Scorpio Rising

  “Detective Starrett? I’m Axel Crowe.” He showed identification, including his New York State investigator’s license.

  They went upstairs to Starrett’s shared office. As Starrett studied his ID, Crowe noted the cop’s receding hairline, blue eyes and long-fingered hands with cracked nails. A vata-pitta type, physically restless with a heated temperament but cerebral too, quick to form concepts and organize facts. A guy incapable of relaxation but desperately needed it via meditation or deep sleep before he burned out.

  “You’re working a case in California?”

  “It originated in New York.”

  Starrett handed his ID back. “How’s Bernie Lang figure into it?”

  Crowe laid it out in brief: Janis Stockwell’s death, allegedly a mugging; her family’s wealth and the inheritance motive; Jeb Stockwell’s mistress and the passion play; the Berkeley connection to Stockwell’s former roommate Dave Munson. Crowe showed Starrett photocopies from the Berkeley yearbooks.

  “Stockwell was in San Francisco Tuesday night. Lang was run down at six-fifty-five Pacific, Stockwell’s wife killed around ten-forty-five Eastern. Within an hour of each other.”

  “Some coincidence.”

  “Not if they were coordinated.”

  Starrett looked skeptical. “You think Munson reciprocated?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Not unless he can be in two places at once.” Starrett told Crowe about Munson’s bowling tournament in Albuquerque, and that Starrett’s partner had spoken to Munson on his cell early Wednesday.

  Crowe was momentarily deflated but considered the scenario from a different perspective. “Maybe he flew into New York Tuesday evening, killed Janis Stockwell and flew back the same night. For that matter, how do you know he was actually in Albuquerque when he phoned your partner?”

  Starrett looked uncertain. “Excuse me a minute.” He left the office and returned a minute later. “One of my guys will see if your theory holds water.”

  “I heard Munson has a record. Do you have his date of birth on file?”

  Starrett flipped through his file, looked up Munson’s DOB and read it off to Crowe. July 25th, 1973.

  Crowe entered it into his astrology app, using San Francisco as a tentative birth place. Since birth time was unknown he used physiognomy and color to guess the ascendant, factoring in Munson’s small head, protuberant eyes and aquamarine pajama pants. Pisces rising fit with what he knew of Munson – artistic temperament, drug abuse, sexual ambivalence, incarceration... That settled, he studied the chart.

  Munson’s ruling planet was a debilitated Jupiter opposite the Sun. A daydreamer who couldn’t put the pedal to the metal. Seventh lord Mercury was retrograde at the edge of a sign, implying confused sexuality or unstable partners, maybe both. Four malefic planets in angular houses indicated trouble. Natural enemies Mars and Saturn were in mutual conflict, amped up by the poisonous Rahu/Ketu axis. It suggested a tough life, self-destructive ways and exposure to violence, but more likely as a victim than a perpetrator.

  Starrett picked up the photocopies Crowe had brought. He took a magnifying glass from his desk and studied the people in the Berkeley karate and sailing clubs.

  “Recognize anyone?”

  “This guy looks like a suspect we caught on security video.” Starrett told Crowe how the Lang investigation had led him to the Larkspur ferry terminal. He was now waiting to hear back from the FBI regarding a facial recognition scan.

  “Can I see what you’ve got?”

  Starrett took the two pictures from the Lang file, the guy who’d jacked the Jeep.

  Crowe studied the two pictures, a midrange shot of a man beside a Jeep, a closer shot of the same guy entering a turnstile. Crowe turned the latter around and used a pencil to point out a detail for Starrett.

  “This looks like Stockwell. See the way his thumb tucks inside his fingers? It’s a classic sign of insecurity, like waving a flag that says, I’m in way over my head. I saw him do this when his girlfriend showed up at his wife’s funeral.”

  “Interesting, but no grounds for a warrant,” Starrett sniffed.

  “But if it’s him, doesn’t this get your attention?”

  A tall guy with curly hair and glasses stuck his head in the office. Starrett looked up. “What’ve you got, Brane?”

  Brane shot an enquiring look at Crowe. Starrett nodded, it was okay to speak in front of him. Brane handed a schedule printout to Starrett.

