The world is gross, the signs are subtle, Guruji used to say.
Carmichael looked at her watch. She barely had a moment to sigh in exasperation when a blue Lexus pulled up to the curb behind the Lincoln. A mid-forties blonde in a pinstripe pant suit scampered onto the curb.
“Hi Lisa, sorry I’m a few minutes late.”
“We just got here. This is Axel Crowe. Pamela Ritt.”
“Please. Call me Pam.” She gave Crowe a brisk handshake and turned to a lockbox fastened to the front railing of the building. She worked the combination and extracted a set of keys.
The chauffeur stayed with the Lincoln. Crowe followed Carmichael and the real estate agent through the marble-floored foyer and into an elevator to the top floor. Pamela unlocked the door and let them into a large bright loft decorated with expensive furniture and bold art on exposed brick walls.
“Many of my clients are big names in sports and entertainment, people with eight-figure incomes,” Pamela told Crowe. “One of them bought this place for six mil, then spent another million on design and renovations. He’s lived here only a year and now he’s put it up for sale.”
“Asking...?” Crowe said.
“Seven-five.”
“Not exactly a fire sale price, but interesting enough to consider.” Carmichael looked at Crowe. “What do you think? Should I buy it?”
He looked at his watch. “I’ll need a few minutes.”
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Pamela said. “I’m going across the street to pick up a coffee and make a few phone calls.”
“Take your time,” Carmichael told Crowe. “I’ll read my email.” She strolled into the living room and seated herself in what appeared to be the most comfortable leather chair. She took a BlackBerry from her purse and went to work.
Crowe glanced at the windows at one end of the loft, noted the shadows falling across the hardwood floor and established a sense of compass direction. He paced off the breadth and span of the loft. Pausing at the windows overlooking the street, he saw the ledge outside was fouled with pigeon shit. Nothing remarkable in that but he was still thinking about the pigeon with the broken wing.
He climbed the stairs, counting seventeen steps, to a large sleeping area above the kitchen. In itself this violated principles common to vaastu shastra, the Vedic precursor to feng shui. Kitchens contained fire and knives, incompatible with bedrooms. As if that wasn’t bad enough, a Japanese sword was mounted above the headboard of the king-size bed.
From the railing of the sleeping area, Crowe looked into the living area where Carmichael sat reading her BlackBerry. Mentally, he divided the loft’s floor plan into nine zones and noted Carmichael’s position within one of them.
He took his iPhone out and started his astrology app. Entering the current time, date and location, he created a horary chart, a snapshot view of the planets for this time and place. He sat on the bed, studying the chart a few minutes before descending into the living area.
In his mind it was clear. Gemini rising indicated his client, whose ruling planet Mercury was in the eleventh house of profit with an exalted Sun in Aries indicating accomplished desires. The seller was seen through the seventh house, whose lord Jupiter was debilitated in Capricorn and in the eighth house of misfortune. If that wasn’t the signature of a bankruptcy case, he didn’t know what was.
Carmichael returned her BlackBerry to her purse. “What’s the verdict?”
“The owner’s a professional athlete?”
“That’s right. He plays for the Knicks.”
“Has he suffered an injury?”
“He sprained his ankle in the New Year and was benched for most of the season.”
“Aside from that, he’s lost a bundle in the stock market and his marriage is probably on the rocks.”
Carmichael tugged an earlobe. “What’s that tell me? This place has bad karma?”
“Yes,” Crowe said, “but only for him.”
“What about me?”
“What sticks to him slides off you.”
She smiled at the analogy. “What do I do about this place?”
“Offer six-nine.”
“Isn’t that a bit low ball? Pamela suggested seven-three, seven-two at worst. It’s a decent market.”
Crowe knew there was no point trying to explain his logic. “Offer six-nine and hang tough. You’ll get it. And as much as your basketball player lost here, you’ll gain.”
“Really?” Carmichael’s eyebrows arched.
