A Knight at the Opera (18 page)

"So just give me her name and contact information, and that'll be that."

"I might if I knew why he wanted to find her. You can understand my hesitation
to put a client into harm's way." The client part was an outright lie, but as far as I knew, he
had no way of knowing she was more to me than that. Maurice and I hadn't told the
security guard--who I now knew was a blabbermouth--why we were looking for the
woman he'd found outside the mall.

"I may be an ex-cop, but I still respect the law. If I thought I was setting her up
for something dangerous, I wouldn't be involved."

"If you knew that's what was going on," I agreed. "But I'm going to take a wild
guess and suggest that your client hired you anonymously, calling from a blocked phone
number."

From the wary look on his face, I knew I'd hit the bull's eye. "Why would you
think that?"

"Because the reason he's looking for the woman is that he hired her to do a job
for him. He contacted her the same way he contacted you. They never met. He paid her in
cash, by leaving an envelope for her. He had her pick something up at a post office box.
When she went to deliver it, either he or someone else attacked her with a jack handle and
put her in the hospital. That's why I'm concerned about why he wants to find her."

He looked grim. "This is all news to me. Assuming it's straight."

I shrugged. "There's only one way to find out. Ask him."

"Maybe, maybe not. I need to think about this."

"I figured," I said. "But, anyway, that's what I wanted to talk about."

"You know, walking up to a vehicle with tinted glass is pretty damn stupid,
especially with no backup. You're a sitting duck. If I'd really been a tough guy, I could have
put half a dozen bullets into you before you blinked an eye."

"That did occur to me," I told him. "But I had your name and license plate
number. Sooner or later, you would have been caught."

He laughed a harsh laugh. "Yeah, for all the good that would have done you. This
could have been a stolen vehicle." He switched on the engine and pressed the button to
close the window. I turned and walked away as he drove off.

Just to be cautious, I avoided looking toward Jana and headed across the street
to the parking garage, as though I hadn't a care in the world. I knew she'd follow, and she'd
let me know if anyone else did likewise.

It was comforting to know I had backup.

Wednesday morning, I had a court appearance in an ugly divorce case. The
clients were fighting over everything, including their three kids, the house, the dog, and
anything else they could think of. The judge, having gotten miffed by a long, rambling
motion filed by the wife's lawyer, ordered us in for an early morning "status conference",
which meant giving both sides a piece of his very angry mind.

After the hearing, we went down to the basement of the courthouse and had
coffee. The other lawyer finally confided in me what his client was so upset about. On its
face, the issue seemed trivial, but to his client it was a major source of irritation. There's
usually some keystone issue that drives a divorce case. Once you get to the heart of it, and
find a way of resolving it, the rest of the issues typically fall into place. I told him I'd talk to
my client about it and get back to him.

When I arrived at the office, Diana handed me the usual stack of messages.
"There's one odd one. He didn't leave his name. He just said he was responding to your
invitation. He said he'd phone back later. Something about a credit card. Some sort of
prank, I presume?"

When she first started talking, I assumed this was the result of my confrontation
with Drew Bonners. But when she mentioned the credit card, I had to readjust my thinking.
This was someone from Rawlings Professional Services, Inc.

"It's not a prank, Diana. Although it may be an invitation I'm going to I wish
could take back. What did he sound like?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Not like a hoodlum?"

"Not at all. In fact, he was actually quite pleasant."

"Well, if he calls back, please let me know."

"Will do."

About an hour later, he called again. Diana told me who it was--no name, just
"the man with the invitation."

"This is Adam Larsen," I said. I noticed on the display that he was calling from a
blocked number. Even in this digital age, it was still possible to retain a modicum of
privacy.

"I understand you'd like to speak with me." Diana had been right. He sounded
very pleasant. His manner was deliberate and very precise. I guessed he was in his thirties,
but I knew I could easily be off by a decade either way.

"It depends on who you are. Do you have a name?"

"Of course, I do. But I see no reason to divulge that. You have been making
inquiries of my company. Why?"

"Because I have a client whose husband died a little over a week ago. He was a
customer of your firm."

"Assuming that is so, how does the one relate to the other?"

"Possibly not at all. We know that the deceased was using your services. We
don't know why."

"I see," he said. "Why would that matter?"

"For several reasons. First, his wife would like to know what he was doing.
Second, there was a woman with him the night he died. She--"

"That has nothing to do with me," he snapped. He no longer sounded
pleasant.

"It could if the woman was one of your employees. I assume you call them
employees?"

"What else would I call them? That's what they are."

"Employees, then," I said. "The police are looking for that woman."

"And they're saying she's someone who works for me?"

"I don't know whether she is or isn't. But as soon as they latch onto those credit
card bills, which show him paying your firm over six thousand dollars, they're going to be
asking."

"And you're telling me you can keep them from doing that? Is that what this is all
about?"

"No. I'm not telling you that, at all."

"Then what do you want?"

"I want to know if one of your employees went to the opera a week ago Saturday
night with a man named Karl Markowsky."

"And if I tell you?"

"It depends on what you tell me. If it wasn't one of your people, and you can
establish that, then that will be the end of it."

"And if it was one of my people?"

"I don't know," I told him honestly. "I guess we can burn that bridge when we
get to it."

He laughed, sounding genuinely amused. "I like that. Well said. Give me the dates
when you say this Markowsky was charged for services."

I saw no reason not to provide the information. I read off the dates from the
credit card bills Joyce had provided me.

He said, "You'll be hearing from me. Maybe."

* * * *

He called back just before lunch time. As before, he didn't give Diana his name,
but I recognized his voice. "Mr. Larsen, I presume you know who this is."

"I do."

