Scorpio Rising

  “Car theft was only the means, not the end.” Starrett leaned back in the chair. “So, help me here, Delroy. You know the Peacock Gap Golf and Country Club, Biscayne Drive?”

  “From the inside, no. When it comes down to club memberships and mortgage payments, the choice has been pretty clear so far.”

  “But you know where it is?”

  “I’ve driven by.”

  “How long’s it take to drive from here to there?”

  “Rush hour? Say, six-thirty on a weeknight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s only about six miles but that time of day the freeway’s like a parking lot. I’d call it twenty minutes, give or take.”

  “So our car thief drove away at six-twenty-five, add twenty, we’re now at six-forty-five. That leaves ten minutes to spare before the hit-and-run.”

  “This guy did that?”

  “It’s possible,” Starrett said. “Now consider the return leg. From Biscayne Drive back into San Rafael, no freeway, that’s ten minutes easy, and our car thief dumps the Jeep near the bus depot, say seven-oh-five or shortly thereafter.”

  “That time of day buses from San Rafael depot run to Larkspur every twenty minutes. He could’ve caught the seven-twenty, take at least a half-hour ride. Earliest he’d be back here would be seven-fifty.”

  “In time for a ferry?”

  “He would’ve missed the seven-forty.”

  “I don’t see him standing around fifteen minutes in San Rafael waiting for a bus, not after what he’d done. What if he took a cab?”

  “Going against the traffic, he’d be back here in fifteen, twenty minutes, seven-thirty at the latest.”

  “Let’s have a look.”

  Perkins typed 19H20 into the computer. They stared at the monitor, viewing the largely-vacant parking lot from a camera on a pole on the west side.

  “Hang on, wrong camera,” Perkins said. “Let me pull up the ticket entrance.”

  He selected a different camera. The screen changed to a view from just inside the terminal covering the ticket booth and turnstile entrance. There were no passengers in the frame. Perkins fast-forwarded the playback.

  A gaggle of passengers, obviously a disembarking busload, suddenly appeared at 19H31. Perkins switched from fast forward to real time. Passengers surged through the turnstile. Then nothing for two minutes. At 19H33, they saw the guy in a black windbreaker with a cap pulled low over his eyes. Perkins froze the frame.

  “Not the best angle, but as good as it gets.”

  “Make me a copy of both sequences,” Starrett said, “the one where he jimmies the Jeep door, and this one here.” He took a card from his wallet and placed it on Perkins’ desk. “Email them to me.”

  “That it for today?”

  “I owe you one, man.” Starrett stood and clapped a hand on Perkins’ shoulders. “You ever get a traffic violation, give me a call.” He turned toward the door.

  “Don’t go away empty-handed.” Perkins pulled open one of his desk drawers. “I got three right here.”

  “Are you shittin’ me?”

  “No sir.” Perkins handed Starrett the three tickets.

  Starrett looked at them. They were three to nine months old, nothing serious, just parking violations, and all issued in Novato about fifteen miles up US-101. That was a bit out of his jurisdiction, but what the hell, a promise was a promise.

  “Guess it’s your lucky day, man.”

  Perkins nodded with a big-toothed grin like he’d just won the lottery.

  Chapter 34

  New York

  Axel Crowe thanked Detectives Levinson and Rossimoff for sharing their information, and left the Homicide office. Tracey Lovegrove departed at the same time and followed him to the elevator, the fingerprint folder and evidence box tucked under her arm.

  “Where’s your office?” he said.

  “Two floors down.”

  “You don’t use the stairs?”

  “I’m lazy,” she shrugged.

  “I don’t think so. When you first arrived, you were slightly out of breath. Didn’t you take the stairs to come up?”

  She made a face. “What are you, some kind of cop?”

  “I’ll bet that line gets a lot of use around here.”

  She laughed. It sounded good on her, like she’d had some practice.

  He studied her. “You’re an attractive woman. No wedding ring. You must get a lot of attention.”

  “From lots of married guys who don’t interest me.”

