home. Anything else you need to tell me?”
“Just give us a call soon as you’re back in town. Either my partner or I need to have a little chat with you.”
“About what?”
“Bernie’s social circle.”
“I don’t get it. What for?”
“This is where I say, we’ll ask the questions, right?”
“I don’t think that’s funny, under the circumstances. My best friend’s dead and you’re being a smartass?”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Hutchins sounded genuinely apologetic. “Please give us a call when you return.”
“Sure.”
Munson sat there a minute looking at the picture of the organizer and his brood. Happy little family portrait. Easy for you to smile, hombré, all you ever wanted was a steady job and enough money to buy a car and a TV and a washing machine, and already you’d be ahead of your old man. But for some of us, life didn’t boil down to such simplicity.
Munson went to find his team. They were down at lane 22, stretching their hamstrings, checking out the balls on the opposition, a team from Florida called the Pensacola Pindroppers. Munson told them about his situation. After a flurry of condolences, his captain hugged him and said do what you got to do, beckoning for their second-stringer Wartman to get his shoes on, he would bowl today.
“Sorry, man, that’s a bummer,” Wartman told Munson. But you could tell, he was so happy to play, if Munson didn’t know better, he’d have suspected Wartman of having put the contract on Bernie himself.
Chapter 20
New York
Carrie Cassidy had breakfast with another prospective literary agent, Sarah Diamant, at a place called Moe’s on West 57th. The place was packed but Diamant spoke to the hostess and they were soon seated in a booth for two in the back.
A steady banter among waitresses and customers made it hard for Carrie to concentrate on her pitch but, once she had a shot of coffee, she was off and running with her tale of love gone wild in the Southwest. Diamant, God bless her, appeared to have no cell phone, and gave Carrie her full attention even as she wolfed her eggs and lox. Before the bill arrived, Diamant told Carrie she’d read her first five chapters and was eager to read more. Assuming the rest of the novel was as well written, she’d represent her.
Parting with an agreement to send the full manuscript as soon as she got home, Carrie danced back up Fifth Avenue to 58th Street where she checked out of her hotel and caught the shuttle to LaGuardia. En route, she turned on her cell phone for the first time today and found a message waiting for her.
The message was from Mack Horton, security officer at the Los Alamos National Laboratory, asking her to phone him as soon as possible. She’d expected something like this. When Walt failed to show up for work, they’d wonder where he was. Then she thought about it some more and decided something was wonky. It was ten o’clock here, only eight in Santa Fe. Some days Walt pulled an all-nighter and wouldn’t even check back into work until noon the next day. This was way too early in the day for them to send up a flare.
She checked the time of the message. It had been left last night at 11:57 PM local, 9:57 PM in New Mexico. She was perplexed. In one respect the time made a little sense, but only by coincidence, because she knew what should have gone down at that time. But at home, not Walt’s place of work. She got a queasy feeling that whatever had happened was not what she’d planned.
She debated returning Horton’s call while she had time on the shuttle but decided against it. This wasn’t a conversation to share with passengers all around her. She needed to be alone and composed, tucked away in some corner of the airport terminal. She phoned her mother instead and shared the good news.
Frances was thrilled. “Oh my goodness, Carrie, that’s wonderful. When will they publish it? Will it be out in time for Christmas?”
“Mom, I got an agent, not a publisher. This is a big step for me but it might take months to sell the book. Then another nine months before it appears in print.”
“Nine months! Christ, it’s just paper, ink and binding, not a human being.” The excitement in her mother’s voice collapsed like a circus tent being rolled up at the end of a summer tour.
As the terminal hove into sight, Carrie told her mother she had to go, she was at the airport, and she’d give her a call once she was home. Bye-bye, kiss-kiss, love you, talk to you later.
Carrie checked in, passed through security and went to the washroom to splash water on her face and apply fresh lipstick. Did she look like a new woman? Maybe not quite yet but things were happening. She didn’t kid herself that the novel would get an advance of more than a few thousand dollars. She’d spent three years working on it, put it through so many drafts it was like an old car, repaired so many times it was more replacement parts than original vehicle. Frankly, she was sick to death of the thing and, although she’d pitched it with enthusiasm, she felt like a used car dealer moving some clunker off the lot to make way for something new.
She just wanted to get the damn thing published, get her foot on that first rung of the ladder, then find a real agent to replace Diamant whom she suspected was a second-stringer at the tail end of a career that had never seen a bestseller. Then she’d write a really good book, one of many she felt bubbling up inside her. All she needed was the freedom to be herself. And that was just around the corner…
She bought a copy of Harper’s at a news kiosk. Her cell phone rang as she was looking for a seat in the boarding lounge. She looked at the call display but the number was blocked.
“Hello. Yes, speaking.” She paused. “Oh my God, you’re not serious?” She listened as Mack Horton told her what had happened to her husband. Her voice grew genuinely incredulous. “A what…!?” she said in a shrill pitch.
Some nearby passengers turned to look at her. She made a pacifying motion with her hands. It’s all right, nothing I can’t handle, just an unexpected bomb someone’s dropped on me…
“Yes, I’m in New York now, but my flight’s leaving within the hour.” She paused as Horton told her that federal investigators were assigned to her husband’s case and needed to speak with her as soon as she returned. “Why are they involved?” Another pause. “All right, I understand. I’ll see them there.”
She closed her phone. She rolled the Harper’s in a tight tube and drummed her knee with it. As a teenager, she’d played drums for a few bands. That, along with screwing her brains out, had been her only relief for the enormous tensions she’d felt when her mother started getting serious about the first man to repla
She looked around her. The other passengers were back to minding their business, her brief outburst on the phone forgotten. But inside she reeled with confusion and anger, not what she wanted to be feeling right now. Something had gone haywire. She silently mouthed Fuck! to herself. Ironic she thought, thinking of something else that began with ‘F’. Something she hadn’t counted on dealing with. The FBI.
Yes, her husband worked in a sensitive government job and he’d died suddenly. But he was supposed to have died at home during a burglary gone bad, in the jurisdiction of the Santa Fe Police Department. Why had he been blown up with a bomb on government property?
Chapter 21
San Rafael
The San Rafael Police Department, with a complement of eighty officers, occupied the lower level of the City Hall building at 1400 Fifth Avenue, housing offices for the Chief and his staff, a Dispatch center, an armory, holding cells and interview rooms. Eight detectives worked out of another building two blocks east, at 1210 Fifth Avenue, shared with the Circle C Bank. Inside that office, accessed via keypad lock on the street level door, were half a dozen rooms on two levels for the detectives and some technical personnel.
When Detective Jim Starrett returned from a 4th Street coffee shop a block downhill, carrying coffees and pastries, his partner Fred Hutchins was just hanging up the phone.
“I caught up with Lang’s boyfriend at the bowling tournament. He’s going to grab the next flight home.”
“How’d he take it?”
“Kind of a pissy mood, you ask me.”
“Well, his main squeeze being dead could spoil his day.”
“Call me insensitive, I just didn’t get that vibe off him.”
“Well, you saw Lang’s place. Nice digs. Maybe the boy’s not happy to be out on the street. When’s the last time you had to look for an apartment in Marin?”
Starrett gave Hutchins his coffee and Danish and returned to his desk beneath a three-by-six-foot poster of a racing sloop in full sail. He sat in a swivel chair, put his heels on his desk and ate his muffin in four bites, washing each down with large swallows of coffee to which he’d added some half-and-half.