Scorpio Rising

  “So someone got to the car offsite.”

  “Could have been in his own back yard. Cassidy lived at the end of a cul-de-sac. There are street lights but at three in the morning, is anyone around to observe a prowler?”

  “That’d be pretty risky. What about the car’s security alarm?”

  “Our guys say there are ways to defeat them with magnetic fields.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  Horton shrugged. “You know what car thieves do? They copy the VIN from the dashboard tag visible through the windshield. Then they go to a dealership and say they’ve lost their key. Believe it or not, the dealership often cuts a replacement without demanding proof of registration.”

  “So somebody gained access to his car and wired the bomb…”

  “…While his wife was out of town,” Horton said. “You were going to interview her. What came of that?”

  “She accounted for her whereabouts the last three days. She had receipts – flight, hotel, meals, cab fare – and everything seems to check out. She visited her mother while in New York to meet prospective literary agents. She’s written a novel, trying to get it published.”

  “Let me guess. A high-tech counter-terrorism thriller?”

  Cobb shook his head. “Some sort of Bridges-of-Madison-County love story set in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. Incidentally, also the title of the novel.”

  “Truth or Consequences? Now there’s a one-horse town for you. But not a bad title, I suppose, although I would have thought something more like a murder mystery. But what do I know about publishing? You get any sense of how happy their marriage was?”

  “She was pretty forthcoming. They had a trial separation two years ago when she spent a winter in Alamogordo writing her novel. But she moved back in last year.”

  “I’ve heard rumors she’s a bit of a wild one,” Horton said. “Kind of anorexic-looking for my tastes, speaking as a happily married man, but some guys find that attractive.”

  “Reading between the lines, I think she and Cassidy had some problems with their sex life, probably why they split up. But he must have offered her some inducement, she didn’t say what, to come back home.”

  “Maybe she just couldn’t make it on her own. Maybe she figured she’d wait until she got her book published, then make the big leap.”

  “Could be.”

  “What’d you make of her? You think she’s involved somehow?”

  “I don’t know. She’s smart and a bit on the tough side. But certainly didn’t come off as your typical grief-stricken widow. When I took her to task on it she gave me a throwaway confession about how their better days had faded in the sunset.”

  “That’s kind of weird, right? You’d think if she was guilty she’d act all heart-broken, try to keep suspicion at arm’s length.”

  “Unless she’s using reverse psychology on me. Make me think, an attitude like that, she might be guilty of adultery, but has nothing worse to hide.”

  “So what now?”

  “My gut says there’s something there but it’s not obvious. Despite her being in New York the day her husband died, I can’t bring myself to cross her name off my watch list.”

  “Other than the spouse is always the number one suspect, any particular reason you’ve got a hardon for her?”

  “Given her circumstances, an aspiring writer and all, material motive looms large. You said Cassidy had a substantial life insurance policy, right?”

  “Four times salary, which makes her the beneficiary of over six hundred grand,” Horton said. “Not like that’s a huge fortune.”

  “Goes a long way in the poorest state of the Union.”

  “Maybe in Truth or Consequences. Not in Santa Fe.”

  “You’re probably right. But then there’s his estate. She said he was a smart investor. And maybe there’s a private insurance policy. Might be a few million when you add it all up.” Cobb stretched. “Or maybe I’m just fishing.”

  “Not getting anything from your Muslim detainees?”

  Cobb scowled. “Aside from threats of lawsuits for violating their civil liberties? Problem is, they’re coming up clean, and we’re looking stupid because we don’t have a clue who’s behind this.”

  Chapter 31

  San Rafael

  While Hutchins stayed in town to work another current case, an apparent murder-suicide stemming from an adultery that had spiraled out of control, Detective Jim Starrett drove out to Marin Bay Park to see Dave Munson. After being buzzed through the entrance gate, he drove up the hill to Lang’s house. The yellow Boxster had been joined in the driveway by a faded blue Nissan and a gleaming black Mercedes E500. He peered through the tinted windows of the Mercedes, admiring the leather upholstery and burl walnut wood interior trim. It was tough being a working stiff in Marin County where so much wealth was evident.

