A Knight at the Opera (29 page)

Stone said, "Such as?"

"Let me put this in context. I'm going to ask to set up a meeting tomorrow with
you, the Deputy DA and someone you're definitely going to want to talk to."

"We'll see," he said. "What happened at the opera?"

"You need to hear the background. Otherwise, it won't make sense. You've been
trying to figure out for nearly a month how Markowsky got his hands on Rohypnol,
right?"

"Go on."

"We know that when he found the Bank of America credit card entry on his
credit report, he didn't talk to his wife about it. It obviously upset him, because he wrote
that exclamation point on the report. He would have gotten in touch with B of A. Since it
was in his name, he had all the information he needed to request a duplicate bill, and they
would have sent it to him. When he received it, he saw that someone was charging things to
Rawlings Professional Services--and he decided to find out what those services were. I'm
sure he looked online, because that's what everyone does these days. I did, after the fact,
and found nothing. You can type in 'Millard Fillmore' and get nearly a million and a half
hits--but when you enter the Rawlings name, you only come up with a handful. And all but
one of them are generic 'pay us money and we'll give you information' websites."

Jana was getting impatient. "Okay, so what did Markowsky do?"

"He made the mistake of his life. He confided in one of the partners in his firm,
the person who had been his mentor in the accounting business."

"Pennington?"

"Exactly. The very person who was impersonating him. It didn't occur to him
that whoever opened that account knew his birth date and social security number, which of
course the other members of the firm did. B of A wouldn't have opened the account in the
first place without that information."

"So what?" Stone said. "Dozens of people could have gotten access to his
personal information. It happens all the time."

"Maybe so. But think about it. Pennington knew firsthand, so to speak, what
services Rawlings provided, but he couldn't come out and tell Markowsky without giving
away his own secret. Markowsky cooked up a half-baked scheme to hire someone at
Rawlings, so that he could figure out who they were."

Jana said, "If someone had stolen his identity, why didn't he just go to the
police?"

"Pennington must have talked him out of it, probably on the pretext that it might
damage the firm's reputation. In truth, an investigation would have led right to Pennington.
Markowsky suspected what services Rawlings offered. He didn't want his wife to know
what he was doing. Pennington would have played up that idea. Joyce might have
persuaded her husband to simply go to the police."

Stone stirred irritably. "Get to the opera."

"I will. Markowsky arranged to meet the woman at the opera. He thought he
could be clever and ask enough questions to figure out how their company worked, what
their 'services' really were, and maybe enough to figure out who was impersonating
him."

Jana said, "And that's why the woman slipped him the Rohypnol?"

"No. She didn't bring it to drug him. He brought it to drug her, as sort of a backup
plan, figuring maybe that would get her to talk. When you think about it, it was pretty
pathetic, but his wife says that sort of thing would appeal to him. Anyway, during the
intermission, he slipped it into her drink. Something went wrong, and he ended up getting
dosed himself."

"I'll tell you what went wrong," Stone said. "She spotted him doing it and
switched their drinks."

"Maybe so," I allowed, thinking that Jillian Piper would have to deal with that
issue when we met with Stone and Swain. "Regardless of how it happened, Markowsky
must have slept through the entire last act of the opera. The blonde he was with figured
something was wrong, and she got out of there."

"Leaving him so drugged up that he fell over the balcony when he tried to leave,"
Stone said. "That's a felony."

"That's where I'm going with this. I have a surprise for you."

"I don't like surprises."

"You'll like this one. Markowsky isn't the one who procured the Rohypnol."

Jana said, "But if he didn't, and the woman didn't--"

"Pennington got it for him. Last night, I remembered something my client told
me when I first asked her about the partners at that accounting firm. Pennington has a son
who's had some skirmishes with the law. I called her this afternoon and asked her what
kind of trouble. You can guess: drugs. I'm betting you can establish that the son procured
the Rohypnol"

"Maybe so," Stone said, "but it still doesn't exonerate the woman who was with
him."

