A Knight at the Opera (2 page)

"Everybody stay back," I shouted as I reached for my phone and called 911.
"You'll have to find another route."

It took the emergency operator six rings to answer. By the time I'd finished
telling her what had happened, I noticed two men in dark blue uniforms, embroidered with
the name
Semper Security
on their shirts, working their way against the flow of
people and heading in our direction.

One of them confronted Maurice in an official-sounding voice. "Is there a
problem here?"

He took a moment to glare at the dark-haired woman before pointing at the
corpse. "You tell me."

The security man started to react, looking as though he might try to manhandle
Maurice, but something in Maurice's manner stopped him. Maurice was slow to anger, but
once he was there, it was best to leave him alone. He weighed two hundred and thirty-five
pounds and was still in decent shape, six years after his football career ended.

I stepped forward. "The man apparently fell from one of the upper levels. That's
all we really know. It could have been a heart attack. It could have been anything. The
police are on their way." A thought occurred to me. "You should probably keep people from
leaving."

His partner spoke up. "He's right, Tom. The cops will want to take statements.
Especially the people who were sitting near him."

They seemed to hesitate, as though thinking one of them should stay with the
body, but they couldn't decide which one it should be.

"Go do what you have to do," I said. "We'll keep people from touching
anything."

"Thanks." He called out loudly, "Everyone, please, can I have your attention? I
need your attention, please." The room quieted. "My name is Brandt Johnson and I'm here
with Semper Security. I know that this is a horrible tragedy, but the police are going to need
to talk to you, and I need you to stay calm. I also need to ask you not to leave just yet. The
authorities are on their way. Please take a seat, preferably the seat you were sitting in
during the opera. You'll be doing a great public service."

He repeated his speech half a dozen times as he moved through the auditorium.
The power of his voice made me suspect he had theater training. Most of the people
followed his direction without protest. A few--there are always a few--argued with him and
insisted they needed to leave. Meanwhile, his partner was speaking into a walkie-talkie,
telling other security men throughout the building to keep people from going home.

I sighed and turned to Maurice. "I'm afraid this is going to be a long night."

He shook his head in disgust. "Even at the damn opera! I can't go anywhere with
you without someone getting killed."

A stampede of policemen suddenly burst into the room. I hadn't had time to
think about it, but as soon as I saw them, my Spiderman senses began to tingle, and I knew
immediately that their commander was going to be him
.

The worst possible person to deal with a situation like this.

The worst possible person to deal with any situation.

Arrogant, cocky, and unable to think his way out of a paper bag, bad skin and a
jutting jaw that was too big for the rest of his face.

Sergeant Joe Stone.

He reminded me of Inspector Javert, the cruel policeman in
Les
Miserables
, who relentlessly pursued the petty thief Jean Valjean through the sewers of
Paris. And Stone typically went berserk whenever I referred to him that way. It was one of
those things that made life interesting.

He came swaggering into the room and led his men down the aisle, like storm
troopers brought in to subdue a violent mob. He stopped in his tracks when he saw
me.

"You!" His face turned bright red. "Always you! What the hell are you doing
here?"

"Same as everyone else," I said. "I was watching an opera. And after the curtain
calls were over, this man came crashing down from the balcony. Beyond that, I have no idea
what happened. If Maurice hadn't stepped in, other people would have gotten hurt, as
well."

I noticed that the dark-haired woman Maurice had pulled out the path of the
falling body was standing next to him, no longer looking angry. In fact, she was standing
very close to him, as though finding comfort in his presence. I also noticed that she was
quite attractive.

"He saved my life, officer." She added, in a matter-of-fact tone, "He was my
knight in shining armor."

Somehow when she said it, it didn't sound as lame as it does now.

Stone's face twisted into a mocking smirk. "Knight in shining armor? I'd say
more like
Shrek
. In a tailored suit."

Ignoring Stone, she reached up and gently touched the scratches on Maurice's
face. "I'm so sorry about that. I misunderstood your intentions."

