Murder in the 11th House

by Mitchell Scott Lewis

  “David Lowell to see Mark Milford.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, in a husky Lauren Bacall voice. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No. But if you tell him I’m here, I’m certain he will find a few moments to see me. Just say it’s about Pilgrim’s Cavern.”

  She looked at him with uncertainty, those eyes studying him, exuding sexuality, without the slightest intent.

  Must be a Scorpio, thought Lowell.

  Finally she picked up the phone and buzzed her boss. “There’s a Mr. Lowell here to see you…no, he doesn’t have an appointment. He said it’s regarding something called Pilgrim’s Cavern. He said you would know what it was about…yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Milford will see you right away.” She seemed impressed.

  Milford’s secretary came out and escorted him into the office.

  “Mr. Lowell, how nice to see you again. Was there some unfinished business regarding the Winston case?” He didn’t rise from his chair. Lowell didn’t sit.

  “The Winston case? Is that how you think of it? It wasn’t so long ago in this very office that you tried to convince me of a flowering relationship cut short by the tragic death of your lover.”

  “Please don’t take me for indifferent.”

  “I don’t. I take you for a cold, calculating murderer.”

  Milford showed no sign that he had heard him. He got up and walked over to the bar where he poured a glass of orange juice. He took a long sip and put the glass down.

  “Can I get you something?”

  Lowell smiled. I would require a food taster, he thought, remembering how he duped Larry Rosen with the drugged lime slice. “No, thank you.”

  Milford shrugged. “So, what makes you think I’m a murderer?”

  “You are familiar with Pilgrim’s Cavern?”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “Only that it’s a plan to build a first-class resort in the Utah Mountains.”

  “It’s in a rather isolated area for a resort, wouldn’t you say?”

  “It isn’t a Holiday Inn.”

  “It also isn’t really a resort, is it? It’s more like a gold plated Noah’s ark, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I believe that its proximity to the caverns does apparently add an element of protection.”

  “And what do you know about Purple Diamond Industries?”

  “They represent a group of international financiers who comb the globe looking for long-term investments, mostly in property.”

  “Has your law firm ever done work for them?”

  “I believe we may have some minor dealings with the P.D.I. group. I’d have to do some research to find out.”

  The man took a large cigar from a humidor, put it to his ear and rolled it between his fingers. Satisfied, he took a small clipper and cut the end off. Then he picked up what Lowell assumed correctly was a solid gold lighter and lit the cigar, twirling it to assure an even smoke.

  “Cigar?”

  Lowell shook his head.

  “I did a little research of my own,” said Milford. “I apologize for my attitude at our first meeting. It seems you are quite a wealthy man. Self-made, unlike myself. As I understand it, most of your money came as a result of trading oil, gold, and other commodities over the past decade. Capitalism in its most primal form. You are obviously a man of some intelligence to have accrued so substantial a fortune. And in so short a time.”

  Lowell modestly bowed his head.

  “You interest me, Mr. Lowell. That is why I agreed to see you. I believe an individualist like yourself may be able to understand the bigger picture. In many ways this is a brave new world. It is a time in man’s history of unprecedented wealth and expansion when individuals have accrued fortunes of such proportions that a few men can change the world. Kings and emperors never dreamed of the power that ordinary businessmen now hold.”

  “And how about the financial mess we’re in right now? We seem to be heading deeper into a depression.”

  “Just a blip on the screen.”

  “Is that all the 1930s were to your family?”

  He puffed on the cigar. “Families such as mine do not suffer during downturns in the economy. We flourish.”

  “If you are so confident about the future, why build a multi-billion dollar bomb shelter?”

  “Some of our clients may not be as optimistic about the future as I am. If they wish to invest in such a project, our job is to aid them in every way possible.”

  “Well, this time I think you’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty.”

  Lowell stood up and walked to the window. It was nine-thirty in the morning, and traffic on Park Avenue was moving along steadily. He looked uptown at the endless row of skyscrapers with their thousands of bankers, lawyers, and businessmen willing to use any means and anyone to increase their personal fortunes. The American game, now gone sour. “Let me tell you what I think happened.” He turned to face Milford.

  The man sat silently, blowing smoke rings in groups of three.

  “You, like so many others, overextended your resources over the past few decades. The crash of ’08 was when the bottom finally fell out for you, isn’t it? My research shows that over the past few years a number of your high-end clients have defaulted on their debts to your firm. Given bad investments, the decline of equity in your stock portfolio and an untenable extravagant lifestyle, you are so overleveraged that I doubt if you can even pay the interest on your outstanding debts. And my guess is that most, if not all, of your family’s fortune is tied up in your investments.