  He rang the doorbell. A blond guy, late thirties, good-looking in a soft kind of way, answered the door. Starrett introduced himself, confirmed Munson’s identity, and was invited inside. As he entered the living room he encountered a tall slim Vietnamese man in cream-colored slacks and a brightly-patterned silk shirt.

  “Um, this is Dr. Tranh,” Munson said. “Detective Starbuck.”

  “I believe it’s Starrett,” Tranh corrected Munson.

  “Still making house calls, Doc?” Starrett said.

  Tranh said nothing. Starrett looked at Munson, whose face in this light now looked flushed.

  “I was having an anxiety attack,” Munson said. “Dr. Tranh was kind enough to deliver some medication.”

  Starrett looked at the Vietnamese, recalling a case in which he’d been involved, a fatal overdose that had almost led to conviction for malpractice-and-manslaughter, but had crumbled for lack of evidence. “What kind of dope you pushing these days, Doc?”

  Tranh smiled and said smoothly, “You know, I could construe that as slander, Detective.”

  “Are you finished here?”

  “I was just leaving.”

  Munson accompanied Tranh to the door. They exchanged a few words. Tranh departed. Munson returned to the living room.

  “Just so you know,” Starrett said, “Dr. Tranh’s had more than one patient end up on a slab. He’s a little careless with his prescriptions.”

  Munson shrugged. “Do you want a drink? I was just going to pour myself a glass of wine.”

  “Thanks, but I’m on the clock.”

  “It’s just wine, Detective.” Munson went to the fridge. “A really fine Sauvignon Blanc, probably the best you’ve ever had.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  Munson poured himself a glass, lit a cigarette from a pack on the kitchen counter and joined Starrett in the living room. Starrett sat in an angular chair of chrome and brown leather, Munson sinking into the yellow sectional sofa.

  “I need to know more about Bernie,” Starrett said. “His daily routine. Who he hung out with. Any problems he was having.”

  Munson drew on his cigarette, blew smoke toward the ceiling. “What’s that got to do with a hit-and-run?”

  “Dave, let me spell something out for you.” Starrett leaned forward in the chair. “If a guy gets dinged for a felony offense, say, possession with intent to traffic and does a year in County, that’s like a piece of stinky shit that sticks to him the rest of his life. And if you think something that happened fourteen years ago is forgotten, you’re dead wrong. It’s a scent any cop can pick up at will, like a bloodhound introduced to a suspect’s dirty underwear. And if you think that an association, however innocent, with a guy like Dr. Tranh might not awaken a little curiosity on the part of our narc squad, you are also wrong. The weed we discovered in your room yesterday while investigating Bernie’s death could justify a warrant to turn this house inside out. If we found anything else, say, coke of dealing weight or a large quantity of unprescribed drugs, proving to a judge that you’re still up to your ears in it, you could be looking at jail time a
ll over again.”

  It was so quiet in the room, Starrett could hear Munson swallow hard. Munson reached for an ashtray on the end table. “Okay, you’ve got my attention.”

  “Good.” Starrett took out his pen and notebook and leaned back in the chair. Ugly as it was, it was pretty comfortable with excellent back support. “Now, I’ll ask questions and you’ll give answers without hesitation or fabrication, and if everything seems to make sense, I won’t have to take out my big stick and stir up the shit that’s settled at the bottom of your hot tub. Okay?”

  Munson nodded.

  “Give me a rundown on a typical day for your friend. And don’t spare the details.”

  Munson took a long drag and thought a moment. “Bernie was a late sleeper, stayed in bed until eleven in the morning. He usually made a few calls during the lunch hour, caught up on news with friends, made plans for the evening. He talked to his stockbroker almost every day, diddling with his portfolio. Afternoons he usually watched a movie. He was a big movie buff, had pay-per-view and all the movie channels on cable. End of day he always went for a run up the China Camp road a couple of miles and back.”

