Murder in the 11th House

by Mitchell Scott Lewis

  He had made a point of seeking out the unusual side streets, the quiet corners, the places of history, but lately Manhattan had lost much of its bohemian, circus-like charm. More and more people dressed and looked the same. All the stores were the same. All the buildings were the same. One neighborhood was virtually indistinguishable from another. All the new buildings were modern ugly.

  But he still liked looking at people. What was it the client had called it? Something about swimming, no, surfing, face surfing, that was it. The more he thought about the concept, the more it made him smile. He started looking at the people he passed, brushing each with just a glance. It was like riding waves, something he’d enjoyed immensely in his youth in Long Beach, Long Island, where his grandmother had a summer home. He bounced off one mug and onto another, careful not to stay too long. You could washout, a glance is acceptable, a leer is not. Face surfing: he’d have to remember that.

  A homeless man sat against a wall, holding out a cup. David knew giving him money was like throwing a toothpick to a drowning man, but he fished a few bucks out of his pocket nonetheless. He couldn’t turn a blind eye to someone in need.

  The man nodded and mumbled, but didn’t look up.

  As Lowell walked on, he passed several stores with dusty For Rent signs in the window. He remembered the last recession, back in the eighties. It wasn’t a pleasant memory. And this one promised to be deeper and much longer. There were more people living on the streets than there had been only a year before. When the landlord-friendly rezoning laws took effect, they wiped out the majority of affordable housing. But, like some bizarre apocalyptic weapon, it took away the buildings but left the people behind.

  He stopped into a newspaper store and there they were: spools of scratch-off tickets in plain sight: dozens of varieties in all kinds of colors and attractive decorations. Why had he never seen them before?

  There was a line of people waiting to play the lottery. Did his local store have such a queue? He had always just walked in and left the money for his newspaper. Perhaps there was a line that he hadn’t been aware of. That wasn’t good news. Was he just not paying attention?

  He watched and listened.

  “Yes, sir,” said the man behind the counter to his next customer. “Numbers?”

  The man nodded.

  “Go ahead,” said the store worker.

  “Seven one five, three straight and one boxed,” said the man.

  The counterman quickly entered the information into the computer, which spit out one ticket after another.

  “Three twelve, four straight and one boxed, eight one two, a dollar and a dollar, four three eight, two straight and one boxed, five cash mega, two take five quick picks and give me one of the New York Millions.”

  When he finished, the next customer ran off her list of numbers.

  Lowell was mesmerized. After ten minutes or so he left. Outside he saw a man looking through his tickets.

  “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

  The man quickly put the pile of tickets into his pocket and looked at Lowell suspiciously. “What do you want?”

  “Forgive me for intruding, but I noticed that you played a lot of lottery tickets just now.”

  “What are you, my mother?”

  “No, don’t get me wrong.” Lowell held up his hand. “I was just trying to understand the appeal, that’s all.”

  The man looked Lowell up and down.

  “You don’t gamble?” he asked. “No, I guess a guy like you wouldn’t have to.”

  He walked away.

  “What are you doing, writing a book?” came a voice behind him.

  Lowell turned toward the voice. It emanated from a tall man with graying hair and a jovial face. His collar was a little frayed, but otherwise he was clean-shaven and his hair was neatly combed.

  “Something like that.”

  “What do you want to know? I’ll tell you.” The man was holding a few lottery tickets.

  Lowell was blunt. “Why do you do it?”

  “Do what, gamble?”

  Lowell nodded. “I’m trying to understand the mentality behind it all. Certainly you must know that the odds against your winning more than a few dollars are astronomical.”

  The man nodded in agreement.

  “So why do you play? You’re almost sure to lose.”

  “But I might win big,” he said with a grin.

  “You always gambled?”

  “As far back as I can remember. When I was a kid my family would hold poker games after every holiday meal.”

  “Let me tell you something,” he continued. “I’m sixty-two now. When I was a younger man I was married to a wonderful woman. She was beautiful and loving and we had a terrific life. Eventually we had a boy, but no matter how much I tried I could never make ends meet. One day, I was twenty-five I think; I bought a lottery ticket and won two hundred thousand dollars. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. We moved out of the dump we were in and Lisa stopped working.

  “Anyway, I started getting, I don’t know, fidgety or something. I began buying more and more of the damn things until I was spending a hundred a day or more. Then I would go to Atlantic City with my friends, or the race track. I’d win sometimes, but I lost a lot more often. I would wake up in the middle of the night in sweats thinking about my next game.

  “Then one night I got into a poker game. I was in way over my head with pots of thousands of dollars. The game was crooked, but I didn’t know that until later. Until it was too late. I lost everything. Lisa, my son, my house, and my job.”

  He looked close to tears.

  “Didn’t see my kid for almost twenty years.”

  Lowell felt for the man, having made his own mistakes in life. But he had to ask.

  “But you still gamble?”

