Death in the 12th House

by Mitchell Scott Lewis

  “I’ve got to do something soon. Some music acts are threatening to cancel their New York dates. Everyone is afraid to go out on stage. They think someone is waiting to pop ’em off the first chance they get. And when you’re playing in front of twenty thousand people, it’s hard to keep an eye on everyone.”

  “Maybe it would be better if they weren’t so exposed, at least until we solve this thing.”

  “Do you know how much money rock shows generate in this city? How much a tour by one of these groups earns? And not just for the band. There are t-shirts, concession stands, record sales, taxi drivers, restaurants, hotels. The list goes on and on. The mayor called me yesterday, personally. And this time you’re way off base.”

  “Are you willing to risk that? Just give me more time to look into some things and I promise I’ll tell you everything I learn. You can even take credit when we solve this thing, okay?”

  “Well,” Roland cleared his throat, “I suppose I can stall things for a day or two. But this has to be solved, and soon. It’s my ass on the line.”

  “But lieutenant, I’m not sure we’re going to be able to solve this in a day or two. The planetary aspects show a continuing unfolding situation that will not be resolved for a while.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mercury is in retrograde and you probably won’t get your solution until it goes direct. That is when the secrets will come out. I doubt that you will know who your killer is until then. If you go off half cocked and arrest the wrong person on this retrograde you will regret it.”

  “I can’t wait two more weeks, they’ll have my head. Can’t you do something?”

  Lowell laughed. “Well, we could give Mercury a great big push and turn it around.”

  “Just do what you can. And I’m not waiting for your damned planets to line up.”

  “Let me know if you find a way around them. In the meantime we must continue to investigate.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Lowell sat at his desk punching up chart after chart. He knew Roland was wrong. While there were undertones of this being a crime of passion, the real motivation was greed. Freddie’s murder had to do with money, of that he was sure, in fact, all the deaths did, even though, according to everyone he’d spoken to, there were no financial problems.

  Wally and Freddie’s death charts still showed a similar energy, while Gene’s was quite different. This distinction bothered Lowell, and he set out to clarify the issue.

  He called Boston and spoke to Gene’s manager, Richard Frey. Gene’s finances were, if anything, in better shape than Freddie’s. He had married about five years ago, giving his wife control of the family fortune. At his death, Gene was worth at least several hundred million dollars, there were no law suits pending, no paternity accusation, nothing.

  Redfish’s manager, Johnny Gleason, wasn’t so forthright. Although he was based in New York he refused to see Lowell in person. They spoke briefly on the phone. At first he wouldn’t discuss Wally’s finances. But when Lowell explained that the alternative was to have the DA order a complete and thorough investigation of all the financial records for the last ten years, he became chatty. But here too, there was nothing but positive financial news and money was not an issue.

  After speaking to the three managers Lowell found their attitudes virtually interchangeable. They each expressed superficial grief over the death of their client, yet all were busier than they had ever been, promoting the death of a rock star.

  Mort had dug out the birth information for the three managers. Even though it would eventually cost each of them a fortune with the death of their stars, nobody was beyond suspicion.

  Their birth information was easy to acquire over the Internet. James Gleason, Redfish’s manager, was born November 30th, 1949, at 7:27 p.m. in Detroit. Robert Frey, Gene’s manager, was born December 29th, 1948, at 3:14 p.m. in Boston.

  Larry Latner was born October 12, 1949, at 6:55 a.m. in the Bronx. This gave him a 12th House Libra Sun conjunct Neptune, not a very strong aspect, although with the Sun ruling his 10th House of career, and Neptune ruling the music business it made sense that he would choose this profession. But he did have Mars conjunct Pluto in the 10th House, which showed a ruthless, unyielding side to his personality, especially in his career pursuits. But whether that was powerful enough to overcome the weakness of that Neptune placement to commit murder was the question. Lowell didn’t think so.

  None of the managers’ charts showed a particularly violent nature. But, as Lowell had learned through the years, that did not mean that they weren’t capable of murder, given the right incentive. But what would be their motivation to kill the golden goose?

  He walked over to the window. The view from his office was a dazzling look uptown, with the Empire State Building still clear through the summer haze.

  ***

  Sarah looked up from her typing when the front door opened and a gawky man entered, his limbs seemingly disconnected from the rest of his body. Sarah couldn’t help but think of the do-da man from the old R. Crumb comics her father used to read after smoking pot in the basement when he thought Sarah and her brother were asleep.

  “Hi, doll, you miss me?”

  “Well, look who the wind blew in. Hi, Mort. How was Florida?”

  Mort wasn’t tall, but his limbs seemed exceptionally long, which gave the illusion of height. He had been locally well-known as a psychic long before Lowell hired him. He came to work at the Starlight Detective Agency about five years before.

  “A little family problem, but nothing too serious. You look as lovely as ever.” He furrowed his brow in a most unnatural looking way. “What is it? What’s bothering you?”

  “Nothing, don’t be silly.”

  “Oh, Sarah, you know you can’t hide stuff from me. I can tell that you’re worried about your boyfriend, aren’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “You two had another fight?”

  She nodded again. “I’m afraid he’s going to leave me.”