  “One of your clients, Purple Diamond Industries, has a long-term commitment for investments in certain projects, including the development of Pilgrim’s Cavern. Your fee for setting up the deal would be quite sizable and could get you out of the hole, perhaps without your family ever finding out. But it had to get done this year, or it would be too late for you. You can barely afford the interest on your loans, and if it went into committee it might very well never get completed. The project was moving along nicely, and everything was just fine. The governor was on board, as was a majority of the state senate. And then something happened you couldn’t possibly have foreseen. One of those senators had a massive coronary while eating a two pound sirloin steak. The governor had to choose a replacement quickly, and you had to make sure that choice would favor the Pilgrim’s Cavern project, or you would be bankrupt.”

  Milford puffed on his cigar, seemingly unfazed by Lowell’s accusations.

  “You must have been beside yourself searching for the proper candidate before the governor picked someone unsuitable. Then somebody mentioned Farrah Winston, an attractive, intelligent woman from an ultraconservative family in that state with roots deep in the Republican Party. You did your research, liked her background and, realizing that time was not on your side, you quietly brought her to the attention of your business associates. They agreed to back her next year for U.S. Senate and to guarantee her continued career through large cash donations. As long as she was willing to spend this year in the state senate and go along with the Pilgrim’s Cavern project.

  “She was discreetly approached by the governor’s office and agreed to accept the appointment in the state legislature. Your research showed that she was too honest to accept any strings attached to the job, but you were confident she would vote the right way when the time came. Several issues were discussed with her, including the Pilgrim’s Cavern project. But unbeknownst to you her attitude had been changing. She began to show interest in some uncomfortable issues, such as the environmental impact this would have on the region.

  “Nothing could stop you. Except maybe a fiery state senator who had recently had her eyes opened. How am I doing so far?”

  Milford said not
hing.

  “You needed to find out for yourself, so you planned an accidental meeting where you swept her off her feet. Just as you had feared, her attitude was anything but cooperative. Not knowing you were involved with Purple Diamond Industries, she told you that she was planning to thoroughly investigate the Pilgrim’s Cavern project once she was appointed.

  “The governor, like most men, was charmed by Farrah Winston and very happy with the choice. He is basically an honest man who pretty much follows the party line. He was a fan of the Pilgrim’s Cavern project, but not at the cost of Farrah’s appointment.

  “The announcement was only days away. You panicked. You needed someone in her office to help you, so you somehow recruited Larry Rosen. He was a fanatic, and you played to his hatreds and fears. You convinced him that Farrah was a stone’s throw from the presidency and that she represented a threat to his way of life. You hired that hit man to kill her once Rosen had given you a patsy in my client. Once Farrah was dead, you were able to get George Ogden, a lackey who you knew would follow orders, appointed in her place. Just to make sure there were no loose ends, you decided to eliminate the problem once and for all on Riker’s, but your thugs missed. And when I got too close, you had him try to kill me. He failed, so you decided to clean up your mess starting with Rosen.”

  “You have a very vivid imagination.”

  “Has anyone in your family ever been poor?”

  “Not since the fifteenth century, when my ancestors pulled themselves out of the rubble of plague-infected Europe and began a profitable shipping business in Venice. My family has been wealthy for five hundred years. So you see the term nouveau riche is relative. To me it describes the Rockefellers and the Vanderbilts.”

  “And you think it’s okay to take land from those who already live there?”

  “The stronger have always taken from the weaker.”

  “I see. So we’ve replaced the chariots and lances with corporate jets and checkbooks, is that it?”

  “That’s the way of the world. I’m surprised a man of your wealth and position doesn’t understand that.”

  “How does it feel to be the one to end a family legacy that has lasted half a millennium?”

  A small crevice developed on his forehead, but Milford said nothing.

  “You are responsible for the deaths of Farrah Winston and Larry Rosen, and I will see to it that you are held accountable.”

  “All you have are suppositions, innuendo, and guesses. There is nothing to tie me to Farrah’s death, nor the Pilgrim’s Cavern project.”

  “I’m sure that if someone were to dig deep enough into your paperwork, they would find that this firm was more connected to Pilgrim’s Cavern than you let on.”

  “Do you expect me to give you access to my files?”

  “No. That privilege will be reserved for the courts.”

  “Mr. Lowell, my clients include two congressmen, a senator, and an ex-governor. Your threats do not impress me. And even if you did find some lunatic judge to agree to examine my firm’s dealings, I employ fifty-six lawyers who each handle hundreds of cases a year. I couldn’t possibly know about them all. As I said, we may very well have had some minor dealings with someone associated with this project, but that would be the extent of the connection.”

  “I’m sure you could explain it away easily enough.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you personally would never be connected to this affair.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “You see, the mistake both the police and I made was assuming your alibi was solid. After all, you were on the phone with the victim and the investigation proved that the bomb was not set off by a cell phone. So the phone call was both an alibi and confirmation of the deed.”

  Milford shrugged. “I was on the phone with my lover planning our dinner date when she was killed. Your accusations are slanderous, and if you repeat them to anyone else I may be forced to take legal action.”