“Don’t let anyone live here. Just rent a few pieces of office furniture – a small oval conference table with five chairs right around here, and over there…,” pointing to a spot near the brick wall, “a desk with a phone and a computer.”
“Then what?”
“You’re going to flip it.”
“How long will that take? You know what I could rent this place for?”
Crowe consulted the chart on his phone. “I expect you’ll get an offer within the month.”
“You’re kidding!”
His phone played a Rolling Stones ring tone. Gimme Shelter. Crowe answered.
Carmichael stood and walked around the living room area, gently chewing on a thumbnail, giving his recommendation some serious consideration.
On the phone, Crowe was saying, “Kevin? Slow down a bit. Say again? Your sister…?” He listened. “Okay, take it easy. Yes, I understand, but I’m sure they’re giving it all their attention. Yes, of course. I’ll be there in half an hour.” He pocketed the phone and stood. “I’m sorry, Ms. Carmichael. I’ve got to go.”
Chapter 17
Washington
FBI Director Bueller had been in the office until midnight the night before. If it weren’t for the fragile state of his marriage he might have slept on the sofa bed, but these days that wasn’t a sensible option, for neither his marriage nor his health. His marriage was now a perpetual question mark the frenetic activity of his workday pushed to the back of his mind, but his ulcer was ever-present. From the first briefings of the day through meetings and conference calls to the chauffeured drive home, reading one last report before he fell exhausted into bed beside his disenchanted wife, his ulcer gnawed at him like a wolverine trapped in a wooden crate. He couldn’t stomach this much longer.
Just before nine, CIA Director Gann arrived with a rap-a-tap-tap at the office door. Bueller looked up from the report he was reading, and beckoned Gann in. “Grab a seat. Ridgeway’s scheduled to call any minute.”
“Where’s Tom this morning?”
“Miami, giving a pep talk to the Coast Guard.”
The phone rang. Bueller answered it and hit the button on his speaker-phone to include Gann in the conversation.
A thousand miles away, Secretary of the Department of Home Security Tom Ridgeway sat in the office of the Rear Admiral, Commander of the Seventh Coast Guard District in Miami, whose territory included Florida, Georgia and South Carolina. From the window overlooking a slip, Ridgeway saw half a dozen naval cutters with Old Glory flapping at their masts. It was a blustery day in Miami and in an hour he’d add a little bluster of his own, lecturing a hundred new Guard recruits, along with two hundred existing staff, on their vital role in defending America’s maritime perimeters.
Bueller sipped pink liquid from his coffee cup and got things started. “Morning, Tom. I’ve got George here.”
“Hi, Tom,” Gann said. “Having nice weather there?”
“Better’n your little shit-storm, I reckon. How’s that situation in Los Alamos?”
“They secured Dr. Cassidy’s Santa Fe home last night,” Bueller said. “Nothing out of order there but just to be safe they removed everything even vaguely work-related. We were a little concerned at first because we thought his wife had disappeared too. But according to an agenda we found in her office, turns out she’s in New York.”
“She in the service too?” Ridgeway asked.
“No. She’s a freelance writer, does project proposals for diffe
rent branches of government.”
“Including the National Laboratory?” Gann interjected.
“No,” Bueller said. “Mostly state level. Departments of Agriculture, Economic Development, Indian Affairs, Transportation...”
“Any possibility Dr. Cassidy’s death isn’t what it seems?” Ridgeway asked. “Something personal, and nothing to do with national security?”
“That seems highly unlikely,” Gann said, “what with him getting blown up in the parking lot where he works, to the accompaniment of Arab music.”
“I agree with George,” Bueller said. “And although it’s a coincidence his wife being out of town, no reason to suspect her. We’ll talk to her anyway when she gets back home but I don’t imagine much will come of it.”
“Anything on the bomb that was used?” Gann asked.
Bueller consulted the file. “C4 military grade plastic explosive. No surprise there, with so much stuff having gone missing over the years. And they identified an MP3 player that was part of the package, a cheap model from Wal-Mart.”
