A Knight at the Opera (20 page)

He thought it over. "I guess I can tell you a few things. If she gets charged, you'll
find out about them, anyway. We're not even sure if there was a crime. The toxicology
report showed Rohypnol in his bloodstream. He had--" He cut it off, as though he had
decided to withhold something. "It was in his blood. We don't know how it got there. We
haven't found the woman he was with. We don't know why she got up and left. And we
don't know whether it was your client."

"But you do know she wasn't there when he went over the balcony. Meaning
that she didn't cause it."

"Maybe. She could still be charged, depending on what she knew about his
condition."

"Let me be blunt," I said. "Did your swat team find any Rohypnol in her
house?"

He looked at me, then at Jana, then back at me. I knew he was just stalling, trying
to make a decision. Finally, he said, "No. It was clean. But that doesn't prove she never had
it. She could have gotten rid of it."

"I agree it's theoretically possible," I said, "although your men even searched her
car and, I presume, found no traces of the drug anywhere. Do you have any evidence she
procured the Rohypnol?"

"No. If I did, she'd be in custody." He stirred impatiently. "Are you going to tell
me about this motive?"

"It's not a motive. But, yes, I'm going to tell you. I told my client about the credit
card bill. She's the one who paid the household bills. She wasn't aware of her husband
having any credit cards with Bank of America. She contacted them and was able to get a
duplicate of his last three bills. He was buying services from a company known as Rawlings
Professional Services."

"Hookers?" he blurted. Coloring, he looked over at Jana. "Prostitutes?"

She laughed. "I've heard the word before, Joe. You don't have to be polite around
me."

I said, "They claim they're a legitimate company, providing temporary
professional services and escorts to social events."

"Do you believe that?"

"It doesn't matter what I believe. If they're consenting adults, I don't care
whether they're adding columns of numbers or swinging from the chandeliers. I called the
company and asked about Markowsky. Someone who wouldn't identify himself called me
back and said that Markowsky wasn't accompanied by any of their personnel the night he
was killed."

"You called them?"

"I did."

"Fools rush in." He shook his head in disbelief. "Do you really think they'd admit
it if he was with one of their people?"

"I don't know. I'm just telling you what he told me. It sounded straight, but I
have no way of proving or disproving it. No doubt, you'll want to check it out for yourself.
Until I heard about Bonners' being killed, it didn't matter."

He narrowed his eyes at me. "Why, exactly, did you contact this Rawlings
company?"

"Because I want to find out who the woman was. If I can prove it wasn't my
client, then she stops being a suspect. It eliminates the risk of criminal charges and would
put an end to the dispute between my client and Markowsky's ex-wife."

"Gretchen?" he said. "There's someone I wouldn't want to be married to."

"Nor would I. She's been pushing to have my client charged with felony
murder."

He stiffened, his jaw jutting out aggressively. "How would you know something
like that?"

"She let it slip in court, when she was trying to get Joyce evicted from her own
house. Relax, Stone, I don't have a spy in the Denver Police Department."

He did relax, and his jaw receded into its normal position. "You sure as hell
better not."

"So you haven't found the so-called mystery woman. Do you at least have any
leads?"

"No, we don't. No usable DNA, no identifiable fingerprints on the seat or railing."
He aimed his index finger at me. "This isn't for publication, Larsen."

"I understand. What about video surveillance? Are there any other pictures you
didn't release to the news media?"

"No. This system isn't like something you'd see in a bank or a casino. They don't
expect a lot of criminals to show up at the opera." He let out a sigh. "I guess I need to
subpoena this Rawlings company."

"I agree. Somebody has apparently been killed over that credit card bill."

"That doesn't make any sense," he said. "Who would care about that bill? And
why?"

"The only one I can think of is Rawlings, and they already know that cat is out of
the bag."

"You told them?"

"I had to, in hopes of finding out about the woman who was with Markowsky at
the opera. Be careful, Stone. These people seem to be playing for keeps."