  Crowe didn’t ask who she was interested in. The elevator doors opened on a crowded compartment. Crowe stood next to a patrol officer and a woman wearing a vinyl miniskirt and a very full tube top who bore an uncanny resemblance to a well-known actress. Tracey squeezed in next to him. They rode down to the main floor. It seemed to Crowe that she was pressed up against him more closely than was dictated by the available space in the elevator.

  “Did you miss your stop?” he said.

  “I need to go out for a coffee,” she said. “Want to join me?”

  “You can’t leave the station with case evidence under your arm.”

  “Duh.”

  They disembarked at the ground floor. Crowe returned his visitor’s badge to the desk sergeant. Tracey handed her file folder and evidence box to the sergeant, asking him to mind it for a few minutes, and followed Crowe outside.

  “Come on,” she hooked her arm in his. “I’m buying.”

  They went to a coffee shop called New World Bean where Tracey got a latte and Crowe a chai.

  “Where are you staying?” she asked.

  “Washington Square Hotel.”

  “No kidding! We’re practically neighbors. I live in the East Village.”

  “I stay there every time I come to town.”

  “Got any plans this evening?”

  “No.”

  “What do you like to eat?”

  “I’m partial to Indian food.” Fourteen years with Guruji had etched deep grooves in his dietary patterns.

  “Do you know Dharma Dosa over on 7th Street near Bowery?”

  “No. Are they good?”

  “The best. Are you up for a little adventure?”

  “Twist my arm.”

  Jokingly he held his hand out. Taking him seriously, she gripped his fingers in one hand, thumb in another, and applied an opposing leverage that made him wince before she released the pressure.

  “What is that, some kind of cops’ hand grip?”

  “You’d be surprised, the things I know,” she smiled.

  ~~~

  Crowe caught a cab to the OTB on West 48th. En route, he called Blaikie and brought him up to speed. Blaikie was surprised to hear about the pepper spray. The cops hadn’t even told him that.

  “Did your sister have any connection with the Southwest?” Crowe asked. “Business deals, investors, competitors…?”

  “Not that I know. Maybe my brother-in-law could tell you.”

  “I’d like to meet him. I know it’s only the day after, but do you suppose he’d talk to me?”

  “I’ll give him a call.”

  At the OTB, Crowe bought a program for today’s races at Santa Anita. He pored over the fact sheets, circling today’s prospects with a red pen. After he’d identified a few horses that looked like contenders, he checked his astrology app for the planetary lineup at post time. He readjusted his estimation of which horses had the best shot at win, place or show, and went to a betting wicket.

  Once that was done, he checked the results for the first three races at Belmont that had run today. As it turned out, he’d picked a couple of money-makers. It was a good sign and the day’s program had only just begun. He’d noticed over the years that if he got the first race of the day right, he often did well in the balance of the races. The tough part was learning to walk away when the first race bore no fruit. We were conditioned, he reflected, by old adages like, If at first you don’t succeed, try and try again, when in fact his expe
rience at the racetrack seemed to suggest it was more like, Well begun is well done.

  His phone rang. Blaikie had spoken to his brother-in-law Jeb, who’d reluctantly agreed to meet with Crowe. But it had to be soon, and it had to be brief.

  ~~~

  Crowe arrived at Jeb Stockwell’s co-op fifteen minutes later. An attractive Filipino maid ushered him into a very large apartment with a living room that boasted a grand piano, several works of art and a wall of windows overlooking Central Park.

  Adjoining the living room was a study paneled with bookcases. Jeb Stockwell was seated behind a desk with a laptop and some scattered papers. He stood when Crowe entered and came around the desk to shake hands. He was a little over six feet tall and had the look of a retired athlete, someone who’d once been in shape but had been overtaken by the good life, whose taste for good food and drink had got the better of him.