"I have information for you."

"Good. What have you got?"

"I matched the information on those credit card charges with our own records,
and I know which of our employees was working with Mr. Markowsky."

"What is her name?"

"Sorry. Not within the purview of what I can provide you. But I can tell you
absolutely, one hundred percent, she was not with him last Saturday night. She was
working with another client. And her hair is brown. She isn't a blonde, which I understand
was the hair color of the woman accompanying Mr. Markowsky. And, I might add, is also
the hair color of your client. My company had nothing to do with what happened to that
man at the opera."

"Your employee was working with someone else? On a Saturday night?" I said.
"Why would--"

"We don't limit our clients to traditional office hours. Sometimes they need an
escort to a special event, possibly to make themselves appear important. That's another
service we provide."

"Oh? You mean, as in 'escort service'?"

"No, Mr. Larsen. And if you're implying that I'm running a prostitution ring, I
deeply resent it."

But he wasn't denying it, either.

"No offense intended," I said. "It just seemed to follow from what you were
telling me, especially since Markowsky was keeping that credit card account secret. What
kind of services was he--"

"You ask too many questions," he said and hung up on me.

* * * *

I'm one of the relatively few people who still watches the ten o'clock news. An
old habit, I suppose. Even then, it's hit or miss for me. More often than not, I'm doing
something else and not paying much attention to the television. But I happened to be
watching that Wednesday night when the teaser came on: "A former Denver cop has been
found bludgeoned to death in Aurora." I didn't think anything of it until after the first round
of commercials, when the news actually came on.

The anchorman said, "The body of Andrew G. Bonners, a former Denver police
officer, was found early this morning in alley behind a local bar on East Colfax. The victim
had been fatally beaten with what police say was probably a metal pipe or similar object.
No weapon was found at the scene. Anyone with any information regarding this crime is
asked to call the Aurora police." I watched the rest of the story, which probably lasted
another thirty seconds. When it was over, I reached for my phone and called Jana.

"I don't suppose you're watching the news, are you?"

"No. Why?"

"Drew Bonners' body was found this morning. He was beaten to death."

She made a noise that sounded like she was choking. "The investigator? The one
you talked to last night? My God! "

"I know. It sounds like the same M.O. as the man who went after you. Except this
time he didn't stop."

"Adam, what the hell is going on?"

"I don't know." I was getting tired of hearing myself say that.

"What else did they say on the news?"

"They interviewed the bartender. Bonners was a regular. He came in at about
nine o'clock and stayed for a couple of hours, apparently waiting for someone who never
showed up. He left around eleven. He'd had enough drinks that the bartender offered to call
him a cab, but Bonners said he was just fine. At closing time, the bartender noticed a white
Blazer in the lot, but he said he didn't think much about it. The next morning, somebody
went to take out the trash and found the body in the alley. Bonners was probably attacked
from behind."

"That's awful. What do you think happened?"

"I think he called his client and said they needed to talk. Maybe he even told him
about his conversation with me."

"You mean, he was killed because he was trying to find me? And because I
tracked him down? I didn't intend to--"

"No," I said brusquely, "he was killed because he got involved with someone
who's apparently a sociopath. Don't blame yourself, Jana. You were only looking out for our
best interests."

"You're right," she said. "As usual. What should we do? I mean, we can't just do
nothing."

"I know. I can't believe I'm about to say this, but we've got to talk with Joe
Stone."

Stone's office was a small cubicle in the Police Administration Building, located
at Fourteenth and Delaware. The "building" actually consisted of two connected structures,
both with facades of grayish-tan brick. The northernmost edifice, which vaguely resembled
the camel-like war machines from Return of the Jedi, was the Pre-Arraignment Detention
Facility. Stone's cubicle was in the other building, on the fourth floor. It was an internal
office, meaning no windows. And, given tight city budgets, furnished sparsely with very old
furniture.

At the main entrance, Jana and I had no trouble clearing security. We'd both left
our weapons locked in the trunk of my Audi, parked in the small lot at the north end of the
complex. Her Glock was too big to fit in the small glove box, and leaving it in her purse as
we waltzed into police headquarters would have been an incredibly bad idea. I led the way
through the labyrinth of cubbyholes to Stone's lair. I'd been there once before. I particularly
remembered the occasion because what happened in his office had led to my getting hit by
a stray bullet a few hours later.

I decided not to mention that to Jana.

Stone was seated at his gray metal desk, looking pompous in his blue uniform.
When he saw me, he gave me his usual sneer of distaste--which didn't bother me at all. But
when he saw Jana, he stood and came around his desk, and actually hugged her.

That was enough to turn my stomach.

He asked her in what, for him, was a sympathetic tone, "What happened to your
arm?"

She glanced self-consciously toward her cast. "Broken. Someone attacked
me."

"Which is why we're here," I said.

He gestured for us to sit. The "guest chairs" in his office consisted of two
battered metal-and-molded-plastic chairs, imprinted with the Denver Police Department
logo.

He said, "What is this important information you have for me?"

I turned to Jana. "You should start."

"Right. A week ago, I think it was last Tuesday, I got a call from a prospective
client. He said he'd found my website and needed to hire me to do a job. He was calling
from a blocked number. He said he'd sent an envelope to me at the Post Office box listed on
my website. I don't show a physical address."

"That's a good idea." Stone looked up from the pad he was using to make notes.
"What's your client's name?"

"He didn't tell me. He said I didn't need to know."

He frowned at her for a minute, his square jaw jutting out the way it always did
when he was trying to think. "Go on."

"He said the envelope contained five hundred dollars, which he thought would
be enough for what he wanted me to do. There was also a key in the envelope."