I smiled at him. "That leads me to the final point. Pennington was the one
influencing Markowsky's actions, trying desperately to steer him away from anything that
might identify the person impersonating him. It occurred to me this afternoon that, if I
were Pennington, I'd want to be at the opera, keeping an eye on Markowsky and the
blonde."

Stone narrowed his eyes at me. "Yeah?"

"I called Brandt Johnson." To Jana, I explained, "He works for the company that
provides security for the opera."

Stone demanded, "What did he tell you?"

"He went back through the surveillance tapes. Pennington was there that night.
He actually bought a seat in his own name, using his own credit card. There was no reason
not to. He had a plausible excuse for being there. And here's the icing on the cake: he was
sitting up in that balcony, probably thirty feet from Markowsky and the blonde."

"Meaning he's the one who created the conditions that led to Markowsky's
death?"

"That's true," I said. "But in my mind, that doesn't explain the killing spree that
followed."

Jana was rubbing her sore arm. "I don't get it."

"I don't either," Stone admitted.

I smiled. "I'll give you any odds you want that when the opera ended,
Pennington came over, realized what condition Markowsky was in and--probably acting on
impulse--nudged Markowsky over that balcony. It must have seemed like the perfect way
to put an end to the Rawlings problem."

Stone let his jaw drop. "I'll be damned."

Jana had stopped rubbing her arm. "Wouldn't someone have seen him?"

"Not necessarily. People's eyes were still adjusting to the lights, which had just
come on. He was in the midst of a throng of people, heading toward the exit. If no one was
looking, all he had to do was 'accidentally' lean against Markowsky and let gravity do the
rest. The opportunity arose, and he took it."

Stone wasn't convinced. "All this just to keep Markowsky from telling anyone
else about that credit card account?"

"It must have been driving Pennington crazy that Markowsky was so obsessed
about it. This was the perfect opportunity to put an end to the matter. But then he started
thinking about loose ends. He needed to get that credit card bill paid, but he was afraid to
pick it up himself."

Jana said, "So he hired me."

"And when you held onto that envelope, he panicked and went after you. And he
just kept digging himself in deeper and deeper. First it was Bonners, and then the brunette
who worked for Rawlings. And then, out of the blue, the opportunity arose to get rid of
you."

"Wow," she said, "this is unbelievable."

"My thoughts, exactly," Stone muttered. He turned to the uniformed cop. "You
finish up here. I'm heading downtown to question Pennington. We'll see if any of this holds
water."

By the time we left the hospital, it was well after one in the morning. Thursday
had morphed into Friday. Maurice's hand was bandaged and he was floating on Percocet.
His car was still in the garage at the McGaa Building, so Jana and I said we'd take him home.
He mumbled something about picking it up in the morning, and I told him he would do no
such thing. He was on a well-deserved paid vacation until further notice.

My Sunday mornings would be forever cursed if I didn't call Hal Gross and give
him the scoop on Pennington, so I'd phoned him while we waited for Maurice to be
discharged.

When he heard my voice, he didn't miss a beat. "What have you got for
me?"

"No hello?" I said lightheartedly.

"Hello, my tuchus! You don't call me at one thirty in the morning to exchange
pleasantries. Give!"

I did. I had to wait while he booted up his laptop computer, and then I walked
him through the entire story--except for the parts about Rawlings, which I deliberately
omitted. I could hear him typing furiously as I spoke. Occasionally, he told me to slow
down. When I was done, he said, "My friend, for this you can beat the stuffing out of me
every Sunday till the end of time. And I'll be glad to buy the loser's lunch."

"Not necessary," I assured him. "I'd rather win fair and square. Make sure you
give Maurice his due."

"You bet I will."

I debated before making the final call, but since they were still working up the
paperwork for Maurice to be released, I figured I might as well.

She answered on the fifth ring, and gave me a groggy, "Hello?"

"Joyce, this is Adam Larsen."

"Is something wrong?"

"No, everything is right. Conner Pennington is under arrest."

"For murdering that detective and the prostitute?"

