Murder in the Eleventh House

by Mitchell Scott Lewis

  “Jupiter rules the 5th House,” he began, pointing at the paper, “and it is conjunct Mars and Neptune. What does that tell you that might be pertinent here?”

  Melinda thought for a moment and then turned to her client.

  “A gambling problem?”

  “What,” Johnny protested, “I don’t…”

  Lowell put the file down softly.

  “Okay, maybe it’s true. I think I do have a little bit of a gambling problem. But I never did before. It just sort of snuck up on me. My whole life it was rare if I even bet a football pool or put money on a game. As a bartender, I found it much easier to let them bet with each other. That way whoever won tipped me pretty good. But it’s just impossible to make a living in this city anymore, and I had to do something to make ends meet, so I thought I could win some.”

  “You always had a gambling problem waiting to surface,” said Lowell, “it just never manifested before.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “Did you ever win?”

  “Of course I did. What, do you think I’m an idiot? The first time I played, I won five hundred bucks. It paid the electric and cable bills. I won five thousand once, right before Christmas, that was cool, and fifteen hundred, and five hundred a few more times.”

  “And in the end?”

  “I don’t know, I never added it up.”

  Lowell looked her in the eyes. “What do you think?”

  She rubbed her eyes and sighed. “What the hell difference does it make? I don’t know. My whole life is cash. Whatever is in my pocket is what’s real. I don’t think about where it goes, only where I can get some more.”

  Lowell said nothing.

  “Oh, Christ, I suppose I must have lost in the long run. But what are you supposed to do? You got like three hundred bucks in your pocket and you owe three grand. You got to try something.”

  She put her fingers on her temples as if for support and slowly shook her head, her short blond bangs swaying with the motion. “You got to try something.”

  Then she put her head down on the desk and moaned. “I got a fucking headache you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Johnny,” said Melinda, “why don’t you tell us the whole story from the beginning.”

  She picked her head up with obvious concerted effort.

  “I used to make a fairly good living as a bartender. I paid my bills, had a small retirement fund, and even started putting something away for a small house upstate. I’ve worked on my feet for almost twenty years. But then things started to change.

  “First 9/11 happened. Business took a dive. My income shrank, but I survived that. Then they outlawed smoking in bars. People wouldn’t stay as long or run up as high a tab. Some went outside to smoke and never came back to pay the bill. It was a real mess. But I was able to keep my head above water somehow. Finally this stupid recession hit. It became impossible for me to continue paying my bills and making payments on the credit cards, so I just stopped.”

  Lowell listened intently. “Go on,”

  “It was Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving,” continued the client. “I was going to Boston to visit some friends and went to Penn Station to take Amtrak. The place was mobbed, as you can imagine, but I could only get two days off and had to travel on that day. I didn’t mind. I enjoy face surfing, anyway.”

  “Face what?’ interrupted Lowell.

  “Face surfing. You know, walking through a crowd and glancing at all the different faces, jumping from one to another, like surfing the waves. Face surfing.”

  “Ah. Continue.”

  “I didn’t want to stand on line for an hour, so I used an automated ticket machine. When I put in my debit card it was rejected, saying I had insufficient funds. I knew I had enough money, having deposited five hundred bucks the day before. I didn’t know what to do. I had no choice but to stand on line and wait for a ticket agent and try to pay by check. When I finally got to the window she refused to take my check because the address on the check was different than on my license. I had moved and never told the motor vehicle bureau.”

  Lowell raised his eyebrows.

  “Helps keep you off jury duty,” said the client.

  “Then what happened?”

  “The supervisor refused my check as well, and I left the station.”

  “Voluntarily?”

  “Escorted by two of New York’s finest. Although I usually am a very quiet person I do have a temper, as you now know. I had made these plans months in advance and now I wasn’t going to be able to see my people. It pissed me off.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I had no money and couldn’t go. I wound up eating a baked potato and some leftover salad for my Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “So then what did you do?”

  “I was mad as hell. I’d been sued before, but this time they didn’t even let me know. They just grabbed my money.”

  “So you went to court.”

  “Armed with the truth and what was left of my dignity. I got there at nine a.m. and sat with the rest of the losers waiting my turn. When my case was called I got up and walked to the front and stood in front of the judge.”

  “Judge Winston?”

  Johnny and Melinda both nodded.

  “It usually takes a lot to make me angry. That’s why I’ve been able to work as a bartender in Manhattan for so long. Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe it was the circumstances, but I just lost it. I told the judge that this is bullshit. I asked her: ‘Are you telling me that you have no intention of making these people answer for their actions?’”

  “What did she do?”

  “The judge kept saying ‘do you owe them the money or don’t you?’ over and over again. It was really getting on my nerves.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “Finally I shouted at her something like: ‘Do you work on a commission, or are you on a monthly retainer?’”

  “And then?”