  “Yes, but now I only spend ten dollars a day, never more. And if I win something it goes into the bank. Maybe this time if I hit big I’ll be smarter.”

  There was an awkward silence. The man looked away squinting, either looking at the past or the future. Lowell cleared his throat and spoke first.

  “Thank you for your time, and I wish you all the luck in the world.”

  “Hey, thanks for listening, and good luck with that book of yours. I hope it helps some others. You need any more insights, I’m always in the neighborhood.”

  ***

  Lowell walked another two or three blocks, passing a tiny news kiosk, a card store and a Korean deli, all advertising lottery games. What had overtaken society? Why this gambling mania? Was life really so chancy, so desperate?

  At the next corner he saw Andy next to the limo. He got in.

  “I don’t have to be at the townhouse until seven. Let’s take a drive.”

  Andy understood what that meant. His boss wanted to be alone to think. He pushed a button on the car door and the partition between the front and back seats went up.

  Lowell leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. What was it about his species that made them so self-destructive? So hell-bent on making and then keeping money. The drive was strong enough to push gambling against all odds, and for some, to kill.

  His limousine was an office on wheels. The body and interior were made to specification by Richard Delaney, an inventor and old friend now living in Switzerland. He’d had the body elongated and a complete workplace with a desk, drawers, and computer terminals installed. A built-in swivel chair was bolted to the floor.

  Delaney had also invented a new type of plasma screen that would make him rich as soon as the patents became official and the bugs were worked out. He had installed them into the windows of the limo. When turned off they were completely transparent. But when activated they were quite something.

  Lowell turned to the elaborate console. He f
iddled with one of the knobs, twisting it until it read #15. Then he pushed ON and sat back on the couch. The compartment darkened slightly and the windows began to change. Suddenly he was driving through a rainstorm on the coast of New England. Although he knew it was late afternoon on a sunny day, in the limo it was now late at night and the wind and rain were howling their complaints. He touched the window, and just as he expected it was damp and cool. The rain drops on the roof were steady and yet varied. There were twenty-four mini speakers to help create the atmosphere.

  It was a wonderful invention. Some day they would be in restaurants, nightclubs and homes. Can’t get away this weekend? Pop in Ambience and spend it in Tahiti.

  In the meantime there were only a few people Delaney trusted with his invention, and Lowell was proud to be one of them.

  He sat back and meditated. The rain helped. Recordings of actual rain storms were looped together in oscillating order. Delaney had never found a computer program that could create the feel of nature. So he relied on the real thing and recorded all of his sounds live, then digitized them so he could manipulate them as needed. But you had to start with the real thing. You can’t clone it. The human mind would eventually figure it out and it would become repetitious. This way it was as close to the real deal as possible.

  What was Judge Winston doing to get someone mad enough at her to want to blow her up? Could it really be over a debt of a few thousand dollars and a little time in lock up? Time would tell.

  He dozed.

  He dreamt that he was in the jungle chasing an elusive prey as rain fell like tiny invaders, pelting him in a ceaseless cascade of pesky droplets that turned into scratch-off tickets as they landed on his head. In the dream, he spotted his quarry as it ducked behind a giant tree. He ran to the tree and circled around, just missing his target each time.

  Chapter Seven

  Andy dropped Lowell off at the townhouse a little before seven.

  Lowell punched in the security code on the tall metal gate and entered the front courtyard. The house was set back from the sidewalk about twenty feet, with a metal table and several chairs on the patio, although it was rare that anyone sat there any longer. The house had been designed in another era when New Yorkers were more sociable with their neighbors.

  “Hello,” he shouted, as he came through the door.

  “Mr. Lowell, is that you?” Julia stuck her head out of the kitchen door. “Melinda just called. She’s on her way uptown and should be here in a few minutes. Would you like me to fix you a drink?”

  “Thanks,” he replied. “A beer, please. A Hoegaarden.”

  He went into the den and turned the TV to CNN. Julia came in with a bottle and chilled Pilsner glass and set them down on the table. She knew that Lowell preferred to pour his own beer, and that he liked it served between 39 and 42 degrees. He had a special mini-fridge put in the kitchen.

  “Thank you, Julia. So what dinner surprise have you planned for me?”

  “It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if I told you, now would it?” Julia headed back to the kitchen.

  He poured the beer into the ice cold glass, allowing a head to form about an inch high, the way he liked it. Most people didn’t know how to pour beer properly. He took a sip and gave a silent sigh. He liked beer, more than he should.

  He heard the front door open.

  “Melinda?” he called out.

  “Hi, dad, where are you?”

  “In the den.”

  She came in and kissed her father on the cheek. “How was your afternoon?”

  “Busy. I went to see Lieutenant Roland. He’s in charge of the case. Then I saw the judge’s apartment. Tomorrow I’ll go to her chambers. I need to speak to her clerk.”

  “What did you find in her place?”