“Any suspects?” Ridgeway asked.
“I’ve contacted our Albuquerque office,” Bueller said. “A few local Islamists on their radar screen merit questioning. They’re conducting pickups today.”
“Anything further that concerns DHS?” Ridgeway said. “Anything you need from me?”
“Far as George and I can see, no need to alarm the public.” As far as Bueller and Gann were concerned, they had to be prudent with DHS. The relatively new organization, however well-funded in its mandate, was populated with less-than-stellar personnel – retirees from national security and military organizations providing direction to a cadre of still-wet-behind-the-ears recruits who hadn’t made the grade for the FBI or CIA.
“So no change recommended to the Threat Advisory level?” Ridgeway referred to the five-color code that reflected the risk of terrorist attacks on an unsuspecting but otherwise apprehensive American public.
“Roger that,” Gann said. “No change.”
“At our end,” Bueller said, “the FBI has issued an internal directive for an Orange Alert that applies only to national security clearance projects and personnel, pending further notice. And you, George?”
“The CIA has advised likewise for consulates and off-shore scientific installations. Not much else we can do for now until those suspects are interrogated.”
“We should know more by end of day,” Bueller said. “We’ll keep you posted, Tom.”
“Okay, I’ll leave you guys to it,” Ridgeway said. “I’ve got to go inject some inspiration into a hundred new recruits.”
Bueller hung up, and looked at the pink residue in the bottom of his coffee cup. To each his own medicine.
Chapter 18
New York
The Lincoln pulled up to the curb in front of a high-rise on Central Park South. Lisa Carmichael signed a check with a flourish of her Mont Blanc pen and handed it to Crowe. “Please give my condolences to Kevin. I’ll try to give him a call sometime this evening.”
“Thank you.” Crowe reached for the latch but the chauffeur already had the door open. Crowe climbed out and the chauffeur handed him his overnight bag.
After being greeted by a doorman who was expecting him, Crowe rode the elevator to the 19th floor penthouse condo of his wealthy client, Kevin Blaikie.
They’d known each other three years. Blaikie had been in town one year for TIFF – the Toronto International Film Festival – and on the suggestion of a Hollywood friend had booked a consultation. A year later he’d asked Crowe to help find a witness who’d gone missing, a corporate accountant in a big pension-plundering case that was going to court. Every now and again he performed similar services for Blaikie.
Along the way they’d become friends, but their social activity mostly consisted of Blaikie buying lunch or dinner in the most expensive restaurants in Manhattan, and Crowe telling anecdotes about his numerous pilgrimages to India, for which Blaikie seemed to have a bottomless appetite.
There were only two apartments on the penthouse level, one facing the park and the other looking at a distant Jersey. Emerging from the elevator, Crowe barely had time to glance at his dim reflection in the polished marble walls of the foyer before a door opened and Blaikie beckoned him in.
Despite his natural good looks, Blaikie was a wreck – red eyes, unshaven whiskers, wrinkled clothes he might have slept in. Crowe caught a scent of coffee, Scotch and anxiety. Blaikie closed the door behind him. Crowe set down his overnight bag and gave Blaikie a strong embrace. Blaikie looked like Humpty-Dumpty after the fall, the cracks in his shell radiating from the hole in his heart.
“Have you slept at all?” Crowe said.
Blaikie shook his head. “I had to go to the morgue to identify her. Then I was with the police for an hour answering questions. By the time I got home it was almost four, and there was no way I could sleep after that. I decided to stay up until seven so I could phone my parents, be the first to tell them before they heard it through the media. In fact, I need to go over to their place soon. My mother’s out of her mind with grief…”
Blaikie led the way into the large living room, whose art collection was the envy of any serious aficionado. Blaikie was a major fan of the Surrealists and their Dadaist predecessors, and he’d accumulated works by Dali, Magritte and many others. The paintings and a handful of sculptures were scattered throughout the apartment, rendering a museum-like quality to the otherwise minimalist decor.
