A Knight at the Opera (23 page)

His brow crinkled. "Your client's defense? How so?"

"Well, first off, I know that Markowsky's ex-wife is pestering Stone, trying to get
him to file charges against my client."

"How would you know that?"

"The ex-wife volunteered it, under oath in open court."

He nodded. "How so?"

"She filed a ludicrous eviction action against my client, and in the course of the
trial, Gretchen boasted about what she had done. I spoke with Stone about it later, and he
didn't even bother to deny it."

Swain nodded again, this time pensively. Evidently that was how he expressed
his emotions. "You said, 'first off.' Was there a second element to that?"

"There was. Denver's version of Seal Team 6 raided my client's house, armed
with a search warrant, and seized all sorts of things from her medicine cabinet. It left her
with a feeling she was suspected of wrongdoing."

"Let's go back to that pill container. What do you know about it?"

"Tom, we've already been down this road. I simply can't tell you. That would
violate my client's rights, and I'm not about to do that. I can tell you that there's a witness
who claims to have seen Markowsky with a little orange pill bottle. I haven't spoken with
her myself, and the information I do have was provided to me in confidence. Based upon
the apparent fact--gleaned by me from the article in the
Clarion--
that there was
Rohypnol in Markowsky's bloodstream, I asked Stone whether that's what was in the
bottle."

"You also asked him about fingerprints. You must have known that--"

I grinned at him. "That was just a shot in the dark. I figured if my client's
fingerprints were on it, she'd already be in custody. If anyone else's fingerprints were
found on it, then that person would be in custody. Unless, for example, it happened to be
someone who's never had a driver's license and the police couldn't make a match. Hence,
the odds were that the only fingerprints were Markowsky's, meaning he's the one who
brought the drug to the opera."

He let out a sigh. "I really don't like playing games, Mr. Larsen. Who is the
witness?"

"Sorry. I'm not able to disclose that."

"Why not?" he demanded.

"I told you, it's privileged. I know you're frustrated about this, but I really don't
have anything to tell you. Frankly, I wasn't putting much faith in my source until Stone
reacted as only Stone can. That told me I was onto something."

He regarded me, as through sizing me up. "As much as Stone dislikes you, I know
from past experience that you have an uncanny ability to think your way through
complicated situations. I actually find myself liking you." He added hastily, "Don't quote me
on that. But you really can't withhold information from the authorities without risking
serious consequences."

"Stone has already tried the 'aiding and abetting' routine, as you may recall from
our last time around, and it didn't work. I'm doing nothing to shelter a criminal or prevent
you from investigating anything you want to investigate. All I have is a swirl of suspicions,
and nothing concrete or specific. Jana Deacon and I went in and met with Stone and told
him everything we knew about Markowsky and even about Drew Bonners. But--"

"What about Bonners?" he asked sharply.

"Stone didn't tell you? No," I said, "probably not. He was totally obsessed with
how I found out about the orange bottle. Always the relentless Inspector Javert, searching
for poor Jean Valjean." I told him the story of Jana getting attacked, and our encounter with
Bonners.

"And Stone knows all this?"

"He does. I've been totally forthright with him. And cooperative. You know,
something occurs to me. Have the police tried to identify a restaurant where Markowsky
and the woman had dinner before the opera? Maybe--"

"Of course. They've tried all those things. There was nothing on his credit cards,
not even the Bank of America account you brought to our attention. Our investigators have
also canvassed all of the nearby restaurants. Nothing."

As Swain was talking, I realized that he knew about the B of A account, but had
no idea about the JP Morgan Chase credit card. An interesting thought occurred to me, and I
decided to keep it to myself. Instead, I said, "If you find this woman, what are you planning
to charge her with?"

"Depends on her story. Maybe some sort of assault charge, maybe second degree
homicide. It's a question of what she knew, and what she did. Or didn't do. We won't know
until we find her." He asked abruptly, "Do you know where she is?"

"No."