  “Nothing useful. I want to go back again and bring Mort along this time. See if we can get a look at her computer files.”

  He took a long draw of beer.

  “I learned some interesting things about our client while I was with Lieutenant Roland.”

  “Oh, did you?” Melinda shrugged. “Maybe I’ll have a beer too.”

  She got up and walked into the kitchen, returning a few moments later with a chilled glassful of beer. It had no head. She didn’t seem to notice.

  “So what do you think about the future of real estate in the city?” she asked, as she sat on the couch.

  Lowell looked at her with amusement. “That tactic didn’t work when you were a kid and it doesn’t work now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You hoped I would forget what we were talking about. It only works when I’m very preoccupied.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Sure. We were talking about your client and the fact that she is a member of the Army reserve.”

  “Oh, that. That’s nothing at all. I can…”

  “Or that her specialty is explosives.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I knew you would react just the way you are. Just because someone can do something doesn’t mean he or she necessarily did do it.”

  Lowell shook his head. “It would have been nice if you had told me.”

  “Okay, so she’s a hard-assed, foul-mouthed woman who rubs people the wrong way.”

  “Who just happens to have an expertise in the very method used to kill the victim.”

  “Who just happens to have an expertise in the very method used to kill the victim,” repeated Melinda. “But that doesn’t mean she did it. If every crude and uncouth human being were put in jail…”

  “…this planet might actually be worth living on.”

  “Oh, dad.”

  They drank their beer in silence until Julia came in and announced that dinner was ready.

  They took their drinks and entered the small alcove next to the kitchen where Julia had set the table and lit two candles.

  “Oh, Julia, this is just lovely, thank you,” said Melinda.

  When they were seated, Julia brought in Melinda’s dinner first and placed it in front of her. A rather large sirloin steak, baked potato, and asparagus.

  “Steak?” She looked over at her father. “You don’t mind?”

  “Just because I’m a vegetarian doesn’t mean you have to be.”

  “Yum,” she said, as she sliced into the steak. “Perfectly pink.”

  Julia returned with Lowell’s meal and placed it in front of him. He looked down at it and then up at her.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s tofu lasagna with layers of eggplant and soy cheese, all organic. Surprised?”

  “I am.”

  He picked up his fork and took a bite.

  “Julia, you have outdone yourself. Bring a little bit for Melinda.”

  “Oh, no, thanks. I’ve got more than I can handle here. But you’re welcome to a slice of cow, if you’d like.”

  Then she giggled.

  Lowell looked at her and smiled.

  “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Me, too.” She reached over and patted his hand. “Me, too.”

  They each ate a few bites, then Lowell returned to the topic at hand.

  “All the evidence points to Johnny. She has a motive, opportunity, and no alibi. This is not the easiest case you’ve ever had.”

  “Look, maybe I’m just a foolish idealist.”

  “Maybe?”

  “But I still believe that everyone is entitled to a proper defense. And I’m going to give her the best I can come up with.” She sipped her beer. “There is very little left of the American dream for so many people, and it’s too easy for the individual to fall into the cracks in this system. All I can do is try to
save one at a time. Right now Johnny is the one.”

  “Despite all the evidence aimed at her, you’re still willing to take this on, no matter where it leads?”

  “Not despite it,” replied Melinda. “Because of it.”

  Lowell savored a bite of tofu.

  “So what are you going to do next?” she finally asked.

  “Find out who killed Judge Farrah Winston. Even if it was our client.”

  “That’s not going to be the case.” She smiled.

  Chapter Eight

  Mort’s mouth was already working, stoked on two morning coffees, when he entered Lowell’s office. Two coffees before nine, two more by noon.

  “I can’t find any connection between Johnny Colbert and Judge Winston. I’ve traced their movements back to childhood. As far as I can tell, they’ve never crossed paths outside the courtroom.”

  “Tell me what you can about the victim.”

  He handed Lowell several photographs showing a stunningly beautiful woman with long chestnut-brown hair.

  “This is her?”

  Mort nodded. “She wasn’t just a pretty package. She graduated summa cum laude from Columbia Law, winning all sorts of awards and accolades. She’s originally from Utah, although her family is not Mormon.”

  “So how did she wind up in debt court?”

  “That’s a good question.” Mort glanced at his notebook. “Right after graduation she was grabbed by Coleman, Weiss, and Barton, one of the most prestigious firms in Westchester. She quickly became known as the Golden Girl, able to hook big clients on any side of a legal question. And of course with big clients came big fees.”

  “And she gave all that up just to preside over this court of cases better heard by Judge Judy?”

  Mort shrugged in a comical fashion. His exceedingly long limbs seemed to flap like wings.

  “I know, I don’t get it either. She took the job a few years ago.”

  “Well,” said Lowell, “I guess that’s a good place to start. I want you to follow her career from the time she got out of law school. Find out why a talented, intelligent, and attractive lawyer would give up a thriving career in private practice for the lowest rung on the ladder.”