Death in the 12th House

by Mitchell Scott Lewis

  It was still hot with no breeze or shade. The streets were even more deserted than they had been in the early afternoon. Everyone who hadn’t left the city last night had scooted away today.

  He walked over to the East Side and started up Park Avenue. At 38th Street he walked over to a phone booth and, after carefully scrutinizing his surroundings, took a tiny metal object and a small medicine container from his pocket. He opened the container, tipped a small amount of a reddish-green substance into the metal object, and then returned the container to his pocket. Looking around once more he took a lighter from the same pocket, picked up the pay phone pretending to speak into it, and lit the substance. He inhaled a healthy amount of smoke, looked around once more, and then exhaled. He repeated the procedure twice more, and started walking north. It was strong pot with an earthy taste that reminded him of the seventies. But then lately, everything was reminding him of the seventies, including the economy. The THC did its job. He felt the small of his back relax and he walked at a steady, slow pace, controlling his breathing as he went.

  At 89th Street he turned east and headed toward his fourth floor walk-up between York and East End. It was repressively hot in the studio apartment. He clicked on the TV, turned on the air conditioner to the energy-save setting, and sat on the couch/bed.

  When he had cooled off enough to feel somewhat normal he opened his shoulder bag and took out the copy of the Post. It always had the most outrageous headlines. “Freddie Got Fingered” ranked right up there with the best.

  He carefully cut the front page off and opened a portfolio he kept in the coffee table drawer. He opened the book to a blank page, slid the Post’s front page into the plastic folder, and smoothed it out.

  He closed the book and then reopened it to the first page and the first victim, Gene Hallow, front man for Rapid Rising, a soft rock band from the eighties known mostly for sweet syrupy ballads. That Post’s headline read: “Gene Finally Gets Laid,” in reference to one of his biggest hit, the atypical slightly raunchy, “When I’m Laid to Rest.” There’s a line in the song that goes:

  The greatest lay of all

  I said upon request

  Is not a girl at all

  But when I’m laid to rest

  He flipped to the second page. Wally Fischer, known to the world as Redfish, was the second victim. A singer-songwriter with a twisted political point of view, Redfish spewed violence and anger from his mouth long before rap made it commonplace. If you called him Wally to his face he would leap at you with both fists flailing. He was an angry middle-aged boy, mad at the world and his parents. Neurotic and petulant, he demanded full attention wherever he went.

  Not many people liked Wally. That was what groupies and gofers were for. But he did sell a hell of a lot of records, and anyone who fed the star-maker machine was good for everybody, so they put up with Wally.

  At least until a month ago when somebody stabbed him to death. Nobody who knew him was terribly upset when Wally died, except perhaps his manager and agent, both of whom were about to take a serious pay cut. The press had never really liked him, and they had a field day taking his lyrics out of context and twisting them all around. Wally’s headline in the Post: “The Deepest Cut of All.”

  And Freddie made three.

  He stared at Freddie’s headline for a long time. Then he smiled a sad grin, closed the book and put it in the table drawer. He went to his woefully out-of-date Dell computer and opened his email. He wrote a short message, attached it to eight separate blind copy email addresses, printed a copy, and sent it out.

  The note simply said: “Freddie’s gone. Three down and one to go.”

  Chapter Seven

  The fourth of July is the quietest day in the city, with the possible exception of Christmas. Lowell fed the turtles and then walked over to Louie’s for breakfast. It was now eight and already the temperature was in the eighties. He had been forced to forego his usual turtleneck and wore a black t-shirt. He was their only customer and sat outside at one of the four tables, leisurely reading the Times while he ate. After breakfast he strolled around the neighborhood for a while, but it was already too hot for a long walk.

  He often spent the day leisurely meandering through the distinct neighborhoods. Years ago he would wind his way around the historic streets of Tribeca, Soho, Chinatown, Little Italy, the Village, and end up in Gramercy Park near his office. Each had its own flavor, a dozen villages within a city. But all that was disappearing.