"Do you know who she is?"

"No. All I have is a first name, which may or may not be her real name. It also
came from a confidential communication, and I can't tell you anything further about
that."

We went around for another half hour. Finally, he said. "Can you give me your
word as an officer of the court that nobody in law enforcement is leaking information to
you?"

"Yes, I can do that. Unequivocally. I know some people who work under Stone,
and even a few people who work in the crime lab. But I wouldn't ask for any confidential
information and we both know damn well they wouldn't give it to me, even if I asked."

"Fair enough," he said. "Anything else?"

"Not that I can think of."

"Enjoy the rest of your weekend."

As I left the office, I contemplated the notion that had occurred to me a few
minutes earlier.

Why was Markowsky using two different credit card accounts?

* * * *

I spent Saturday afternoon working on personal paperwork, such as paying bills.
Jana was with her cousin, Lisa, which meant their Saturday night would consist of watching
a chick flick and then going out for some serious drinking. I stayed quietly at home, slogging
my way through a biography of Learned Hand, a renowned judge on New York's second
federal circuit from the 1920s through the early 1960s. It was detailed, with scores of
footnotes, and fascinating, but slow reading.

Sunday morning, I met Hal Gross at Colorado Tennis World, on South Monaco.
We split the first two sets and were tied at 5-5 in what had become a long third one when
our court time ran out. The people next up were ready to go, so we yielded the court and
had lunch in the restaurant.

About halfway through the meal, he said, "Any news on the Markowsky
matter?"

"Nothing I can talk about. Attorney/client privilege." I would have loved to tell
him about the orange bottle and a few other things, but Stone would justifiably go berserk
if I did that.

Hal cocked his head at me, as though he knew I was holding back.

"Sorry. If and when the time comes, you'll be the first to know."

On my way home, I had a thought that might explain the two credit cards. It
seemed farfetched, but it was the only answer I could come up with. There was even a way
to test it. I called Rawlings' number and left a message. I said it was nothing urgent, and he
could get back to me at his convenience.

I didn't hear from him over the weekend, which was fine with me.

Rawlings called me back mid-morning on Monday. "You're looking for me?"

"I am,"

"They said it wasn't urgent. Otherwise, I would have called sooner."

"Not a problem." I decided there was no reason to tell him about my meeting
with Tom Swain. Instead, I said, "You've indicated that you know nothing about the death
of that investigator in Aurora, that you had no involvement in that."

"Indicated, my butt," he bristled. "I've told you flat out, I have no idea what
you're talking about. Or why you think I have anything to do with that."

"I'm becoming more and more convinced that you don't. And I think I know how
to prove it. I need to ask you to do something."

"Such as?" he asked warily.

"Oh, it's something harmless. I just want you to show a photograph to your
employee and see if she can identify it."

"Jillian? Why would you want to do that?"

"Not Jillian. The other one. The brunette who was working with Markowsky as a
frequent flier."

"Really? This sounds interesting. What photograph?"

I had already taken the liberty of downloading Markowsky's photo from the
PMBT website. "If you'll give me an email address, I'll send it to you."

"Rawlings Professional dot com. All one word."

I typed the address and pressed the send button.

After a short pause, he said, "I've got it. All you want me to do is show it to
her?"

"Right. And let me know her reaction."

"I'll let you know."

Forty minutes later, the intercom on my desk buzzed. Diana said, "It's him.
Maybe you should install a direct line."

"That might not be a bad idea."

He sounded excited. "How the hell did you know?"

"I didn't. Just an educated guess. It's not him?"

"No. It certainly isn't. I forwarded it to her iPhone. She says she's never seen this
man before. Her 'Karl Markowsky' looks nothing like this guy."

"What does he look like?"

"I don't know. She's not working today, and was somewhere up in the
mountains. We lost our connection. I'll find out later and get back to you."

"Please tell her that if she hears from him, she needs to be careful. I'm fairly
certain he's already killed one person and attacked another."