  Crowe encountered a large soft hand whose grip promptly slackened as Stockwell broke off the handshake. Crowe glanced at Stockwell’s hand and saw long fingers, buffed nails and a tapered thumb that, as soon its hand was free of Crowe’s, tucked reflexively under the first two fingers, like a turtle withdrawing its head into its shell.

  Crowe raised his eyes to Stockwell’s face and gave him a sympathetic look. “My condolences, Mr. Stockwell. You must be devastated. Were you married long?”

  “Seven years.”

  In that brief look at Stockwell’s face, more analytic than sympathetic, Crowe saw many things. Stockwell had a flushed complexion and a deep crease in the forehead that indicated a distressed liver, probably accompanied by the bilious emotions that went with it. His eyes, whose green irises were heavily flecked with gold, spoke of substance abuse, while a slight tremor of the lips signaled a thirst provoked by dehydration. The man was in a state of nervous exhaustion, probably held together by regular infusions of alcohol.

  According to ayurveda, Crowe labeled him a composite pitta-kapha type, the kind of guy who’d work hard and play hard while indulging in more than his body was equipped to handle, until some day he’d blow a gasket – an aneurysm, a heart attack, a liver failure. With too much heat and pressure inside a congested system, eventually something had to give.

  “Please, have a seat.” Stockwell gestured to a pair of leather chairs in front of the desk. As Crowe seated himself, Stockwell returned to his chair behind the imposing desk. “Kevin tells me you’re trying to make sense of this tragedy.”

  “I doubt I can do that. But if I can help the police find the killer, at least you and your in-laws will have the satisfaction of seeing justice done.”

  “You don’t think the police are up to the job?”

  “I have the greatest respect for the police. But sometimes they get trapped in their own perspectives.”

  “And you’re going to enlighten them?”

  Crowe caught the whiff of sarcasm but let it go. Sometimes it helped to think like a tennis player: when the other player’s ball was headed out of bounds, no point in swinging at it. Stockwell was either in mourning, or he wasn’t. Either way, his emotions were raw and Crowe wasn’t going to get flustered over a little cynicism. In his line of work he dealt with it on a regular basis.

  After a moment of silence, during which Stockwell fussed with some papers on his desk, Crowe took out his phone and started his astrology app.

  “Did your wife have any enemies?”

  “Of course not. She was a classic altruist. Everyone loved her.”

  “Aside from her charity work, did she have any business dealings?”

  “She owned several large properties. But she left the day-to-day business to her property manager.”

  “Is there anyone who might have wanted to hurt you through her?”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t have any enemies.”

  “Do either of you have any connection with people or businesses in the Southwest?”

  Stockwell hesitated a moment and straightened the pile of papers on his desk. “No.”

  Crowe was looking at his astrology app. In the right hands, it was the next best thing to a bullshit detector. Close inspection of the third house usually revealed whether reports were true or false. Right now, he believed Stockwell was blowing smoke.

  “Never been there on vacation?”

  “Once or twice, I guess.”

  “Together or alone?”

  “We’ve been to Canyon Ranch a couple of times.”

  “What’s that?”

  “An exclusive spa hotel in Tucson.”

  “No old friends, college buddies or business associates in the Southwest?”

  “Janis? None I can recall.”

  “And you?”

  “No.” Stockwell couldn’t conceal his growing impatience. “What’s all this about the Southwest anyway?”

  “There’s a tentative connection.”

  Stockwell laid a hand atop his papers, as if he were afraid they might fly away. “With all due respect, Mr. Crowe, this seems like a monumental waste of time – both mine and yours. Why don’t you just leave the investigation to the police, and go back to tracking down corporate whistle-blowers, or whatever you do for Kevin.” He made a show of looking at his watch. “I’m expecting a call any minute regarding the unpleasant business of my wife’s funeral arrangements. Can we wrap this up?”

  Crowe put his phone away. He was being given the bum’s rush but he took it gracefully. The maid appeared out of nowhere, apparently summoned by a buzzer to show him the door. In lieu of a farewell handshake, Stockwell gave him a curt nod as she led Crowe away.

