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  SCORPIO RISING

  (New Age Noir #1)

  by

  ALAN ANNAND

  Copyright © Alan Annand 2011

  Reviews for SCORPIO RISING

  “Scorpio Rising does for astrology what The Da Vinci Code did for art history. The rapid pace and constant tension will please thriller fans, and if you enjoy a good crime story with a protagonist who gives you a unique glimpse into a specialized field, then this book is for you.”

  ~ Suite101 Book Reviews

  “Scorpio Rising by Alan Annand, the first of his New Age Noir series, is a gripping murder mystery with a Hitchcockian twist. Private investigator Axel Crowe is an appealing and upstanding protagonist who uses astrology, palmistry and other esoteric techniques to solve crimes. With bits of Vedic wisdom sprinkled throughout, this book is an enjoyable read and an engrossing narrative.”

  ~ The Mountain Astrologer

  “Annand is a terrific mystery writer. Scorpio Rising sweeps you along in a crossfire of interlocking plot-avalanches, with vivid characters, a luminous sense of place, and no shortage of carnage. But to me, Annand’s greatest strength is the way he weaves a convincing working knowledge of a metaphysician’s world view into each page. Readers of synchronicities and omens will sense, not only a kindred spirit at work here, but a genuine teacher.”

  ~ Steven Forrest (author of The Inner Sky, Stalking Anubis & other books)

  “Rarely do we find a mystery novel featuring a character who is an astrologer/palmist with an active spiritual life. Axel Crowe, the brilliant investigator of Annand’s Scorpio Rising, is Agent 007 for the New Age noir set. I was entertained, intrigued and delighted to be along for the cosmic ride.”

  ~ Astrology Toronto

  “Annand has done a masterful job in creating a whole new type of hero – astrologer as detective – with a believable character who is personable, intelligent, and multi-faceted in his approach to crime solving. It’s a 5-star combination!”

  ~ North American Jyotish Newsletter

  “Incredible power as a poet in prose – in the style of Hammett and Hemingway – to describe places and people. A page-turner for sure, and a seriously magnificent piece of work.”

  ~ Michael Lutin (astrology columnist for The Huffington Post)

  “If you like thrillers and detective stories, this one is a terrific read. It’s fast-paced and has plenty of twists and turns – as well as enough astrology and palmistry – to keep you flipping the pages. I enjoyed it immensely.”

  ~ National Council of Geocosmic Research Newsletter

  “Scorpio Rising is an engaging mystery with a momentum that sends you rushing to the end. Axel Crowe is a new character on the mystery scene, a quick study when presented with a baffling murder because he combines his own intuitive methods with a thorough understanding of police and crime lab procedures the world over.”

  ~ Horoscope Guide

  “In Scorpio Rising, Alan Annand has written a fascinating murder mystery, with great characters and plot. I can't wait to read about (hero) Axel Crowe's next adventure, and how he solves a crime using astrology, palmistry and other natural oracles. This is a wonderful book for anyone with even a little knowledge of astrology and palmistry to enjoy!”

  ~ Ray Merriman (author of Evolutionary Astrology & other books)

  “Scorpio Rising by Alan Annand is a step forward in the New Age detective genre. Those interested in astrology will take delight in hero Axel Crowe’s analysis and interpretation, and the story line is a welcome entry into twenty-first century fiction. For those with a mystical blend and more than a touch of Scorpio darkness, you’re in for a treat.”

  ~ Dell Horoscope

  Scorpio Rising

  © Alan Annand 2011

  V.07022014

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher. Distribution of this electronic edition via the internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal.

  ISBN 978-0-9869206-5-3 

  Acknowledgements

  This book is dedicated to my wife Diane,

  whose advice, editing and loving support made it a reality.

  TUESDAY

  Chapter 1

  New York

  After a day of trying to sell herself, Carrie Cassidy felt breathless and empty, like she’d spent the last eight hours blowing up balloons for someone else’s birthday party. She wanted a drink but, knowing what lay ahead, it wasn’t a good idea. Six hours from now she’d need all her wits about her and it’d be foolish to compromise her plan for the sake of self-indulgence.

  She entered a Starbucks near Columbus Circle, bought a coffee and out-maneuvered another client to capture a seat near the window. She eased her shoes off and leaned back, watching the end-of-day crowd surge along the sidewalk toward the nearest subway.

  She looked at her feet. She’d worn her most comfortable dress shoes but she’d underestimated the walking she’d had to do today. Both feet were close to blistering. She probably should have returned to the hotel and changed into running shoes but, for what she had to do tonight, high heels were part of the package. Stick with the plan.

  She drank the coffee and savored the pleasant jolt to her system. She had a sudden craving for a cigarette. New York, despite its attractions, made her feel nervous. The competition was omnipresent and you could see the stress in everyone’s faces. If she lived here she’d end up smoking again and counting the minutes each day until martini hour.

  Being a writer was no walk in the park. She felt she had talent but every time she entered a large bookstore she was forced to admit books were just another commodity. When she was at her keyboard she felt like a creator but here she felt like a salesperson and it drove her crazy. Who did she have to kill in order to get noticed?