  “Always at the same time?”

  “Pretty much like clockwork.”

  “And afterwards?”

  “He’d have a soak in the hot tub, maybe a glass of wine and a smoke, listen to some music.”

  “And his evenings?”

  “He’d take a nap early on. Then it was social time. Sometimes we’d have friends over for the evening. Other times he’d go into the city for dinner, then hit a few clubs for some late-night cruising.”

  “He’d go..? What about you?”

  “Sometimes I went, but not always,” Munson shrugged. “Depends on whether I was invited.”

  “I thought you were a couple.”

  “We loved each other, but we had an open-ended arrangement.”

  Starrett said nothing but waited for more.

  “After he made a killing in the stock market,” Munson continued, “Bernie realized he had a lot of time and money on his hands. He needed to get out more, take advantage of what life had to offer.”

  “Even if that didn’t include you?”

  “It was his money, not mine. It wasn’t like I helped him pick the stocks. He didn’t owe me anything.”

  “I’m not talking about the money. I’m talking about his seeing other people. Didn’t that bother you?”

  “We were best friends and part of that friendship was based on a mutual understanding that sometimes you meet someone else who turns your crank. They’re good for a spin around the track but you don’t necessarily want to wake up and see their face on the pillow next to you every morning.”

  “That why you have separate bedrooms?”

  Munson shook his head. “He didn’t bring them home. He was good that way. Usually he didn’t even stay out all night.”

  “Among his acquaintances, anyone you might regard as questionable?”

  “Not the ones I met. When we’d go out together, it was a genteel crowd. Just regular guys.”

  “And when he went out alone?”

  “He used to tell me stories…” Munson rolled his eyes. “I think he was getting into rough trade toward the end.”

  “Can you give me names?”

  “No. But I know some of his favorite clubs.” Munson raised one finger after the other. “Big Dick’s. The Back Door. XTC. Man 2 Man. They’re all in the Castro District.”

  Starrett took notes.

  “Was he ever threatened by anyone – for personal or business reasons?”

  “No. And I’m pretty sure he would have told me if he had. He certainly shared all his other anxieties with me.”

  “Such as...?”

  “AIDS, the environment, politics, the economy. He worried a lot.”

  “At least he didn’t have to worry about money.”

  “No.”

  “And now, neither do you, right?”

  “His lawyer hasn’t shared the specifics with me but apparently I’m one of his beneficiaries. Is that a crime?”

  “Not that I’m aware of... yet.”

  They sat there a moment, looking at each other. Starrett was almost reluctant to get up and leave. It was serene here. No phones ringing, no loud music from the next door neighbor, no sound of traffic from the street. He looked outside at the redwood deck, the hot tub, the view of the bay over the treetops. It was an oasis.

  “Is there anything else, Detective?” Munson said, interrupting Starrett’s reverie. “If not, I’d like to lie down a bit. I’m somewhat sensitive to medication.”

  Starrett stood and pocketed his notes. En route to the door he asked, “Did you guys have a housekeeper, a gardener, anyone with access to the house on a regular basis?”

  “No.”

  “Then who does that work?”

  “Me.”

  “That part of the arrangement?”

  Munson shrugged. “It was a fair tradeoff.”

  Starrett nodded. “You’re a very agreeable guy, Dave. I’m beginning to see why Bernie liked to have you around.”

  Munson smiled. “I liked to pull my weight.”

  Chapter 32

  New York

  Axel Crowe arrived at the Mid-Town North precinct on 42nd Street at one o’clock. When he presented himself at the front desk, the desk sergeant made a brief phone call upstairs, signed him in and gave him a visitor’s badge.

  A few minutes later, Crowe was shaking hands with Detective-Sergeant Jake Levinson. In thirty seconds he formed a quick assessment. Levinson had a dry complexion and chapped lips. His brown hair was graying at the temples, his blue eyes red-rimmed. In ayurveda, a vata-type constitution suggested restlessness, insomnia, emotional instability and often difficulty in relationships. Crowe glanced at Levinson’s hands and saw nails bitten to the quick, but a long index finger which implied self-confidence, leadership and a strong sense of justice.

