A Knight at the Opera (15 page)

"Also no surprises. Unfortunately. He wants me to wait at least another week
before I start exercising again. Even then, I can't start using most of the workout equipment
for six weeks, and no weight lifting for at least ten. That sucks."

"Sorry. But you have to let it heal."

"Adam, I want to go home. I'm getting stir crazy sitting around at your
house."

"I know. And I have an idea. Can we discuss it over dinner?"

"Yes," she said amiably. "Where are you taking me?"

"Wherever you want."

"How about Aubrey's?"

She knew that was my favorite restaurant on the planet. Even Jana, who didn't
particularly like fancy food, had become an Aubrey's fan. Some of my influence was
beginning to rub off on her.

"Deal. I'll make a reservation for seven."

She chuckled into the phone. "I've already done it. Be home by six."

Just before four o'clock, Diana buzzed my office. "Joyce Markowsky."

"Hi, Joyce," I said when I had switched lines. "What's up?"

"The mail just arrived. There's a package from Bank of America."

"Have you opened it?"

"I am now." I could hear the sound of tearing paper and then she said, "There are
three bills. The first one is for February. There are two charges on it, both to the same
company. Rawlings Professional Services, Inc. And I can't believe this. They're each for
more than two thousand dollars."

Since I was sitting at my desk, I turned to the computer and Googled the name.
After a few clicks of the mouse, I was on their website. "They bill themselves as an
employment agency for high-level executives."

"Karl would have had no need for any high-level employees."

"Was he looking to change jobs?"

"No."

"Interesting. What other charges did he make?"

I could hear paper shuffling. "One in March and one in April, both to the same
company, both also over two thousand dollars. Nothing else."

"A total of more than six thousand dollars? Is it possible that someone was
blackmailing him?"

"I can't imagine about what. Surely, he would have told me if anything like that
were going on."

"Maybe not," I said, "depending on what he had to hide. Didn't you tell me you
handled the finances?"

"Well, I paid all the bills, if that's what you mean."

"Not exactly. What I'm getting at is this: where was he getting that kind of
money?"

There was a long pause. "I don't know."

* * * *

Just after five, Ann appeared at the doorway to my office. "I was looking for
something online and checked the local news. They have a picture of the phantom woman
who was with Markowsky at the opera."

"Really? How did they manage that?"

"Evidently, the opera house is wired with cameras. Or, at least, parts of it."

"That would make sense. What does she look like?"

"All they showed was a fuzzy glimpse of her, from the back. You really can't tell
much about her."

"Too bad. Maybe someday they'll develop buttocks recognition software."

That brought a little smile to the corner of her mouth.

* * * *

Aubrey's was situated in a large Victorian home that had been renovated
repeatedly over the years. The walls were finished in dark hardwood, and the tables were
draped with red linen tablecloths. Jana and I arrived about ten minutes after seven. She'd
insisted on driving, claiming that, because of her recent inactivity, her brain was atrophying
even faster than her body. She admitted she was being a bit dramatic, and we had a good
laugh over it as she maneuvered through the southbound rush hour traffic along I-25. An
accident near Lincoln Avenue was what caused us to be late for our reservation.

The maitre d' didn't seem to mind. He welcomed us with a warm, "Good evening,
Mr. Larsen, Ms. Deacon," and led us to a table in the middle dining room. Jana was normally
a beer drinker, but she went along with a Sauterne recommended by the waiter. She
ordered scallops and I picked beef bourguignon.

After the wine arrived, Jana raised a subject I knew had been on her mind for
several days. "Adam, do you really think I need to stay cooped up at your house? Am I in
any real danger?"

"In all honesty, I don't know."

She tossed down a healthy swallow of wine. "That doesn't help me a damn bit.
I'm expecting brilliant and insightful analysis." She gave me a twisted smile. "You want to
try again?"

I laughed. "Sure. The problem is, there's not much to go on. At this point in time,
we have no reason to believe Markowsky's death was anything but an accident."