  “Don’t worry. This will resolve itself soon. Although, if you don’t mind my saying, it would be better for you if he did.”

  “Really?” Sarah’s face lit up. “Things will get better?”

  “Yes, very soon.”

  “The boss told me the same thing.”

  “Well, when we both come to the same conclusion it’s usually correct. And how are things here?”

  “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. You’ll never guess who’s been coming around.”

  “I assume from your reaction it’s someone important. And since the boss was working on Freddie Finger’s murder, um, I guess a few rock stars. Hmm, maybe New Yorkers. Could it be…?”

  “Oh stop that,” interrupted Sarah. “At least let me try and surprise you.” She filled him in on the events of the past few days. He was very disappointed at missing a chance to meet some of his heroes, but took it stoically.

  “Let’s get some lunch,” he said, once Sarah had brought him up to date.

  “Alright, I’ll see if the boss wants anything.”

  Sarah buzzed him.

  He picked up the intercom phone. “What’s up?”

  “Mort’s here and I’m going out to get lunch. Do you want something?”

  “Get me an avocado and Swiss on rye and some potato salad. And ask Mort to come in.”

  “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

  She picked up her purse and started for the door.

  “I was thinking of going to the track tonight with my girlfriends,” she said. “Uh, what do you think? Will I win?”

  Mort squished his face into a most peculiar frown. “The track, huh? Odd place. Still, let me think. Look for the number five. It should be a long shot, a big one.”

  “Thanks, Mort!”

  “I also see a woman dressed in bright colors, maybe flowers. She has red hair just like yours and her name begins with a D or a B. She works in a business that can help you in some way. And remember, number f
ive is very important.”

  She headed out the door.

  Mort entered Lowell’s office. “How are ya?”

  “Mort, how was your trip? Is the family okay?”

  “Nothing too tragic.”

  “Good.” Lowell handed him a slip of paper. “First thing I want you to do is to find out who owns this holding company in the Cayman Islands, who these potential bidders on the property are, including the two that dropped their bids. Then I want you to find someone named Marty Winebeck, a musician about sixty, whose last known address was somewhere in New York City.”

  Mort was one of the best hackers in the world. He was asked to leave MIT after he used their computer to penetrate secret government files. It would have been too embarrassing to prosecute him, so the government offered him a job in their computer section, which he turned down. He was also a psychic, could read the emotions of many people he sat near, even their actual thoughts at times, something that could amaze, or unnerve. For some reason he was unable to read Lowell’s thoughts, and once the astrologer was sure of this, he hired him. Besides, as a scientist, which is how Lowell saw himself and his astrological work, he was not about to rely on any unsubstantiated concept, plan, or prediction. It simply wasn’t in his nature.

  But truth be told, he had been quite impressed and amazed by the man on more than one occasion.

  The first time Lowell saw his chart he recognized that the same wiring that gave Mort his unusual psychic abilities also allowed him to see things in a unique non-linear fashion. His intuition was remarkable, and he was thus able to associate things that others didn’t. This helped him travel through the web more quickly than most people. It was on the Internet that he served his most useful purpose for the firm.

  ***

  Mort went to his office and got to work. In less than an hour he had bypassed the security of the Ridgewood Holding Company based in the Caymans, as well as Morton Realtors, the New York-based agents for the sale. He printed out the pertinent information and walked into Lowell’s office.

  “Morton Realty has been around for decades. They seem to be on the up and up. But I can’t find anything on Ridgewood Holding.”

  “I want you to follow up on this. I want to know who Ridgewood is. Use that rather peculiar brain of yours and dig it out.”

  “Okay, but this one isn’t going to be easy.”

  “I know. The Cayman’s don’t require much in the way of proof or paper trails, which is why they are so popular.”

  “And here is a list of bidders on the property, including the two who dropped out.” Mort handed a few sheets of paper to Lowell.

  “You know what I want now?”

  “Yeah,” eagerness in his voice, “you want me to track all these people down on the Internet, invade their privacy, and break about a dozen laws to find out everything I can about them.”

  “Right,” Lowell returned his attention back to his computer.

  Mort frowned, thought for a moment. “Okay.” He went back to his office.

  “And find me Marty Winebeck!” Lowell shouted.

  About an hour later Mort walked in and handed Lowell a piece of paper with a list of all the participants involved in the 80th Street house.

  “Okay,” said Lowell, “good work. Anything special here?”

  “Nope, it all checks out. The bidders all seem legitimate.”

  “All right, anything on Marty Winebeck?”

  “That guy isn’t easy to find. He’s got no driver’s license, he’s not affiliated with any group, and he’s never been on a jury.”

  “Well, keep trying.”

  “I have an idea. He’s a musician, right?”

  Lowell nodded.

  “Broke, I assume?”

  A shrug and a nod.

  “Uh huh, give me another hour, I’ll find him.”

  True to his word, about fifty minutes later he handed Lowell another piece of paper from the department of housing with information regarding a tenant – landlord dispute.

  “How’d you find him?”