  “No direct flights between Albuquerque and New York. With connections, average transit time is six hours. American Airlines, Delta and Northwest have flights departing ABQ between one-ten and one-thirty in the afternoon, arriving LaGuardia or JFK between nine-fifteen and nine-twenty at night. Driving time from LaGuardia to Times Square is about twenty minutes, half an hour from JFK. Assuming flights ran on schedule and street traffic was normal, it’s technically possible for a perp to get on site and execute a hit by ten-thirty. But it’d be so tight, odds are it couldn’t be done.”

  “What about the return leg?”

  “Last flight out of New York connecting to Albuquerque is with America West, departing eight-twenty-five.”

  “So he could have got in that night, but couldn’t get back. What about early the next morning?”

  “American Airlines, Delta and Northwest depart from five-thirty to six-oh-five, arriving ABQ around ten-thirty local.”

  Starrett checked the case file notes. “Hutchins received a call from Munson at the bowling tournament a few minutes before eight o’clock Pacific. That’s nine o’clock Mountain, at which time Munson was either in the air or had never left Albuquerque…”

  “I talked to Verizon. Munson’s phone was active only in the Albuquerque area from Saturday through Wednesday. Since then, it’s been back in Marin County.”

  “Thanks, Myke. Good work.”

  Brane nodded and left.

  “So much for your theory of two coordinated murders,” Starrett said to Crowe.

  “Maybe it’s just more complicated than we think.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Crowe told Starrett about some clues at the scene of Janis Stockwell’s murder, suggesting a woman from the Southwest was involved.

  “Based on a scent of piñon and three incomplete fingerprints?” Starrett shook his head. “Give me a break!”

  “Laugh all you want, but my logic’s led me here and now you have Stockwell for the Lang hit-and-run.”

  Starrett was momentarily at a loss for words. “Say it is Stockwell and the terminal surveillance connects him to the Jeep that killed Lang. Maybe that’s enough to bring him in for questioning. But Munson was in Albuquerque on Tuesday, not in New York. There’s still no evidence of a conspiracy.”

  “Unless there’s a third person.”

  “Who?”

  “Beats me. But I don’t like the look of Munson’s prospects these days.” Crowe stared at his chart. The current planetary war between Venus and Mars was dissipating, but it could still affect Munson. As a trigger, the Moon was at the end of its cycle, just six degrees from the Sun. “His life could be at risk. Got a valid reason to arrest and place him under protective custody?”

  “Where’s Stockwell?”

  “In New York, far as I know.”

  “Then Munson’s safe.”

  “I don’t think he’s in danger from Stockwell.”

  “Then who?”

  “Maybe that woman from the Southwest.” Crowe reviewed the recurring symbolism that had turned up along the way here. This whole set-up was like a three-legged table but he’d only found two legs. “Any way to find out if someone was killed in Albuquerque on Tuesday?”

  “Maybe. But why?”

  “Because that’s where Munson was when Janis Stockwell died.”

  Starrett shook his head. “Now you’re thinking a three-way murder conspiracy?”

  “Just following my hunch. Doesn’t this seem a bit odd?”

  Starrett swiveled ar
ound to his computer and connected to the internet. A sign-on screen came up and he entered a password.

  “What site is this?”

  “National Institute of Justice, a branch of the Justice Department promoting R&D for national crime resolution. They recently added something allowing us to examine deaths by criminal causes in any state.”

  Crowe pulled his chair closer. Starrett clicked through several screens to access a state-by-state statistical overview.

  “According to the stats, New Mexico averages about thirteen a month. But it was busy last week. Tuesday, there were three – a homicide in Albuquerque, a suicide in Las Cruces, and a car fire in Los Alamos.”

  Crowe referred to the Berkeley karate club with more than a dozen members. “Name of the homicide victim?”

  “Enrico Bollitas. Drug-related killing at two in the morning, three witnesses, cops have the shooter in custody. Open-and-shut case.”

  “What about the suicide?”

  “Brian Gimball, quadraplegic. Ate a bottle of pills, left a note saying he couldn’t take it any more, body discovered at noon. His brother said he’d been depressed for some time.”

  “That leaves only the car fire.”