They sat on facing leather sofas near wall-length windows overlooking Central Park. From where he sat, Crowe could see a kite flying over the park. Blaikie took a carafe from an end table and poured himself coffee. He raised an eyebrow at Crowe, who shook his head. Blaikie sipped coffee, grimaced and regarded Crowe with woeful eyes.
“It’s a shame you never met Janis. You would’ve loved her. Everyone else did. Never mind she was my sister, I never knew anyone as good as her. Born to money, but never let it go to her head, never took it for granted. While her friends competed to throw lavish parties or build spectacular houses, Janis was the classic altruist. She was active in dozens of charities, raised millions in funding. She changed the lives of so many people – single mothers, inner-city kids, the homeless...”
Voice cracking, Blaikie paused to wipe his eyes with his sleeve. “It doesn’t make sense her dying that way. Whatever cash she carried would have meant nothing to her. If a mugger had demanded money, she’d have handed over her wallet and walked away. If the guy had presented a good enough sob story, she’d have helped him.”
“What do the police think?”
“They get dozens of muggings a week in the theatre district. Most people walk away scared but unharmed. They said it was just bad luck she encountered someone violent.”
“You don’t agree?”
“Janis was wealthy but she was streetwise. If she could talk a millionaire into making a major charity contribution, she could talk a mugger into taking her money and leaving her unharmed. A simple mugging gone bad? It has to be something else. Can you shed any light on this?”
Crowe took out his phone. He didn’t need to create a horary chart, since the disposition of the planets was still pictured in his mind from when he’d studied them in Soho an hour ago. He was now more interested in Janis Stockwell’s natal chart.
Blaikie knew his sister’s birth date and place – November 20th, 1971, in New York – but didn’t know her time of birth, which Crowe needed to determine her ascendant. He considered his options. In lieu of a birth time, he sometimes used the current time of day. Other occasions, different techniques… Out in Central Park, the blue kite wheeled high in the air. Blue was the color of Venus. Libra was an air sign ruled by Venus. On the wall behind Blaikie was an Ernst lithograph, Portrait Bleu, featuring a bird-like figure. More corroboration. Perhaps Janis Stockwell had a Libra ascendant.
“With their mugging theory, I’m concerned whether the police will develop any
alternative leads.” Blaikie picked up a decanter and added Scotch to his coffee.
“It’s a little early to play armchair detective. Give them a chance to work with what they’ve got. In the meantime, if you want to be present for your parents, go easy on the booze...”
Blaikie nodded and put the coffee cup down. “You’re right, I’m not thinking clearly.” He rubbed his face and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’ve got to get my act together, not fall to pieces. I know how my father will react. He’ll pull his head into his turtle shell and go numb. He won’t be much help to my mother. And her health is already fragile. If they don’t catch whoever did this, she’ll go off the deep end.”
Crowe studied Janis Stockwell’s chart. It was unusual in that five planets occupied her second house. With all of the benefic planets there, it was a signature of family prestige and wealth. But two of those planets were less than a degree apart, what Vedic astrologers called a planetary war. It implied an irritant – a person or a situation – that made life hell for the individual. Crowe suspected it had something to do with an unhappy sex life but he wasn’t about to tell her brother that.
Coincidentally, aside from Janis Stockwell’s chart, at this moment another planetary war was being waged between two different planets. This wasn’t the first time Crowe had noted a synchronicity of circumstances. He recalled a weekend several years ago in Chicago where he’d given readings for several clients. A solar eclipse had been visible across the northern USA that weekend. Amazingly, out of a dozen clients whose birthdays spanned thirty years, seven had been born within days of an eclipse. What were the odds?
Guruji had told him many years ago: It will never make sense to someone who hasn’t embraced this life we lead but, once you really start to work with the planets, they start to work with you. Make friends with them and they will be your companions for life. When you are lost they will show you the way, and when you are in despair they will give you hope. Astrology is a language and once you learn this language, the planets will speak to you.