"That, too. By now, I'm betting they're ready to charge him with murdering
Karl."

"Karl? What--"

"I've been a busy boy. Pennington was at the opera that night, sitting in a seat
one section over and about five rows back from where Karl was."

"Why would he have--"

"It's a long story. I'll tell you the whole thing tomorrow. Or you can read it in the
Clarion
. But the point is, he pushed Karl over that balcony."

"Good Lord! All because of those credit card charges?"

"I'm afraid so."

"When will this nightmare be over?"

"Very soon. Go back to sleep. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Good night," she said. "And thank you!"

They brought Maurice out in a wheel chair, which the nurse assured me was
standard hospital policy. He was going to be fine. We rolled him out to where I had left my
car--which now had a parking ticket stuck under the windshield wiper--and loaded him in
the passenger's seat. Jana followed us to Maurice's house; it took the two of us to get the big
lug into his bed, especially with Jana's broken arm. It was still tender, but after Stone left,
I'd insisted that they x-ray it, after all. Pennington hadn't done any serious damage.

Jana went out to the living room to wait, while I helped Maurice strip down to
his boxers and get into bed. He fell asleep almost immediately.

Before I left, I patted him on the side of his face. "Good night, Maurice," I said.
"You did a good thing tonight."

* * * *

The earliest we could meet with Tom Swain on Friday was at two o'clock in the
afternoon. Stone was available earlier, but Swain was scheduled to be in court all morning,
handling a preliminary hearing in a case involving a robbery that had turned into a
particularly grisly murder. I'd had no trouble getting through to Amos Rawlings, to arrange
to meet with Jillian before we faced the authorities. He heartily agreed that he wouldn't be
attending the meeting with Swain, but insisted on being there when I prepped her. He even
suggested that we meet at my office.

Hal Gross had outdone himself. The first six pages of the
Clarion
were
devoted exclusively to the Markowsky story. Conner Pennington had confessed to
everything--including shoving his partner off the balcony at The Rosebud. I'd missed on a
few of the details, but not many. Hal seemed to have scooped everyone else, including the
online media. That was a rare coup, and he called me to tell me how much he appreciated
it.

"I'm trying to save print journalism," I told him. "Singlehandedly."

"It's too late," he lamented. "But some of us diehards intend to keep on
trying."

I spent most of the morning with Jillian, bombarding her with the sort of
questions I expected Swain to ask her. I could tell that Rawlings had also been talking to
her, because there were a few surprises.

At two o'clock, we were sitting across the desk from Swain in his office on West
Colfax. Stone had grabbed a chair from out in the hallway and placed himself in a corner, as
if to indicate that this wasn't his party. Nobody seemed to notice Jillian, who had the good
sense to sit there and do nothing. She was wearing a loose-fitting white silk blouse,
buttoned all the way up to the top, and a wool skirt that draped demurely down to her
lower calves. Swain probably assumed she was someone who worked at my office.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Larsen?" Swain asked, in his smooth baritone. "I
didn't quite understand why you wanted to meet."

"To talk about my client."

"I think I can safely assure you that Ms. Markowsky is no longer a person of
interest in the death of her husband." He twisted in his chair. "Am I right about that,
Sergeant Stone?"

"As far as I'm concerned. We have a fully documented confession. He's locked up
tighter than a drum. There won't be a trial."

Swain nodded. "Then I am at a loss, Mr. Larsen."

I said, "Is your investigation completed, then?"

"Joe? That's correct, isn't it?"

"Hell, no," Stone said. "I still want to talk to that woman. The one who was with
Markowsky at the opera. The blonde--"

I could see the light of recognition in his eyes. He knew all of my staff--and the
woman sitting next to me definitely wasn't one of them. I smiled. "This is Jillian Piper. She
works for Rawlings Professional Services, Inc. I believe she's the woman you're looking
for."

Swain eyed me with a combined look of suspicion and appreciation.
"Indeed."

Stone jumped to his feet. "Damn you, Larsen! How long have you--"