"I'll pass that on."

So that was it. Someone pretending to be Markowsky had been hiring one of
Rawlings' employees.

For what, I could only guess.

I called my client. "Hello, Joyce. How are you doing?"

She sounded weary. "So so. This was not a good weekend."

"I've got some information for you. And, yes, this is something good. Apparently,
Karl wasn't using that escort service, after all. Someone was going around impersonating
him."

"Really? You mean, as in identity theft?"

"Not exactly. This was just for one purpose, namely to hire women from that
escort service. I think that when Karl looked at that credit report, he was surprised to see
the B of A account. That would explain why he wrote the exclamation point next to it. He
didn't recognize it and wondered what it was."

"That makes sense. But what about the other account, the one with Chase?"

"I'm convinced he did make that charge. He hired the woman who was with him
at the opera. My theory is that he decided to play detective. Getting information from a
company like Rawlings is like pulling teeth. I suspect that he hired one of their women for
the evening, figuring he could pump her for information. He probably thought he was being
clever. I know it sounds peculiar, but--"

"Actually, I could see him doing something like that. More so than hiring a
prostitute. He had a quixotic side to him. But why the opera?"

"Maybe he didn't want to be somewhere alone with her."

"I suppose that would have been awkward," she agreed. "So you're saying she
killed him because he was trying to found out who hired her company?"

"No, I'm not saying that at all. They found an orange pill bottle in his coat pocket.
It almost certainly contained Rohypnol. Joyce, she wasn't trying to drug him. He tried to
drug her, during intermission, presumably to get her talking. But it backfired. He ended up
ingesting the Rohypnol."

"Where on earth would Karl get Rohypnol?"

"That's still a mystery. But I think that's the reason the police were searching
your house. They wouldn't move against you just because Gretchen told them to. They were
trying to find out where he got the drug. And, by the way, they have no proof you were at
the opera."

"Wow, this is a lot of information."

"I know," I said. "Take your time to digest it. You can take some comfort in
knowing Karl wasn't being disloyal to you."

"I have to admit, that does make me feel better. I spent most of the weekend
crying and feeling sorry for myself. This helps a lot. Thank you."

"You're welcome." I was getting ready to hang up.

"Oh, two more things. Have you heard anything from PMBT about the
partnership buyout?"

"I have not. But they'll be hearing from me this morning. It's been several weeks,
and it's time we got the negotiations moving."

"I agree. Also, I've been meaning to ask you, have you had a chance to do
anything about Karl's life insurance?"

"No. I'll put it on my agenda for today."

"Thank you, Adam. I don't know what I'd do without your help."

I had to leave a message for Conner Pennington. The receptionist said he was
unavailable. When I pressed her for details, she pointed out that it was still tax season, even
though April fifteenth had come and gone, and people were still scrambling to get their
returns filed. She transferred me to his voice mail, and I left a message: "Mr. Pennington,
this is Adam Larsen. I understand you're in the midst of the annual tax frenzy, so I'll be
brief. Joyce Markowsky would like a copy of the PMBT's most recent financial statements.
She needs them to calculate the value of her interest in the firm. We'll keep them
confidential." I gave him my email address. "We'd also like to get a meeting scheduled, to
discuss where we are."

When I checked my in-box after lunch, I found an email from Pennington, with
the financial statements attached. His text said, "Here are the confidential statements you
requested. I'll talk to our legal counsel and he'll contact you to set up a meeting. Give Joyce
my best."

I forwarded the email to Joyce.

She hadn't heard anything definitive from the adjustor at the California Mutual
Life Insurance Company. She had duly filed the death claim and had received an
acknowledgment letter, but that was it.

I touch-toned the number on the acknowledgment letter.

A woman answered on the third ring. "California Mutual, this is Irene
Thomkins." From the background noise, I thought I'd reached a call center, and mused that
it was nice to at least find someone who spoke English. Then I realized that this was
actually the woman whose name was on the letter.