  She’d met five literary agents today – four women in their offices, and a man for lunch. The women had ranged in age from mid-twenties to early-forties – smart, well-dressed, hip to the ways of the publishing world, and with uncanny ability to deconstruct her pitch and find fault with the novel she’d spent three years writing. As for her lunch date, he’d reminded her of a kid with ADHD in a roomful of toys. She’d had to talk fast and loud just to compete with his BlackBerry. And she’d ended up paying for lunch.

  It was ironic, she thought. She’d have far preferred killing him than the person she’d actually come to town to murder.

  ~~~

  Carrie walked up Broadway past Lincoln Center and into her mother’s neighborhood. Her mother had come to New York with her third husband, staying even after he’d died, favoring Manhattan’s crowded streets over the back roads of Vermont where she’d grown up. She could afford it. Her third husband had been in the fur business and, aside from keeping Frances warmly dressed for New York’s chilly winters, had banked enough to keep her in elegant style in a two-bedroom co-op overlooking Central Park.

  Carrie arrived at her mother’s building. A doorman in cap and brass-buttoned jacket opened the door. He squinted at her with piggy eyes as he returned to the desk from which he commanded the foyer.

  “Carrie Cassidy,” she said. “I’m visiting my mother. Frances Faber, apartment nine-oh-six.”

  “I remember you from yesterday,” he said with an European accent, winking with an eye that looked permanently bloodshot. He had white hair and one of those alky noses, like a red golf ball with veins. In his doorman’s uniform he looked like a wa
r-weary Russian general. She imagined a flask of vodka hidden in his desk drawer. “I will call to let her know you’re coming?”

  “No. She’s expecting me.”

  She headed for the elevator. The door was about to close but someone inside held it open. She skipped aboard and pressed the button for the ninth floor, glancing at the passenger who’d held the door for her.

  The sole passenger was a twenty-five year old currency exchange trader named Ron Stiles. Stiles had just returned home from his office on Wall Street, where he’d successfully traded the Canadian and Australian dollars, making a quarter million dollars for his employer and fifteen grand on his own account.

  They exchanged looks. She saw a handsome specimen of Generation X in a Hugo Boss suit. Six foot even, she guessed, weighing just over one sixty, a guy who looked like he worked out once a day and had a long shower afterwards. Fit as an athlete and squeaky clean, just the way she liked them. She imagined she could eat sushi off his bare chest and not swallow a hair. He smiled and she saw perfect teeth. She smiled back.

  Stiles saw an attractive brunette in her mid-to-late thirties. She had a short haircut whose layered shag loosely framed her face, and a nose reminding him of Nicole Kidman. He glanced at her hands and saw a cluster of rings, silver and turquoise, but no wedding band. Back to her face, whose blue eyes beneath generous eyebrows watched him. She was leaning back in the corner, her elbows on the handrail, taking the weight off her feet like a fighter between rounds. She was slim but with a jacket, hard to tell how she was built on top. Looked like a weekend runner, maybe a cyclist.

  The elevator stopped at the fifth. An old man in slippers got on, peered at the control panel and pressed the button for the seventh. Carrie and Stiles exchanged looks again. The door opened at the seventh and the old man shuffled off.

  “First time to New York?” Stiles said.

  “Not really,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

  Stiles shrugged. She had some kind of soft Texas accent but it was her eyes that encouraged him. “Just thought, maybe you’d like someone to show you a few of the sights.”

  She nodded sympathetically as if it wasn’t such an outlandish idea. “And you think you might be the one?”

  Stiles flashed her that smile. “Occasionally I get lucky.”

  She looked at her watch, then at him again. “I’m sure you do.” He reminded her of a disposable camera, a perfect medium on which to record a few vacation memories, but no big loss if she forgot him on the way to the airport.

  The elevator stopped at the ninth. She looked at the control panel. The light for the twelfth was still illuminated. She looked back at him. He gave her his lucky smile again. She reached out and pushed the button to close the door, then took hold of his tie and reeled him in.

  ~~~

  Carrie stood naked at the window looking out at Central Park. She had a clear view of the Tavern-on-the-Green and, further to the south, a few people pitching irons on horseshoe courts. There were probably bird-watchers out there too, occasionally scanning the apartment towers ringing the park, hoping for a view of something like this. She pressed her breasts against the window pane. What the hell did she care? Here today, gone tomorrow. She turned to face the room.

  “Nice view, Ron. You are a lucky guy.”

  Stiles was thinking the same thing as he lay naked with one leg hanging off the bed. She had a great body, a bit on the lean side but buff as hell, and more than his match between the sheets. No sprinter, she had the stamina of a long-distance runner. He ran his hand across the sheet. Still moist, and most of it was from his sweat.

  She sat on the bed and plucked her underwear from the floor. She looked at him. His hair was all mussed up, his face still flushed.

  He ran his fingers down her back and squeezed one of her cheeks. “You’re going?”

  “I told you I couldn’t stay long. I’m visiting my mother.”

  “Can we hook up again?”

  “Afraid not.” She fastened her bra and pulled her top over her head. “I’m on a pretty tight schedule.”