"How can it be an accident? Wasn't he drugged before he went over that
balcony?"

"He was, but I refuse to believe the woman drugged him and slipped out of the
opera house, hoping he'd stand up and fall over that balcony. Knowing how Rohypnol
works, it would have been more likely that he'd just slump over in his chair--or maybe onto
the floor--while he slept it off. Or until the security people came around after the show, to
see why someone was still up in the balcony."

"Okay. That makes sense. But that doesn't explain why someone bashed me over
the head."

"Maybe it does. Contrary to what I know you suspect, I have been thinking about
this."

"Oh. I thought you were just so taken by your client that it had your head
spinning."

"Really?" I said. "Joyce Markowsky?"

"The way you described her, she sounds pretty attractive."

I knew--or at least thought I knew--that she was only kidding. Either way, a
sinkhole had suddenly opened before me on the bumpy road of life. I couldn't tell her that,
no, I was already spoken for, because she had repeatedly made it clear she wasn't
interested in committing to a full-time relationship.

But if I agreed that Joyce was attractive, the rest of the evening was going to be
filled with an icy chill.

I couldn't help smiling at the way she had placed me in a no-win situation. "She's
just a client, Jana. I don't get involved with clients."

"Wasn't I a client?"

"No. I met you because of your father's death. I was never your attorney."

"Okay, I guess you're right. Maybe you don't get involved with clients."

"Thank you. Now, returning to the topic at hand, I do have one thought: I think
someone wanted that envelope from that post office box because it might identify the
woman at the opera."

"Really? How?"

I explained to her what Joyce Markowsky had received from Bank of
America--being careful, of course, to refer to the client as the widow Markowsky--including the
charges incurred for Rawlings Professional Services, Inc.

She mulled it over as the waiter brought our main course and carefully placed
the plates on the table. "So you're saying that someone wanted that envelope so nobody
would find out about the credit card bills?"

"I suppose I am. But it raises more questions than it answers."

"Maybe it does to you. I'm not the genius lawyer."

"Okay, let's assume that someone associated with that woman knew the credit
card bill was on its way. It would have to get paid, or else Bank of America would try to
collect it and, sooner or later, they'd get in touch with the widow. So they hired you to get it
for them."

"Okay, that makes sense. But why assault me?"

"That's one of the questions it raises. The last thing they would have wanted to
do was make a big scene out of it. Since you were voluntarily getting it for them, why would
they need to take it away from you with blunt force?"

"Then we're back to my original question. Am I in danger?"

"I don't know. We've already concluded at least tentatively that whoever
whacked you over the head wasn't interested in killing you, or he could have done that
once you were down on the ground."

"Unless the security guard happened to show up at that moment and interrupt
him."

I shook my head. "I don't think so. If the guard had seen anything, he would have
known you were attacked, and he would have called the police. He was pretty sure you had
just OD'd on something."

"Moron," she said. "What if he's the one who assaulted me?"

"I suppose it's possible. But why would he do that?"

"I don't know."

"Did he see you when you walked into the parking garage?"

"No. I'm sure of that. He was in his car with his back to me, eating
something."

"Are you sure?"

She gave me a mischievous smile. "No, he might have been playing with himself,
and
not
eating something."

I responded with a look of indulgent disapproval, not because she was being
crude, but because I realized she was getting tipsy, and she was our designated driver.
"That isn't what I meant."

She finished her glass of wine and said triumphantly, "I know. But that's what
you get for asking such a dumb ass question."

"Okay, let's try again. Is there any chance he saw you in the garage?"

"That's better. No. He had his back to me, and I kept out of mirror range. If I'd
wanted to, I could have walked right up behind and shot him through the back of his head."
Apparently realizing how over-the-top that sounded, she added in a tough-guy voice, "Just
so's I could watch him die."

"Great. Now you're Johnny Cash?"

She gave me a puzzled look.

"That's from one of his songs. Folsom Prison Blues, I think."