  “She picked up her gavel and pointed it at me and said: ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying? Because if you are, you’re going to spend the rest of the day and maybe the weekend in jail. Would you like that? Now, do you owe them the money?’ That’s when I finally lost it altogether. Nothing I could do to hold it back. It’s been that way my whole life. Pretty hard to anger, but harder to stop. So I shouted out ‘I don’t owe them, or you, a rat’s fucking ass.’”

  “Yes, your colorful language. I assume she didn’t take too kindly to your remarks.”

  “She slammed the gavel down on her desk three times and then told the bailiff to escort me to lockup.”

  “According to the court papers, you threatened to kill Judge Winston.”

  “Yeah, well sort of.”

  “What do you mean, sort of?”

  “As we were heading out the door I turned back to the judge and shouted: ‘You fucking asshole, I’ll kill you.’ But I didn’t mean it. I was just mad, you know?”

  “So she threw you in jail,” said Lowell, “and held you in contempt of court for the rest of the day.”

  “Yep,” said Johnny.

  “I’ve had to deal with those courts for years,” said Melinda. “It’s disgraceful what goes on. It’s almost enough to make you wonder if they aren’t all in it together.”

  “You see? Maybe I’m not so wrong after all.”

  Melinda tried to soften her criticism. “It’s possible, but I think for the most part it’s just a lousy system that doesn’t work all that well. When there is enough incompetence, you don’t need corruption.”

  “Did you kill Judge Farrah Winston?” asked Lowell a second time.

  “No,” said Johnny, in a quiet voice, “I’ve never killed anyone.”

  “Where were you the afternoon she was
murdered?”

  “I was home alone. I have no alibi.”

  “One more question. What did you gamble on? Horses? Poker?”

  “State lottery,” she said.

  “Oh, my God,” said Lowell. “Not lotto.”

  Johnny nodded.

  “Lotto, daily numbers, Take Five, all of them. And scratch-off tickets. Lots and lots of scratch-off tickets.”

  “What kind of tickets?” asked Lowell.

  “Scratch-off. You know. New York State lottery scratch-off tickets?”

  Lowell shook his head. “Sorry, I’m not familiar with them.”

  Johnny looked at Melinda and tilted her head.

  Melinda smiled and turned toward her father. “You really do live in your own world, don’t you?”

  He stood. “All right, I’ll look into your case.”

  The others stood.

  This time Johnny stuck out her hand. “You’re her father? Are you doing this as a favor to your kid, or are you for real?”

  “I’m not doing this as a favor.”

  “Then I want to thank you. I knew I was very lucky to get Ms. Lowell as a lawyer, and with your help I’m sure you can clear me.”

  “Well,” said Lowell, receiving her surprisingly robust grip, “let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’ll be in touch.”

  “You know where to find me.”

  Chapter Four

  The office was stuffy. Lowell opened the windows and turned on the overhead fan. He went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of sparkling water.

  “Want anything?”

  “No, thanks,” said Melinda. “So what do you think?

  They hadn’t talked on the ride back from Riker’s.

  He unscrewed the cap and took a long swig from the bottle. “I don’t know yet.”

  “But you’re willing to look into it.”

  “I promised you I would, and I will.”

  Melinda walked over to the turtles and offered her finger. They both waddled toward her. “I feel badly that she has to stay in that awful place. It’s a dreadful thing to be locked up like that. Did you see how pale she was?”

  “That could be her natural pallor for all we know.”

  “I don’t think so. Besides, with her aggressive personality, I’m worried for her safety. Bail is set at one million dollars. There’s no way she can ever raise that kind of money.”

  Lowell put the bottle down on his desk. “What would you like me to do, pay her bail?”

  “Really, would you?”

  “No.”

  His daughter stood with her mouth partially open.

  “You’d just let her sit…”

  “For all we know she did kill Judge Winston.”

  “You don’t believe that for a minute.”

  He shrugged.

  “You just don’t like her attitude. You’re such a snob.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Oh, Dad…”

  He smiled as he picked up the intercom.

  “Sarah, would you bring in two coffees?”

  “Sure, boss.”

  ***

  As Sarah poured coffee into two mugs, a little spilled onto one of her shoes. She gasped audibly, took a napkin and bent down, holding her breath the whole time. These weren’t regular shoes that one would find in Macy’s. These were Italian, hand-made of the softest leather. And they cost Sarah much more than she could afford.

  Luckily the coffee droplet came right up and left no stain. She let her breath out. She had a closet full of expensive footwear that she fawned over and treated as one would a pet or a child.

  Sarah had a problem with shoes.

  Relieved, she took the coffee cups by the handles in one hand, opened the door, and entered the inner sanctum.

  “Hey, boss.”

  She saw Melinda.

  “Hi,” she said, in a friendly voice. “Nice to see you, Melinda. We didn’t get much of a chance to say hello before. How are things?”