He shook his head again. "You just love sticking your, um"--he glanced over at
Jana--"hand in the hornets' nest, don't you?"

She laughed. "You mean 'dick'?"

"Yeah, I guess I do. What else can you tell me?"

"That's everything," she assured him.

Before Jana and I left, I asked Stone who we should contact at Aurora Police
Department. He said not to bother, he'd write up a report and send it to them. We'd
probably hear from them in the next few days. He pointed out that since we didn't have any
information that might actually identify the killer, there was no great urgency.

Don't call us, we'll call you.

On the way to the car, Jana said, "What do we do now?"

"What do you mean?"

She gave me an irritated look. "What do I mean? I mean, do I go back to work?
Should I be hiding out somewhere? Is someone out there looking for me so that this time he
can finish up with the jack handle? That's what I mean."

I realized she needed some TLC. "How about if we take the day off and go play
somewhere."

"Like play, how?" she said, unenthusiastically.

"I was thinking Winter Park. They've had ten inches of new snow this week. For
this late in the season, their snowpack is still respectable. Can you ski with a broken
arm?"

She gave me a sultry look. "You found out the other night what I can do with a
broken arm. If I can do that, I can certainly ski." She added, "We'll just stick to the
intermediate slopes."

The afternoon in Winter Park lifted Jana's spirits. She hadn't pushed too hard, so
her arm, which was now well on the way to healing, didn't pose any problems. Even so, we
left before the lifts closed. I didn't want her to overdo it. On the way home, we stopped for
pizza in Idaho Springs and then spent the night at Fort Larsen. We hadn't reached any
decisions as to how to react to the peculiar string of events that Karl Markowsky's death
had precipitated, but I suspected that, given what we had placed in motion via our visit
with Joe Stone, we would find some clarity relatively soon--hopefully, without getting
ourselves beaten to death in some dark alley.

One notable thing did happen, which shed light on at least one aspect of the
matter. At about five-thirty, while we were waiting for our pizza, I checked my cell phone,
which I had set on vibrate while we were skiing. There were two messages, both from the
office. I pressed the little message icon and Diana's voice came over the speaker. As she
phrased it, Joyce Markowsky was keen to speak with me. The second message was the
same, but with more urgency. I have an odd ability to remember phone numbers, so I didn't
need to listen as Diana recited the numbers. I just touched-screened the nine digits and
called my client.

"Joyce? This is Adam Larsen. My receptionist tells me you've been trying to
reach me."

"I have. I went down to PMBT today. Vicki had called and told me she's been
accumulating some of Karl's personal mail."

"Did you happen to bump into any of the partners?"

"No. And I didn't ask to see them."

"Oh," I said. "Sorry. I thought that's where you were going with this
conversation. Go on."

"Vicki did tell me that Conner's on vacation and Larry has been in back-to-back
meetings, but that's not why I'm calling you. I came home and started opening Karl's mail. It
was almost all junk. Professional journals, solicitations from charities, things like that. But
there was one envelope, which I almost threw away. It was addressed to Karl, although
they had his last name spelled wrong. Murkowsky, with a 'u'. It looked like a bill, so I
opened it. It was from JP Morgan Chase, and it was a credit card bill. From that same
Rawlings company. And it was for services rendered on April 7, 2012. Adam, that's the
night he died."

"I need a copy of that bill," I told her. "Right away."

"I figured you would. I faxed it to your office this afternoon. What on earth was
Karl doing?"

"Joyce, I have reason to believe he was patronizing an escort service."

"An escort service? Do you mean what I think you mean?"

"I'm afraid so. That's what those credit card expenses were for."

"That son of a bitch!"

"Sorry I had to tell you this."

"It's all right." She added drily, "At two thousand dollars a night, he must have
been a big tipper."

"Was he generous about things like that? I mean, with waitresses, or--"

"No. He was not. The Karl who I knew was practically a tightwad. And a prude.
Or so I thought. This is totally out of character for him."