  In the foyer Crowe paused at the door she’d opened and asked the maid, “What’s your name?”

  “May Lee.”

  “You’re from the Philippines, May?”

  “Yes.”

  “Buddhist, Catholic or Muslim?”

  “Catholic.”

  “How long have you worked for the Stockwells?”

  “Two years.”

  “Are you a legal immigrant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does Mr. Stockwell have a girlfriend?”

  The confusion in May’s face was almost painful to witness. Her eyes dropped quickly to one side. She began to close the door on him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about that.”

  Crowe headed for the elevator, reflecting on this brief but meaningful exchange. It was just like operating a lie detector – a couple of innocent questions to establish a baseline of facial expressions, then a slight escalation of inquiry to test her response before hitting her with the loaded question.

  Crowe knew it as surely as if May had signed an affidavit to the effect: there was another woman.

  Stockwell’s grief, shallow as it was, would be short-lived.

  Chapter 35

  San Rafael

  When Detective Jim Starrett returned to the office, the video clips from the Larkspur Terminal surveillance were in his email. He went looking for Myke Brane, the detective unit’s computer geek. Starrett explained what he needed. Brane assured Starrett he’d get right on it. Starrett returned to his desk and forwarded the emails to Brane.

  He phoned the Novato police, spoke to the woman in charge of traffic violations and got Perkins’ three tickets purged from the system. It could never have been done for anything serious like a DUI but for chicken shit like this it was all in the name of the higher good to reward cooperative citizens.

  He returned to his two other active case files, tidying up the paperwork for the domestic murder-suicide, now resolved to everyone’s satisfaction. He also made a few phone calls related to a double murder involving the Merguez brothers, who’d become a bit too entrepreneurial selling ecstasy in Terra Linda, a territory controlled by Los Diablos del Norte. In this case he was working with Manny Cantata whose Narcotics portfolio obliged him to stay abreast of every drug dealer in Marin County with an illicit annual income of a hundred grand or more, a task as f
utile as shoveling back the tide on Stinson Beach.

  Starrett took a break from his phone calls and put his feet on his desk. He took his rope from his desk drawer and played with it a few minutes. He was in the middle of a complicated knot when Hutchins walked in.

  “This what you do all day when I’m not here, lie around on the poop deck?” Hutchins placed a pair of coffees on the corner of Starrett’s desk.

  “Some people do their best thinking in the shower. I like to tie knots.”

  “Captain’ll tie a knot in your dick one of these days.” Hutchins sat with a quiet groan. He’d hurt his left knee five years ago trying to catch a fleeing perp, and ever since then it’d been his Achilles heel, aching after a few hours on his feet.

  Starrett blew on his coffee and took a sip. “How’d you make out at the bank?”

  “Most of Lang’s money was in T-bills or mutual funds except for two small apartment buildings, one here in San Rafael, one in Tiburon. Between one thing and the next, he had a steady income of roughly eighty grand a month.”

  Starrett whistled.

  “Before taxes,” Hutchins added, as if that mattered.

  “So he was living in a style to which neither of us will ever be accustomed.”

  “Spending about ten grand a month.”

  “On...?”

  “Restaurants, shows, hotels, trips, personal stuff.”

  “Anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Three months ago he withdrew sixty grand in cash.”

  “Given his income, not a huge sum.”

  “Still quite a chunk of change for a guy who put everything else on credit cards.”

  “Gambling?”

  “Doesn’t fit the profile. After I went through his Visa and MasterCard statements, I found out who his travel agent was. I checked his travel history. In the past five years, he’s only been to Vegas a couple of times, and the last was over two years ago.”

  “You don’t have to go to Vegas to gamble.”

  “I also talked to Vice, who talked to a few key bookies. Lang’s not a player.”

  “Internet gambling?”

  “Not with cash. It’s all credit cards.”

  Starrett began to tie a different knot. Hutchins glanced through the message notes on his desk. Starrett’s phone rang and he spent a few minutes in conversation, mostly listening, but towards the end, giving some directives.