  “System says it’s an FBI case pending. Unspecified address in Los Alamos. Victim’s name was a Dr. Walter Cassidy.”

  “Time of death?”

  “Eight-eighteen PM Mountain.”

  “That’d make it ten-eighteen Eastern. Plotted on an absolute time line, that’s practically the midpoint between Lang’s hit-and-run and Stockwell’s fatal mugging.”

  Starrett stared at the computer screen.

  “Three deaths in less than an hour. Stockwell’s wife and Munson’s sugar daddy... And those two guys were roommates... Still think this is just a coincidence?” Crowe said.

  Starrett swiveled around. “Anyone named Cassidy in the Berkeley karate club?”

  They both examined the photocopies of the 1992, 1993 and 1994 group photos. No Cassidy. They checked the sailing club and MBA group photos as well.

  “Zip,” said Starrett.

  “That was more than a decade ago,” Crowe reasoned, “and there are several women in these photos. Any one of them could have married and changed her name.”

  He told Starrett about the apartment building where Stockwell and Munson used to live, how the super had fingered one of the karate club women as a frequent visitor. Crowe used a pencil to circle Carrie Woods in the 1994 karate club photo.

  Crowe referred to his notes. “Alumni directory lists her address as 210 Tulane Drive SE, Albuquerque, New Mexico.”

  Starrett referred to the NIJ website. “Wrong city. The case profile lists Dr. Cassidy’s address as 400 Piños Verdes Street, Santa Fe.”

  “Lots of people don’t keep their alumni office advised of address changes.”

  “I could call the FBI, see if Dr. Cassidy had a surviving spouse named Carrie.”

  “Let’s call the NYPD first. I have a feeling something’s about to break.”

  “You got a number?”

  Levinson wasn’t at his desk but someone else answered his phone. Starrett identified himself and the reason for his call. The guy at the other end asked him to stay on the line while someone fetched Levinson. Starrett switched the phone from handset to speaker. As they waited for Levinson, Starrett returned to his computer screen.

  “What now?” Crowe asked.

  “Checking New Mexico criminal records, see if I get a hit on Carrie Woods.” Starrett typed in her name. “Nothing.”

  “Try Cassidy.”

  Starrett repeated the process. “Bingo!”

  “What’d you find?”

  “DUI. Two years ago.”

  “Got an address?”

  “1200 Mescalero Avenue, Alamogordo, New Mexico. But that’s a different address, not to mention a different family name, from your Berkeley alumnus.”

  “Maybe she got married between the time she lived in Albuquerque and the time she moved to Alamogordo. You have her date of birth?”

  Starrett read it off Cassidy’s driver’s license. “DOB, April 11th, 1969.”

  Levinson came on the line. Starrett introduced himself and told the NYPD detective Axel Crowe had just handed him a lead in a hit-and-run case and that he might have new information on the Stockwell killing. Levinson said he was all ears.

  “Hello, Detective,” Crowe said. “How’s it going?”

  “You’re going to love this,” Levinson said. “We checked the hotel phone records of every woman who fit your profile and got a hit. One made several calls to literary agents. She checked in on Sunday, checked out early Wednesday morning. Her hotel is less than fifteen minutes’ walk from where Janis Stockwell was killed.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Carrie Cassidy.”

  “Cassidy?” said Starrett. “Do you have an address?”

  “Hotel registration gave 400 Piños Verdes in Santa Fe.”

  Crowe and Starrett looked at each other. Same address as the victim of the Los Alamos car fire.

  “Looks like we’ve got a multiple homicide conspiracy, Detective.” Starrett briefed Levinson on what they knew. “Soon as I get off the phone I’ll produce a warrant to have you arrest Stockwell in connection with my hit-and-run. Meanwhile, better issue one of your own for Santa Fe PD to arrest Carrie Cassidy.”

  “What about the third guy?” Levinson said.

  “I’ll give the Feds a quick heads-up,” said Starrett, “and pick him up myself.”

  Chapter 62

  Santa Fe

  Carrie Cassidy sat on the terrace nursing her second drink of the day. At the end of the yard the ground sloped into an arroyo bordered by piñon. From one of the trees a crow had been cawing for several minutes and she found it disturbing, like a warning of some predator approaching.