  Where you used to see little old ladies sitting on their stoops exchanging neighborhood gossip and recipes, now there were young upwardly mobile couples in $200 jeans rushing to make their first million.

  Only Chinatown kept its unique style, and even that was beginning to change. Hipster leisure bars were popping up in storefronts where immigrants had toiled for centuries.

  He returned to the office. He had given Sarah time off so she and Rudy could enjoy a few days on Long Island. She wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. His assistant, Mort, was still in Florida taking care of family business, and the office seemed particularly empty.

  He showered and closed up the sofa bed. Then he turned on his computer and opened the Solar Fire astrology program. He brought Freddie’s chart on screen, and then printed it. He took the paper and paced back and forth across the room, stopping occasionally to pet the turtles, both of whom seemed aware of his agitation. They stayed out on their rock a long time, until he finally sat back down at his desk. Then Buster and Keaton slowly returned to the water.

  This was where he did his real work. This was why people paid him. Any idiot could tail someone or photograph them coming out of a motel room. What he did that other detectives couldn’t do was look at these pieces of paper and recognize where to seek his solution. He picked up Freddie’s chart and walked over to the turtles. Buster was sitting on a rock looking up at him with anticipation.

  “Freddie was born August 9th, 1948, at 6:05 a.m. at Doctor’s Hospital in Manhattan,” he told the turtle. “This is a commanding chart. There are three planets close together, that’s called a stellium, in the 12th House in Leo. Mercury, Pluto, and the Sun are in close conjunction, with the Sun almost exactly on the ascendant. This made Freddie quite charismatic. It also made him a control freak, with tremendous personal power. Although with the Mercury and Pluto in the 12th House he was quite capable of hiding his true motivations and intentions. Venus, ruler of the career house, was in sextile to the mid-heaven, an aid to a successful career, which certainly was the case.”

  Buster was fascinated.

  “There is also a second stellium in Libra involving Neptune, Mars, and the Moon. It shows a strong talent for music, and an interesting and strong relationship with the public. It also shows that while Freddie was able to control much of his reality through the Pluto – Sun – Mercury connection, in truth, with Mars so close to Neptune, his ego was not very strong, and he overcompensated for his internal fears through his outward manipulation. None of this knowledge can help Freddie anymore. Perhaps it might help identify his killer.”

  He punched in the birth information of the other two victims and showed them to Buster. “At the time of their deaths, Wally and Freddie’s charts showed heavy transits by Mars, the most aggressive of planets, and Pluto, ruler of hidden agendas and vengeance, both of which one would expect to find in violent murder charts. But, they were not very prominent in Gene’s chart at the time of his death. Jupiter, however, was active in all three.” Buster nodded. “It’s considered the “lucky” planet, the planet of growth and optimism, of expansion, higher education, and long journeys. And I have found that description to be very accurate in my years of studies.”

  He also knew how often Jupiter appeared in an active role in death charts and had long ago realized the obvious. Death is a long journey of expansion that most likely offers us some higher educational potential. Perhaps death was more Jupiter’s domain than was commonly recognized, he thought, and maybe we shouldn’t be so
pessimistic about it.

  “All three charts point toward a financial situation with violent undertones. There were difficult transits upon the ruler of the 2nd house of money in each. What was the connection? And why were Mars and Pluto active in Wally’s and Freddie’s charts, but not in Gene’s.”

  The phone rang a little after three. He was going to ignore it when he noticed the number on caller ID. He picked it up. “Hi there. How are you holding up?”

  “I’m okay.” Vivian’s voice sounded a little strained. “I was wondering if you were free this evening. I’d like to get out for a few hours and don’t really feel like being with show biz people, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven and we’ll get some dinner.”

  “No, I feel like taking a long walk. I’ll meet you at your office.”