  “When I’m finished, if you still wish to sue me for defamation of character, I’ll give you my lawyer’s card.”

  Milford’s got up and freshened his drink.

  “Details,” said Lowell, “it’s all in the details. When your killer came to New York to fulfill his contract, he needed a place to stay where he could come and go without attracting the attention of hotel employees or neighbors in an apartment building. After all, he didn’t exactly blend into a crowd. You couldn’t put him up anywhere that would be connected with you or any of your business associates, so you rented him a townhouse.”

  “You can’t prove any of this.”

  “You really should study astrology. It can help you avoid many of the little pitfalls that bedevil us. Had you known that Mercury was in retrograde when you planned the crime, you may have been able to take precautions.”

  Milford smirked as he sat back down.

  “It must have been quite hectic that day, your investors screaming for a resolution, the governor unknowingly just about to make an announcement that would ruin your life. You had a hundred things running through your mind, all at the same time. And dozens of little troublesome details to take care of.

  “You couldn’t trust anyone to know that you were directly involved with your lover’s murderer, so having one of your flunkies take care of things was out of the question. You probably weren’t paying attention, or maybe you figured it would never come out in a million years, nobody would ever untangle the labyrinth you had so carefully created, so you must have unconsciously just scribbled a signature on the bottom, as you do a hundred times a day, and then mailed it back. Did you know that it is very difficult to disguise your script? And I doubt that you even bothered to try.”

  He took a document out of the envelope and dropped it on the desk in front of Milford. “That is your handwriting, isn’t it? It shouldn’t be hard for an expert to determine.”

  Milford just stared.

  “How will you explain to the police why your handwriting is on the lease to a townhouse where Judge Winston’s murderer was staying?”

  Milford opened his mouth but nothing came out.

  The intercom buzzed. Milford seemed not to hear it.

  It buzzed again.

  “Yes, Michele,” he snapped, “what is it?”

  “There’s a Lieutenant Roland here to see you.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Snow fell last night, as pure as a baby’s soul. No footprints at all, no mistakes to erase.

  If only we could walk through life without disturbing it, thought Lowell as he went out the kitchen door, coffee cup in hand, and stood on the back porch gazing onto the pristine carpet. His actions had killed a man. It wasn’t supposed to end that way. This was something he would carry with him forever, long past this lifetime, so he believed. But it had been necessary to protect him and his loved ones.

  Or had it?

  It was one of those rare and sudden storms brought on by the Gemini full moon, all gaudy and flamboyant. It fell on Friday, a white weekend, and would charm the city, as only the first snowfall of the year could. By February the snow would have long ago lost its seductive powers.

  Maybe he could have played his hand another way. Maybe, if he had taken Lieutenant Roland into his confidence earlier, they could have shaken the truth from the hit man. But he knew in his heart that wouldn’t have been the case. And so he took the weight onto his karmic shoulders and accepted it.

  A little more than a week had passed since his confrontation with Milford, yet how much had already changed. Once the public became aware of it, the governor was forced to cancel the Pilgrim’s Cavern project. It would be years before another attempt would be made at stealing the town, but Lowell knew in his heart that it was only a matter of time before someone did. The world was shrinking, and the rul
es were changing rapidly.

  As for Milford, his life lay in ruins and he faced many years in prison. Lowell was not surprised to hear that, just two days ago, Milford had decided to take the coward’s way out with the aid of a bottle of whiskey and a handful of pills. Lowell would not mourn the loss.

  He went back into the kitchen and sat by the counter. The house was quiet. He could hear Julia’s TV in the distance tuned, as always, to her soaps. He got up from the stool and walked into the den. Maybe he’d build a fire and have a cup of tea. How Dickensian.

  And I’ll throw a shawl on and sit in a rocking chair waiting for death. No, thank you, he said to himself.

  He walked back into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He took out an apple, then changed his mind and put it back. It was too quiet, that’s what was bothering him. He picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “I was wondering if you’d like to come up for the weekend and play in the snow. You’re welcome to bring anyone you want.”

  “I’d love to. Let me see how much work I get done the rest of today.”

  “Bring the work up with you. You can use the den and work by the fire.”

  “That sounds nice. No promises but let me call you later this afternoon.”

  “Okay.”

  He hung up and walked down to the office and sat looking out the window. He didn’t like winter, never did. Even as a child it was a nuisance, dressing and undressing, fending off snowball laden bullies and slippery sidewalks. And now in middle years the energy it took to deal with the cold and snow made it less pleasant each winter. Eventually, he supposed, he would move someplace warm, at least for the winters.

  He’d tried living other places, small towns, other cities, even tried Miami once. But everything paled compared to New York. There was no other place in the world like Manhattan Island, even in a depression.

  Even in winter.

  He picked up the phone and made a call.