"Oh. I knew I'd heard it somewhere. So where does that leave us?"

"I think we've eliminated the possibility that some random mugger was just out
to hurt you, or that the attack had nothing to do with the envelope. It's possible that the
person who hired you is also the person who mugged you, although I don't know why he
would do that. That leaves only one possibility I can think of. Someone else followed you, or
somehow knew you would be there, and wanted the envelope for himself. That raises
another realm of possibilities.

"My point, though, in answer to your question, was that whoever attacked you
didn't take your wallet. In particular, your driver's license. I suppose he could have copied
down the information and left the wallet, but that doesn't seem likely under the
circumstances."

"And all of this means what?"

"Either he didn't care who you were and how to find you--which would be a
good thing-- or he already knew where to find you."

"Which would be a bad thing. I get it."

"And that's why I can't tell you if you're in any danger."

"Oh" She reached out and touched my hand. "So nothing brilliant and
insightful?"

"Sorry," I said. "But I do have a suggestion. Let's stop by your condo on our way
back to town and see if anything's been disturbed."

"Not brilliant, but it'll do. But, first, I need some of Aubrey's strawberry
cheesecake."

* * * *

We arrived at her condo at a little after ten. She pulled the Glock from her
oversized purse and dropped it into her coat pocket.

"I hope he's there," she told me as we headed toward the front door of the
building.

I smiled. "Me, too. But before you let fly with a barrage of bullets, let's find out
what he wants."

She glared at me. "I'm not an idiot."

I slipped my arm around her waist and gave her a hug. Months earlier, she had
managed to outdraw Maurice and me--and, more importantly, a man who was intent on
shooting me. "I know. And I'm still grateful for your saving my life."

She smiled impishly. "I
think
it was the right decision. The jury's still out
on that." We entered the lobby of the building and the elevator whisked us upstairs. As we
walked down the hallway, she gestured toward her left arm, indicating that it was going to
be an impairment, and handed me the Glock. Then she reached into her purse and pulled
out her keys. I was accustomed to my own Smith & Wesson Terrier .38, and the Glock
felt heavy in my hand. But Jana and I had spent time at a shooting range, and I knew how to
use it, even with its quirky safety mechanism.

Jana placed herself on one side of the door frame, and I took a position on the
other side. She unlocked the door and threw it open. The rooms were dark. Still standing
out of the line of fire of anyone inside, Jana reached in and flipped the light switch. She
gestured for me to hand her the gun, which I did. She led the way inside, but it quickly
became apparent that there was nothing to be worried about. Everything was in its normal
place, and a tour of the two-bedroom condo confirmed that we were alone.

"Sorry," I said. "Nobody to shoot."

"Oh, I don't know. There's a wisecracking lawyer who might make a good
target."

I gestured to show her that I was at her mercy. "What kind of challenge would
that be? Like shooting fish in a barrel."

"I know. And then I'd have to find someone else to play with." She stepped
forward and kissed me. "I'm spending the night here. I miss my little condo. Would you care
to join me?"

"Well, I'm not leaving you here alone tonight, so yes, I would."

"Great," she said. "Now we just have to figure out how to make love in spite of
my broken arm."

As it turned out, that wasn't much of a problem.

Tuesday morning dawned brightly. The April sunlight streamed cheerfully
through the drapes in Jana's room. I had to admit, the feminine touches, the flowery
bedding and the colorful, modernistic paintings on the wall created a comfortable
atmosphere. I lay in bed for probably half an hour, enjoying the warm feeling of a woman I
cared about sleeping next to me. I didn't waste time wondering whether it was love, or
whether it would last. I just savored the moment. After a while, of course, my left brain
kicked in and I started thinking about Joyce Markowsky, the man with the black ski mask,
and the ex-wife, Gretchen.

And I realized I had made a decision.

I threw on my clothes, kissed a sleepy Jana goodbye and headed home. There, I
did my morning hygiene routine, downed a quick breakfast, changed into a suit and headed
to the office.