  “Okay. If you like we can catch the fireworks at nine.”

  “Ooh, that would be fun.”

  He told her the address and hung up. Then he called the Four Seasons and made a reservation. Normally there was a long wait for a table, but the manager was an astrology client whom Lowell had helped during a time of great distress.

  A little before seven there was a knock on the office door. He opened it. She was dressed simply, but elegantly, in a light blue blouse and white pants. Except for a pair of diamond stud earrings and two rings she was otherwise unadorned.

  “So, this is where you do your magic. Show me around?”

  “This is the reception area.” He stated the obvious. “Sarah sits here. There’s another office for Mort, my assistant, and a small conference room with a client’s bathroom over there.” Then he opened the door to his inner sanctum. “This is my office and part time home.”

  “You live here?”

  “Sometimes. I have a home uptown, but when I’m in the middle of an ongoing investigation I hate to be interrupted, so I’ll stay here for a few days at a time. The couch opens to a king-size mattress, and I have a full bathroom.”

  He opened the door and showed her the bathroom and dressing area, complete with walk-in closet and mirrors.

  She walked around the room taking it all in. She stopped by the tank and was introduced to Buster and Keaton, who seemed to enjoy her immensely.

  “What’s in the cabinets?”

  “I’ll show you.” He walked to his desk and picked up the universal remote. He pushed a few buttons and two TVs came on – one set to CNBC, and the other to CSPAN.

  “Wow. That’s quite a setup you’ve got.”

  “I need every weapon in my arsenal. The ancient and the most modern come together to give me the answers I seek.”

  They caught a cab to the restaurant on East 52nd Street, although Lowell had his car and driver waiting for them later. There wouldn’t be a free cab anywhere after the fireworks.

  Dinner was excellent. Vivian had chipotle tuna. Lowell had the ravioli, and for dessert they each had the crème brulee. They discussed art, politics, music, and movies, and found that they agreed on most things. When they disagreed it wasn’t so much an ideological difference as a generational or cultural clash.

  They left the restaurant and headed toward the Hudson River. As they walked west they were joined by a crowd that continued to grow. It was as if the entire island had been tipped and all the people were spilling over toward the river.

  They reached the West Side Highway and took their place among the throngs eager to see the show. The crowd and the darkness provided Vivian with the anonymity she needed.

  At nine o’clock exactly the display began. The sky lit up in a spectacular display of pyrotechnics. Like little children the crowd gasped and applauded the show.

  After a half hour they had had their fill.

  “Maybe we should leave a little early and beat the crowd,” said Lowell.

  “Could we walk for a few blocks?”

  “Of course.”

  His driver, Andy, was sitting half a block down from the drive. When he saw them he started the car. Lowell made a walking motion with his fingers. Andy nodded.

  “I never spent too much time in New York City,” she said. “I grew up in California and went to school in Boston. It’s a bit overwhelming, isn’t it?”

  “It can be.”

  “It’s a beautiful night.” She slipped her arm around his.

  “A little warm, though.” He felt a little tongue-tied, which was quite unusual for the astrologer.

  “David, I need to head back to the hotel. I have an early appointment tomorrow with the organizers of my dad’s memorial service. I need to pull this together before all of his friends and associates leave for the Hamptons or the Vineyard for the rest of the summer. You’ll come with me to the service, yes? ”

  “Of course.” Lowell knew Andy would be close by with the car, and he was. The limo pulled up, and they got in.

  He was sorry to end the evening. He had found her intelligent and incredibly attractive, and was just happy to be in her presence. “The Carlyle, please, Andy.”

  “Right away, boss.”

  Vivian had been in her share of limousines, but this one was as much like a living room as any she had ever seen. There was a TV screen, a small refrigerator, a fold-down desk with a computer terminal. The usual rich man’s toys. But this limo had two things she had never seen.

  “What’s that?” She pointed at a computer screen that seemed to be continuously running a strange program. It showed what her untrained eye thought was an astrology chart, but it seemed to be moving. At least the planets did.