"It's okay," he mumbled. But I knew it wasn't okay. Something was bugging him,
and I had a hunch I knew what it was.

Stone said, "So what happened, White?"

"Before the opera began, Adam pointed out whatever that thing is up on the
ceiling. While we were waiting for the people in front of us to leave their rows, I took
another look at it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something moving fast. I had no idea
what it was. "

"And you did what?" Stone prompted.

"I'm not exactly sure what I did. I guess I just reacted."

The brunette said, "He grabbed me and pulled me out of harm's way. If that man
had landed on me, I could have been seriously injured."

Stone stared skeptically at Maurice. "So you just happened to be looking up and
just happened to see a man falling? And just reacted?"

Maurice stirred irritably. "Let me tell you something, Stone. From the day you
start youth football, they train you to react to things, and to react quickly. That carries on
into high school, then college and then the pros. You end up with hypertension--if the
concussions don't kill you first--but when you see things happen, you instinctively act. It
becomes second nature."

Stone turned to me. "Why is that every time I bump into you, there's always a
dead body nearby?"

Maurice said, "Because he attracts trouble like a black hole attracts light. If he
was a Native American, his warrior name would be 'Runs With Scissors'."

Stone cocked his head in surprise. He had never seen Maurice so agitated. I
knew Maurice was resenting something. And I knew that he knew it wasn't my fault. He
was just pissed off, and he needed to vent.

Stone said, "What else can you tell me, Larsen?"

"Nothing, unfortunately. I didn't see anything until just before the man hit the
ground."

"I think he was sitting up there," Maurice said, gesturing toward the top balcony.
"But I'm not sure. I just know he fell a long way."

I eyeballed the distance. "That's probably seventy feet."

Stone said, "Higher. The tech guys will figure out the exact distance."

The uniformed officers were beginning to cordon off the area around us. There
were probably only a dozen of them, but they seemed to be everywhere in the theater--and
were definitely taking charge of the situation.

After a while, a tall man, with hair just beginning to turn gray, quietly joined our
group. I recognized him as assistant DA Tom Swain. He was a soft-spoken man who had the
understated mannerisms of a country doctor.

He stuck out his hand. "Well, Mr. Larsen," he said in his full, baritone voice. "We
meet again."

"Yeah," I said, not quite as politely, "But this time I'm not in handcuffs. And
you're not questioning me as a murder suspect."

He nodded. I'd forgotten he was a nodder. "But still not underestimating you,"
he said with an understated smile. He turned to Stone. "What is the situation?"

Stone shrugged. "They say the guy fell out of the balcony. That's all I know for
now."

Swain eyed the dead man. "That's an expensive suit. Any idea who he is?"

"Not yet," Stone said. "I'm guessing he has a wallet. But nobody touches anything
until Yamamoto and his crew get here."

He was referring to Fred Yamamoto, the head of the mobile crime lab. I turned
to Swain and gestured toward the dead man. "Doesn't it seem odd that no companion of his
has come rushing down here to--"

Swain frowned. "Good point. Nobody's come forward, Joe?"

"No," Stone said. "He must have been alone."

"Seems a bit odd. I wouldn't think most people would go to the opera by
themselves."

"There's something else," I said. "The way he--"

Brandt Johnson from Semper Security had come marching toward us and halted
in front of Stone. "I understand you're the officer in charge. I don't know how much longer I
can keep everyone here. They're getting awfully restless."

Stone stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"We've been keeping everyone from leaving."

"Why the hell would you be doing that?"

Johnson gestured toward me. "He suggested that we shouldn't let anyone leave
until the police said it was okay."

The color rose in Stone's face and his jaw jutted out angrily. "He suggested that?"
He glared at me but spoke to Johnson. "You mean he was impersonating an officer?"

"No," Johnson said, coming to my defense. "I understood that he's just a private
citizen."

"He's more than a private citizen. He's a public pain in the ass." He turned to me.
"Why the hell would I want to keep everyone here?"