  Stockwell’s call had rattled her. They’d spent enough time planning this, there weren’t supposed to be any problems. But if there was one thing she’d learned in life, you didn’t ignore a problem. You fixed it before it fixed you.

  She looked at her watch. Zeke would almost be there by now. There was another problem but she hadn’t got into it over the phone with him. Put out the big fires first and you could piss on the little ones when you had time.

  Down in the arroyo the crow uttered another stricken cry and flew off. Carrie wasn’t superstitious but the crow’s abrupt departure made her uneasy, like being watched through a telescopic gun sight. She refused to be a sitting duck.

  She started packing. During university she’d gone to Seoul one summer, following a married professor who’d said he loved her, and she’d taken only one suitcase. She stayed three months, living in a one-room flat and teaching English to Korean housewives by day, screwing the prof every evening he was free until it turned sour and she’d come back home. She was adaptable, could get by on her wits and a shoestring. Please, God, just give me enough time to get away.

  She got down on her knees, not to pray, but to pull a plastic case from under the bed. The Glock 19C was registered in Walt’s name but she’d fired it hundreds of times, emptying its 17-round clip into targets. There were two boxes of ammunition, more than enough to protect her from the bad guys, no matter which side of the law they were on.

  The briefcase also held five thick wads of $100 bills she’d withdrawn from the bank yesterday, cleaning out the joint account Walt had set up two years ago when she’d come home from her wild winter in Alamogordo. Fifty grand, her working capital.

  The real money was still in the pipeline – six hundred grand from his government life insurance, half a mil in private life insurance, plus IRAs and a stock portfolio that added up to four million plus. In a month or two the paperwork would be done and she’d shop for a house somewhere in the Caribbean – Aruba, Belize, Cayman Islands – wherever it was warm and there was a little companionship to keep her amused.

  She stuffed the gun and cash in a shoulder bag, carried the suitcase to the ca
r. As she drove away, a crow sailed by overhead, its shadow passing over the car. She didn’t know if it was the same crow she’d seen earlier but it was headed south and so was she.

  ~~~

  Down at the BMW dealership on Camino Entrada it had been a busy Friday afternoon and even the sales manager had pitched in to deal with customers. Sandy Bishop had called in sick that morning complaining of a nasty gastro. Usually a hung-over Monday was what prompted such a call and it wasn’t like Sandy to miss a Friday, traditionally a brisk sales day.

  In fact he was indeed home alone and sick as a dog. After Thursday’s wild ride with Carrie Cassidy had prompted him to unload his chicken-and-avocado salad, he’d felt shitty the rest of the day. As soon as he’d switched her tags and completed the forms for transfer of vehicle registration and plates, he’d gone home but in his haste had forgotten to fax the appropriate forms to the Department of Motor Vehicles.

  Friday morning when the office secretary distributed the daily mail, she’d inadvertently buried the DMV forms under a couple of trade magazines where they remained undiscovered. Meanwhile, the Honda sat on the back lot waiting for a local auto jobber to tow it away for parts.

  Had Bishop’s manager known about this lapse in paperwork, he’d have gone straight over to Sandy’s place and ripped him a fresh asshole. If a new owner, driving a car still legally registered to them, was involved in an accident that caused serious property damage or loss of life, the dealership would be liable.

  ~~~

  Five minutes after Carrie Cassidy had hit the road, the Santa Fe Police Department got a call from New York. The Chief of the SFPD listened as Detective Levinson briefed him on the situation. Before they’d even finished their call, his secretary delivered to his desk the warrant Levinson had already faxed. As soon as he hung up, the Chief walked the warrant down the hall and the dispatcher put it out on the system.

  Minutes later, two SFPD officers patrolling the Old Taos Highway accepted the call. When they arrived at 400 Piños Verdes, the place was locked and no one responded to the doorbell. One of the officers called it in while the other punched Cassidy’s name into their onboard computer, coming up with only a DUI from two years ago.

  “Dispatch, this is Unit Seventeen at the Cassidy residence. There’s nobody home. You may want to issue an alert. Please confirm what you have on DMV. We can cruise the neighboring commercial strips, maybe spot her car.”