  “That is an astrolabe. It’s been used since the middle ages to visually depict the positioning of the planets at any given time, giving the astrologer a clearer picture. It’s often used for divination, or fortune telling. Modern astrologers also use it to get a visual of where the planets are at any moment. It used to be a mechanical instrument that was turned by hand. Of course, we have updated the technology, but it’s virtually the same thing, and I use it for the same reason.”

  She stared at it for a few moments. “I noticed they move at different speeds.”

  “Sure, just as the planets do. The closer to the Sun the faster the motion, except for the Moon which, you will notice,” he pointed to the screen, “moves much quicker than the rest.”

  “What does the Moon rule?”

  “It rules lots of things, particularly our emotions.”

  She smiled. “And they do move quickly, don’t they?”

  Lowell hit a button and the windows darkened for a moment. Then they lit up again, only the scene outside had changed. They seemed to be driving through a snowy mountainous area.

  Vivian put her hand on the window. It was cold to the touch. And she knew it was almost ninety outside. She pulled her hand back suddenly.

  “What the…?”

  Lowell laughed. “That is technology that will be available soon, once the bugs are worked out of it and the licensing agreements are reached. The inventor is an old client of mine. He’s been working on this for ten years. Pretty wild, huh?”

  “I’ll say.”

  “The screen is a plasma insert that is transparent when turned off. Once you initialize the screen it actually takes on the physical characteristics of whatever program you’re running. There are twenty four mini-speakers throughout the car that produce an astoundingly realistic atmosphere, don’t you think?”

  She touched the screen. It was damp and cold.

  “People will have these in restaurants, nightclubs, and at home. Bored? Can’t get away? Turn on Miami and make believe. Go ahead, try another one.”

  “Which one?”

  “Where in LA do you live?”

  “Just north of Malibu on the ocean.”

  “Perfect. Why don’t you push #7?”

  She turned the knob to #7 and pushed the green button. The screen darkened again for a moment, and then they were driving on what she instantly recognized as the Pacific Coast Highway. “Oh my god, this is my neighborhood.” She pu
shed her face against the glass as if trying to look back at the road. “This is just amazing. In five minutes we’ll pass my house. It’ll be there, won’t it?”

  Lowell nodded. “These are 3D projections of footage shot about eighteen months ago, so if the building was there then, you’ll see it.”

  “Any chance I’ll see myself there?”

  “None. The technicians made sure there were no people in the footage, both for legal reasons and because it helps to imagine yourself somewhere if there aren’t people to process.”

  She remained entranced and giggled as they passed her house. She turned to Lowell. “Would you like to join me for a nightcap?”

  “I’d be delighted to.”

  When they got to the Carlyle Andy got out first and went around to open the door. He was six feet three inches tall, and at two hundred ten pounds of muscle, an imposing figure, but that wasn’t why Lowell hired him. With a black belt in aikido, Lowell was capable of taking care of himself in most situations, but he knew the limitations of his physical prowess, and powerful back up was very reassuring. Lowell had almost lost his life investigating the Winston case by overestimating his skills. An ex-racecar driver, Andy was the best man to have behind the wheel, not that his size wasn’t an added benefit. But it was his sense of humor that ultimately got him the job. His wit was dry and cutting, quite like Lowell’s. In fact, they shared a similar view of the world: part cynical, part hopeful. They also shared a strong work ethic, something Lowell demanded of all his employees.

  Lowell and Vivian entered the bar and sat at a small table. A pianist was playing “When Sunny Gets Blue.” Several couples were sitting intimately. A waitress came up quickly and took their order. She had a Remy, he had a Beck’s.

  When the drinks came Vivian raised her snifter. “Here’s to the discovery of the truth.”

  Lowell wondered, not for the last time, what uncovering the truth about her father’s death would ultimately mean for her.