  Mort’s head bobbed up and down. “First in the housing court files. That’s one of the easiest to get into, they know nothing about security, and most of the stuff is public access anyway. I figured he’s a musician, so he’s bound to have had troubles with the landlords through the years. I only hoped it was within the last seven years. They expunge the files and move them to storage, tougher to get into. He was evicted from a place on 54th Street about six years ago. I was able to get his info from that court proceeding, but then he disappeared again.”

  “So you don’t have him?”

  Mort smiled. “Sure I do.”

  “How?”

  “Everybody’s got cable,” his smile broadened, as he handed Lowell the second piece of paper with Marty Winebeck’s information, including his social security number, present address, and a history of his tax returns. “Once I had his present address and social security number everything else was easy.”

  Lowell put the other piece of paper into a folder and scrutinized this page.

  “The poor bastard,” he said, as he read the amount of income Marty had declared though the years. “The best time was in the early nineties when he had several years of $40,000 a year or more in reported income, just enough to survive in the city. Other years ranged from $16,000 to about $25,000. How he survived is a mystery.” He read the address. “Probably a walk-up, rent-stabilized, one room apartment.”

  Lowell took the birth information, punched up the natal chart and scrutinized it for a few minutes. “Marty was born March 6, 1950, at 6:13 a.m. He’s a Pisces with the Sun in the 1st House opposite Saturn, both in square to the mid-heaven. This is a difficult chart that shows struggle and conflict. Nothing comes easy to this guy. If he makes it at all, it will be late in life. With Chiron on the mid-heaven it was a rough career path that implied a lot of sacrifice. Mercury is conjunct Jupiter in Aquarius, so he is very bright. But they are buried in the 12th House, and it may be hard for him to express himself except through the arts. The Moon in Libra is conjunct Neptune, once again showing how prominent Neptune is for people in the music business.”

  He got up and stretched. “I think it’s time to look in on Mr. Winebeck.”

  “Aren’t you going to call him first?”

  “I think a more impromptu visit is warranted.”

  “What if he’s not home?”

  “How do you feel about a little breaking and entering?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  It would have been too conspicuous to have Andy drive them in the limo, so they hailed a cab and had him drop them two blocks from Marty’s apartment.

  “Are cabs getting smaller or am I getting larger,” Mort grumbled, as they got out on 88th Street and York Avenue.

  The neighborhood was very quiet. A few people were walking their dogs, and a well-dressed couple came out of the York Grill and hurried passed. They walked up York Avenue past Conti’s deli on the corner and turned down 89th Street to Marty’s building.

  Lowell pushed the buzzer. There was no answer. He pushed again, and still, nothing. He looked up and down the street and then gave Mort a nod.

  The strange man took out a small zippered case and opened it, revealing all sorts of tiny instruments. He removed one and bent down to work on the front door lock. In about ten seconds they were inside. There was an inner door as well, but this one wasn’t even locked.

  It was a pre-war building as unadorned as any they had ever seen. The vestibule was a tiny space with mail boxes on both sides. The walls and ceilings were all painted white. The stairs had brown rubber nailed on top of brown wood.

  They bounded up the stairs. Lowell knocked on the door several times, and then nodded once again to Mort. This lock took almost twenty seconds to pick.

  “You’re slowing down,” said Lowell.

  Mort snorted. “Guaranteed burglar proof.” He pointed to the lock.

  “Obviously.”

  “If you don’
t mind,” Mort said as he put his hand on the front door, “I’ll wait outside.”

  “That would be best. Buzz twice if you see anyone coming in the building.”

  Lowell entered the tiny apartment quietly. One room, as he had predicted. There wasn’t much to it, a futon bed that doubled as a couch, a coffee table, two chairs, a small computer desk, a dresser, some music equipment, and the joke of a tiny half-kitchen that many New Yorkers were forced to live with.

  He began by opening the cabinets above the sink. There was a cheap set of dishes and glasses, two large bowls, four small ones, and one serving tray. The one drawer in the kitchen area contained mismatched forks, spoons, and knives. He moved on to the desk, looking through envelopes and papers. There were a few letters, some junk mail, and a lot of bills. He opened the Con Ed envelope and a disconnect notice fell out. He picked it up and read it: $285.46 was due in three days. He put it back the way he had found it.

  He walked around the tiny room taking in everything he saw. The musical equipment is probably worth more than everything else this guy owns, he thought. There were some pages that looked like lyrics spewed around the place, a few periodicals, and a copy of a week old New York Post, the front page missing. A few pieces of clothing were thrown over one of the chairs, and a pair of old sneakers sat on the floor. The closet held several dress shirts on hangers, one sport jacket, and a well-worn tuxedo.

  He sat down on the futon and opened the drawer in the coffee table. He removed the scrapbook and opened it. His eyes grew wide with excitement. Page one was Gene’s New York Post headline as big as life. Then the second page, there was Wally, with all the sordid details. And finally page three, “Freddy Gets Fingered.” He took out a small digital camera and photographed each page.

  He walked over to the computer table and fumbled through the papers scattered on top. The usual emails, advertisements, bills, and scraps littered the desk and the floor near by. He reached into the printer tray and took out a single page. He looked at it. It was a copy of an email Marty had sent a few days before. It said: “Three down and one to go.”