It was against that backdrop that I arrived at ADAM LARSEN AND ASSOCIATES at eight
forty-five Friday morning. I wasn't sure what time it would happen, but I knew it
undoubtedly would. The call came just before nine-thirty.

"Adam," Diana said over the intercom, "that man is on line one. The one who
refuses to identify himself. He sounds agitated."

"I'll bet he is," I said, and pressed the button. "This is Adam Larsen." The display
on my phone showed that the caller ID was blocked.

"Mr. Larsen," the man said, "you know who this is?"

"I do. I've been waiting for your call."

"Yeah? Why is that?"

"Because you're aggravated that the police have subpoenaed your records for
Karl Markowsky."

"So you know about that, do you?"

"I do. After what happened behind that bar on East Colfax, I had no choice. I had
information directly related to a murder."

"East Colfax?" he said. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"The ex-cop, Drew Bonners. That's where he was murdered."

"I did hear that some man got himself killed. But what does that have to do with
my company?"

"He was hired by whoever was looking for that envelope containing the credit
card bill."

"Look, I don't know what you're talking about. All I know is that the cops came
swooping in here yesterday with a search warrant and made me produce all of my records
that had anything to do with this Markowsky. And I don't like that. I've told you, I run a
legitimate business, but I still don't like the cops coming in and going over my paperwork.
My clients want confidentiality, and they have a right to expect it."

"I understand. But it couldn't be helped. The way I figured it was that, assuming
you told me the truth the other day, no harm would be done. They would come in, find out
that the brunette wasn't with Markowsky at the opera, and you'd be left alone after
that."

"That makes sense, I suppose. Now that the cops came and got all the records on
Markowsky, are you telling me they won't be bothering me anymore?"

"No. Something else has come up. You told me on Wednesday that he only used
the services of one of your staff."

"That's right."

"It isn't. We've now found another credit card bill, for a different account
Markowsky was using. This one had his name misspelled, with a 'u' instead of an 'a'."

"Is that a problem?"

"It is. The bill is for services your company rendered on the night he died."

"Holy mother of God!" he said. "Are you sure?"

"I am. I have a copy of the bill in front of me."

"Hold on a minute. I need to check something out." I heard him set down the
phone. There was a long silence and then he came back on the line. "I need to talk to
someone. You'll be hearing from me."

* * * *

I normally met with my staff on Friday mornings, to go over pending cases and
discuss anything else in the office that needed attention. The primary goal was to make
sure we didn't miss any critical filing deadlines, which served the dual role of providing
peace of mind to my staff and reducing the chances our malpractice insurance company
would have to defend us against any claims. We congregated around the big conference
table in the library. Diana had brought the usual doughnuts and sweet rolls, and we all
helped ourselves. We moved quickly through the routine matters, and finally arrived at the
item we'd saved for last: the death of Karl Markowsky.

Ann told me, "I've finished the research you wanted. You know, the one about
mystery person A and mystery person B? I assume it was for this case."

"It is," I said.

Maurice observed, "It sounds like something out of Dr. Seuss."

"In a way it could be. Ann, did you find anything interesting?"

"I don't know if it's interesting, but there are several possible charges they could
file. I'll put it in a memo. It won't take long."

"Good, because I have a feeling I may need it very soon."

"What is going on?" Diana asked. "And may I ask about the nameless gentleman
who keeps calling you?"

"You may," I said. "For all the good it will do any of us. He won't give me his
name, but he appears to be in charge of Rawlings Professional Services. If I had to hazard a
wild guess, I'd bet his name was Rawlings."

"You think?" Maurice said with a chuckle.

"But it's not a certainty. Regardless, he admits that Markowsky was a client,
which isn't much of an admission. I don't know how he could deny it, given that we have
Markowsky's credit card bills. At first, he claimed that Markowsky always 'worked with'
the same woman, who happens to have brown hair, and wasn't anywhere near him the day
he died. But then we found a second credit card account, which included a charge for that
Saturday night. I told him about it, and he said he'll get back to me. I'm guessing this one is
a blonde, or at least she was that night." I frowned. "I don't know what to make of
him."