I met his stare. "Good old Inspector Javert. I thought you might want to conduct
an investigation. But I should have known better. You prefer to leap to unsupported
conclusions and--"

Stone balled his hands into fists and planted his feet, apparently intending to let
fly with his right hand. I steeled myself in a defensive position.

Swain grabbed his arm. "No, Joe!"

Stone froze, and remained in that position for a full thirty seconds. Then he
backed off and growled between his teeth, "It's time for you to go home, Larsen."

I shrugged. "Suit yourself." In my mind, I substituted a different word for
"suit."

Swain said. "Someone will contact you on Monday, to arrange to take your
statement. Just routine procedure."

"I'm afraid it will be short," I said ruefully. "And not very helpful. It's the people
who were sitting near him that you're going to want to interview."

Swain nodded.

As Maurice and I turned away, I realized we had a problem. The brunette was
sticking with him like a fly on flypaper. She was probably in her late twenties, with sad eyes
and a long, regal neck. It was obvious from her mannerisms and speech pattern that she
was educated. My guess was an MBA.

"Man, I'm starved," he said. "Do you want to grab a late snack?"

"I was thinking the same thing." I knew he understood what "same thing" I was
referring to. And he seemed to have no problem with her tagging along.

She said, "I hope you don't think me too forward, but would you mind if I joined
you? My treat, of course. It's the least I can do. Somehow, I don't feel much like going
home."

"No problem," he said. He held out a hand. "I'm Maurice White."

She took his hand. "My name is Robin." She didn't supply a last name. "I'm sorry
about those awful names I called you." With her other arm, she reached up and touched his
cheek. "And what I did." In what was obviously an afterthought, she turned to me. "And you
are...?"

"Adam Larsen."

She didn't offer a hand, mostly because she was still holding Maurice's. "I've
heard your name before," she said. "You're a lawyer. I've seen your picture in the
Clarion
."

"Much to my discomfort. So, where to?"

Maurice said, "How about Cyrano's?" He added for Robin's benefit, "It's about
three blocks from here. In the Hotel Cortese."

"Sure, why not? That's a nice hotel."

The area outside the performing arts center was buzzing with activity. Some
people were milling around and others were crowded around the elevators that serviced
the parking garage. The weather had been moderate for April, and the evening was crisp,
but not uncomfortably cold. No one showed any interest in us as we headed north and
walked in silence through the spring night. There were things I wanted to discuss with
Maurice, but they would have to wait.

Cyrano's was crowded, but not so much that we had to wait for a table. I told the
maitre'd, "Three for dinner."

He bowed slightly. "This way, please." He led us along the plush carpet, past the
bar, to a booth in a corner of the room. "Will this be suitable?"

"Sure," Maurice said. Robin slid into the booth, and he settled in next to her. I
positioned myself across from them. A waiter came, and we ordered drinks. I had my usual
scotch and water, and Maurice asked for a Heineken. Robin ordered a dry martini, with
extra olives. We also selected an appetizer that the waiter described as a mixture of blue
crab meat, spinach and grilled artichoke, plus an order of tuna tartar and a plate of
sliders.

When the waiter had delivered our drinks and left us, Maurice said, "So, what's
your story, Robin?"

She creased her brow. "What do you mean?"

"Are you married? Single? A schoolteacher? The CEO of some multinational
corporate leviathan?"

She smiled. "None of the above. Well, actually, that's not true. I am single. I was
engaged to be married in August, but he turned out to be a complete turd. I broke it off."
Her eyes had suddenly become misty. "So, I guess I'm single. That's why I had to go to the
opera by myself tonight."

An odd look crossed Maurice's brow, but she didn't seem to notice. But I knew
exactly what he was thinking, and it wasn't good.

Rebound.

This woman was definitely on the rebound. Three years earlier, Maurice had
gotten involved with a newly-divorced woman and it had been a disaster for him.

He patted her sympathetically on the shoulder. "I'm single, too. After nearly six
years of marriage. You get over it."