  “Not bad. How are you, Sarah?”

  “Well, we had some excitement in the past month or so. But I’m sure you know.” She handed Melinda a cup and then Lowell.

  “Yes, I heard a little about it.”

  “Sarah,” said Lowell, “I want you to do an errand for me.”

  “Sure, what can I do?”

  Lowell pulled out his wallet.

  “You’re a bit of a gambler. I want you to go to the deli on the corner and buy me some scratch-off tickets.”

  “Boss?”

  “It’s for a case.”

  “Okay. What kind?”

  “I don’t know, is there more than one variety?”

  “Dozens,” replied Sarah.

  “Well,” he handed her two one hundred-dollar bills, “just pick up a nice selection.”

  “Okay.”

  She took the money and left.

  Melinda was feeding the turtles. “What’s next?”

  “Let me get Mort in here to do a little research for me.” He picked up the intercom phone and pushed #1. A faint buzz came through the wall. “Let’s see if he’s in. I never know the hours he keeps.”

  “He’s really good, isn’t he?” asked Melinda.

  “One of the best hackers in the business. In fact, Mort was asked to leave MIT after he used their computer to hack into 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, and now he works for the Starlight Detective Agency.”

  “He seems like such a nice man to be doing such unusual things.”

  Lowell laughed. “He’s unusual enough. I’ve known him since my days on Wall Street, when we both lived in Battery Park City. He was eking out a living giving psychic readings when we met.”

  “Was he any good?”

  “Actually, yes. I find his predictions about the future to be amazingly accurate at times. Although like most good psychics, he has difficulty with timing things. And he does have an uncanny ability to read people’s emotions.”

  “Can he read yours?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think if he could, you wouldn’t have hired him. You’re much too private a person.”

  Lowell swiveled in his chair to face his daughter.

  “Seeing anyone special?”

  “Not really.”

  “Whatever happened with, uh…”

  “Peter. His name is Peter. I dated him for almost two years. You could at least remember his name.”

  “Right, Peter. Whatever happened with him?”

  “You mean the same Peter that neither you nor mother ever spent a second talking to? Is that the Peter you’re asking about?”

  “Well, I…”

  “We broke up.”

  “Ah.”

  “Are you happy about it?”

  “No, why should I be happy about it? I only want what’s best for you and makes you happy.”

  “You know, that’s almost word-for-word what Mom said.”

  “Even if we’re not together we often see eye to eye on things.”

  The door opened and Mort entered.

  “Good morning, David, what’s up? Melinda, what a nice surprise.”

  He walked over to Melinda and kissed her on the cheek.

  “How’s Peter?”

  “At least someone remembers his name.”

  Mort stepped back. “You broke up. I’m sorry.”

  Melinda smiled. “You’re very right,” she told the psychic. “Good call.”

  He curled his face into a most unnatural scowl, wrinkling his nose and puckering his brow, as he did when
ever he made a prediction. “It was the right thing to do. You’re going to find someone else very soon. Someone much better for you. I feel a “B” or a “V” in the name.”

  She smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Thank you, I needed to hear that.”

  “Is this a social visit?” he asked, relaxing his face.

  “I’m afraid not. I have a client in need of your firm’s rather unique skills.”

  “Always glad to help anyone you feel deserves our attention. Okay, what can I do?”

  Lowell pulled several pieces of paper from his printer tray and handed them to Mort. “You can begin by telling me everything you can find out about these people. The first is the victim, a judge from debtor’s court. The second is our client, a bartender. Get deep into her background and tell me everything. I want to know if there was any connection between her and the victim, besides what we were told. Anything hidden or that the client might not even be aware of, no matter how trivial.”

  “Sure, I’ll bring you a report later today.” Mort took the pages and headed out the door.

  A moment later the door opened again and Mort stuck his head back in.

  “You neglected to tell me how she was killed. An explosion, wasn’t it?”

  Melinda laughed. “Geez, don’t either of you read the papers? Right you are. Someone blew her up in her car.”

  Mort nodded.

  He turned to leave just as Sarah returned from her lottery ticket run. He grinned widely at her and winked. “Hello beautiful.”

  She smiled. Mort always made her smile. He was a strange looking man whose arms and legs seemed somehow almost unattached and were disproportionately long compared to the rest of his body. Sarah always thought of R. Crumb’s famous Keep on Truckin’ Doo-Dah Man whenever she saw him.

  He opened the door wider, allowing her to pass, and bowed theatrically before exiting.

  Sarah dumped the contents of a small paper bag onto David’s desk. “Here you are. Compliments of New York State.”

  Lowell scooped up a handful and shuffled through each one as if they were playing cards. They were colorful and quite eye-catching, each very different. Win for Life, Lucky Sevens, Manhattan Millionaires, and on and on.

  “So how do these things work?” he asked.

  “Are you kidding?” asked Sarah. “You’ve never played one of these?”