  “Just a quick in and out?”

  “Isn’t that the way you like it?” She pulled on her slacks, stepped into her shoes.

  “I thought maybe we could have dinner, come back later for dessert…”

  “That’s a lovely thought but I’m on a bit of a diet and I can only allow myself one indulgence per day.”

  “What about tomorrow?”

  “Sorry, I’ll be gone.” She picked up her bag and jacket, moving toward the door. She gave him a final look, not like she was getting nostalgic or anything, just checking to see she hadn’t left anything of hers behind. “But thanks for showing me the sights.”

  ~~~

  Carrie took the stairs down three flights, stopping halfway to sit on the steps and fix her makeup. On the ninth floor she rang the bell at apartment 906. The door jerked open on a chain heavy enough to restrain a large dog. Her mother’s face appeared in the gap, perplexed and peeved at the same time. The chain rattled and the door opened to reveal Frances in a black skirt and low heels, a royal blue sweater and a string of pearls.

  “Where’ve you been?” her mother said. “You’re an hour late.”

  Carrie walked in. “My last meeting of the day ran late. Then I got jammed up in traffic.”

  Frances bolted the door and hooked the chain. “I told you not to take a cab. The subway’s faster.”

  “I came as fast as I could.”

  Frances stood with hands on hips, like a marionette that had escaped her control wires and was defying her puppet-master to string her up again. She was only five foot two and less than a hundred pounds but she radiated an intensity that reminded Carrie of a drill sergeant she used to know in Alamogordo, New Mexico. Little wonder that her last two husbands had died of heart attacks. They’d just wearied of the fight and thrown in the towel.

  Carrie gave her mother a hug. Woodenly Frances accepted her embrace, then turned and marched down the hall. Carrie followed, dropping her purse on a foyer chair and draping her jacket over its back.

  “I made Coquilles Saint-Jacques,” Frances said. “It’s probably overdone by now but maybe you won’t know the difference anyway.”

  “I told you not to cook. We could have gone to a restaurant.”

  “There’s nothing fit nearby and everything’s so darned expensive, I wonder how anyone can afford to eat out any more.”

  Carrie shook her head. Frances was stingy beyond belief and to watch her part with money was like ripping bandages off raw flesh. Her mother never talked about it so Carrie could only speculate what she was worth, but she assumed several million. Although Carrie was an only child, Frances was still on the shy side of sixty and so healthy that she saw a doctor only once a year for an annual checkup. Somewhere down the road, maybe decades away, a pot of gold awaited Carrie, but so distant it was little more than a mirage briefly glimpsed in a daydream. What could you do? God helps those who help themselves.

  Carrie followed Frances into the kitchen. A bottle of white wine stood in an aluminum cooler on the sideboard. What the hell, Carrie thought, I’ll never make it through the evening otherwise. She found a corkscrew and pulled the cork with a resounding pop. She poured two glasses. Frances was busy at the stove. Carrie drank most of her glass straight off and topped it up.

  Chapter 2

  Los Alamos, New Mexico

  In the Jemez Mountains northwest of Santa Fe, New Mexico, a silver grey BMW X5 drove along winding Highway 502. Along this highway were several anonymous installations hidden among the juniper and pine or half-buried inside a rocky hillside. The BMW slowed, signaled a turn and climbed a road up a wooded slope to a security gate.

  A sign identified the installation as Los Alamos National Laboratory Site No.27. The driver extended a hand, passing a control card to an officer in the booth. In a moment the card came back, the gate swung open, and the BMW continued up the driveway into a parking lot. As the driver climbed out
of his vehicle, he paused a moment to admire the view from one of the higher peaks in the Jemez Mountains range.

  Dr. Walter Cassidy was forty-two years and exactly where he wanted to be in life, at least professionally. His personal life was a shambles, with a wife he suspected might be a nymphomaniac, to which some of his acquaintances could attest. But as far as the job went, he was in the zone. He had a Ph.D. in Mathematics from Rutgers University and if he weren’t forbidden by the State Secrets Act to publish a fraction of what he knew, he’d likely be acknowledged as the world’s greatest expert on order theory, an abstract branch of mathematics that had gained great new currency in the war against terror.

  He’d built simulations of al-Qaeda, Hamas and Hezbollah by dumping newspaper articles and other publicly available information about their organizations into a computer database, supplementing that information with everything the CIA could feed him, from addresses, cell phone numbers and license plates to family relations and business affiliations. He’d guided the development of computer programs that used all that information to find patterns and relationships between individuals, identifying weak and strong figures, power brokers and people with crucial skills.

  Order theory was all about hierarchies and, once you knew how to examine the data, you could identify people with critical leverage and govern your strategies accordingly. The CIA was lapping this up and using it to advantage on a weekly basis. His little team of nerds had grown exponentially. He now guided the activities of almost a dozen technical units.

  He took a last puff on his cigarette, dropped the butt on the asphalt and tapped it dead beneath his shoe. Never mind that he was in the middle of a parking lot, New Mexico was in the third month of a drought and the surrounding mountains were forested with parched piñon that could catch fire and burn in the blink of an eye.