  Levinson sat in a swivel chair behind his desk and waved Crowe into a fixed chair opposite. “Kevin Blaikie said you’re a private investigator? May I see some ID?”

  Crowe took two laminated cards from his wallet and placed them on the desk. Levinson studied them.

  “A private investigator’s license issued by New York State, but an Ontario driver’s license?”

  “I’m a dual citizen.”

  “So you live in Canada and work in the US?”

  “It’s one big free-trade continent,” Crowe said with a disarming smile.

  Levinson returned his cards. “We agreed to meet you out of courtesy to the family of the deceased, Mr. Crowe, but I’m not clear on what you’re looking for.”

  “Neither am I. Could you start by bringing me up to speed on Janis Stockwell’s death?”

  Levinson frowned. “This is still an active investigation.”

  “And I have no desire to compromise any element of it. Anything you share with me will be kept in strictest confidence.”

  Levinson regarded him warily. “Kevin Blaikie’s hired you?”

  “We have an ongoing business relationship. I’m on a retainer.” Crowe cleared his throat. “But my interest in this case is different, since it’s a matter of great personal importance to the Blaikie family in general. You know Janis Stockwell was the daughter of Abner Blaikie?”

  Crowe watched the detective. Levinson had probably been made aware of Janis Stockwell’s family connections. Any career-limiting decisions would have to be considered in light of Abner Blaikie’s influence with the Mayor and, therefore, the Commissioner of Police. At this very moment, he was probably thinking it wouldn’t hurt to cut Crowe a little slack in the name of public relations.

  “Okay, let me show you what we’ve got.” Levinson stood and went to a wall-mounted map of Manhattan. The perimeters of the Mid-Town North precinct were marked in red – from the Hudson to Lexington, and 59th to 43rd Streets. He indicated three blue stickpins, each tagged with the initials ‘JS’, planted on th
e map. “Her body was discovered on 51st between Sixth and Seventh, by a passerby at eleven-ten last night.”

  Crowe took out his iPhone. “Estimated time of death?”

  “Ten forty-five, give or take.”

  Crowe entered data into his astrology app. An event chart for Janis Stockwell’s death appeared on the screen.

  To his trained eye, the disposition of the planets provided Crowe clues to the circumstances surrounding her death, including a partial profile of the murderer. Ironically, the rules of interpretation had been cognized by some maharishi in the Himalayas thousands of years ago, absent any first-hand experience of man’s nefarious affairs. Like any rule-based system it sometimes generated contradictions, but if the astrologer had enough intuition, he could usually arrive at a workable hypothesis.

  With Scorpio rising, a fixed sign suggested murder connected with a family member. The seventh house was Taurus, a female sign, and its ruler was Venus, a female planet. Together, they indicated a female killer. Venus in dual sign Pisces implied more than one person involved. An exalted Venus in planetary war with Mars described an aggressive professional who was into sports or martial arts. Other clues suggested a criminal in transit. Rules for determining the killer’s weapons gave blunt force, strangulation, smoke or a poisonous gas. The challenge for Crowe was to synthesize this disparate information in a way a layman could understand.

  Levinson pointed to the remaining stickpins. “A homeless guy found her wallet in a garbage can at 53rd and Fifth this morning. Her purse and cell phone were discovered by a construction worker in a dumpster at 58th and Sixth.”

  “Any useful prints on her things?”

  “Aside from those of the vagrant and construction worker, no.”

  Crowe studied the event chart. Running through the third and ninth houses was an axis that astrologers called the Moon’s nodes, inflection points in the lunar orbit that were key in timing eclipses. Vedic astrologers called them Rahu and Ketu, a pair of polar opposites – sensuality versus spirituality, ego versus selflessness, domination versus surrender. In Vedic myth, Rahu was associated with serpents, their sudden striking power and venom…

  “But you found a weapon at the scene?”

  Levinson hesitated a beat. “No. She was strangled.”