A Knight at the Opera (4 page)

In the lobby, I buzzed her unit number and heard a click as the electric lock
engaged. Other than her two aunts, I was the only person with a key to her unit, but I
seldom used it. We had an understanding about respecting each other's personal space. I
rode the elevator to the tenth floor and headed for the door marked 10D. Finding it ajar, I
went inside.

Jana had recently redecorated the place, replacing the outdated beige carpet
with a medium gray. The walls, once white, were now a soft blue. The drapes were a darker
blue. She had kept the second bedroom as an office, including the desk and credenza her
father had used in running his business.

"Looks nice," I commented.

She wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me. "What does?" she said
playfully. "Me, or the condo?"

"Both," I answered, without having to stretch the truth. "They go hand in
hand."

She had dark, brooding eyes and sensual lips. Her features were smooth and
balanced, with the athletic glow of a woman who spent considerable time in the gym. That
morning, she had her long hair in a ponytail, and was wearing a green t-shirt, brown shorts
and hiking boots.

She picked up her back pack, purse and the case bearing her ever-present
laptop. "Shall we go?"

I knew her well enough that I didn't offer to help. She would have viewed that as
a challenge to her sovereignty. Jana had issues, many of them stemming from her father's
death, but I figured that, sooner or later, she'd work them out. I also didn't bother to point
out that she was underdressed for an April morning in Rocky Mountain National Park. She
would have thought of that, and undoubtedly had stuffed warmer clothes into her
backpack.

We loaded her things into the trunk of my Audi. I turned onto westbound Evans.
When we reached Colorado Boulevard, I merged onto Interstate 25 north and kept going
until we exited onto the Boulder turnpike, also known as US Highway 36. By a quarter to
ten, we were driving north on 119, toward Lyons. Twenty-two miles later, we had reached
Estes Park. We rolled straight through town and turned into the entrance of the park.

Rocky Mountain National Park has more than three hundred and fifty miles of
hiking trails, at elevations ranging from 7,500 to over 12,000 feet, if you exclude Long's
Peak, which tops out at 14,259. Fortunately--contrary to Hal Gross' snide comment--Jana
wasn't interested in climbing any mountains. But she did want an adventure, and plenty of
exercise. The temperature was in the high forties, and we started walking at a brisk pace.
There was snow on the ground, but not enough to hinder our progress.

After we'd hiked for probably an hour and a half, she decided she needed to see
Mills Lake, which was depicted on the National Forest Service map as a three mile trek
from the main trail head. We headed down the path, still moving rapidly. As we neared the
lake, given that we were somewhere around 10,000 feet, I told her I needed to slow
down.

"Are you serious? We're trying to build up our stamina." Her exuberant smile
made me suspect she was beginning to experience oxygen deprivation.

"You build up your stamina," I said. "I'm slowing down. I don't spend four hours
a day in the gym."

"It's not four hours." She kept walking, as I lagged behind. Finally, in a tone that
sounded to me a tad triumphant, she conceded, "Fine, we'll slow down."

The lake was definitely worth seeing, a deep basin of blue, surrounded by
pungent evergreens and beyond the trees, snow-capped mountains. The air was fresh and
crisp. We sat down by the lake and watched the gentle movement of the water. There were
other people nearby, but they didn't disturb our solitude.

We were sitting there when my phone beeped. I'd forgotten to turn off the
ringer. I quickly silenced it. When I glanced at the digital display, I raised my eyebrows.
"Interesting. I think this is Joe Stone."

"Let it go to voice mail." She gestured expansively to indicate that we were busy
enjoying nature. "This is more important. You can call him back when we get down to
Denver."

I smiled and slipped my arm around her waist. I understood that it was intended
as a request, not an order, despite the fact that her words sounded peremptory. I had
learned through years of taking depositions that sometimes the things people said sounded
very different on paper than when they were spoken.

Jana was just caught up in the reverie of the moment.

"That works for me" I said. "I'm never in a rush to talk to Joe Stone."

We sat in silence for a while longer, enjoying the amazing scenery. After a few
minutes, she said, "I'm getting cold," and reached for the jacket she had stowed inside her
day pack. "Let's head on back."

I'd been thinking the same thing.

We climbed to our feet and began the trip back to the parking area.

By the time we returned to Estes Park, it was mid-afternoon. We parked along
Elkhorn Avenue and spent a couple of hours wandering through the stores, including the
Old Church Shops, looking at everything from leather goods to quilts to talking toy bears.
Jana found a couple of sweatshirts she liked and I offered to buy them for her. But, being
Jana, she insisted on paying for them herself.

For dinner, we stopped at the Mexican cantina on East Elkhorn. While we were
waiting for a table to open up, I checked my voice mail. There was just one message, from a
familiar and always unwelcome voice.

"Larsen, this is Joe Stone. Call me. I have more questions for you." I pressed the
button to delete the message and told Jana, "It was Stone. He wants me to call him. He has
questions."

She looked puzzled. "Really? About what?"

I hadn't told her of my conversations with Hal Gross. He and I had an unspoken
agreement that the information we shared with each other was confidential. "I presume it's
about the man at the opera. Maybe there's more to his death than meets the eye."

"Really? What do you mean?"

Before leaving my house to pick up Jana, I'd quickly thumbed through the
Clarion
, so I knew I wasn't giving away any secrets. "Apparently, he was with a
woman, as yet unidentified. If you and I had been at the opera, and I went over the balcony,
wouldn't you have run downstairs to find out if I was okay? And if I wasn't, wouldn't you
have stayed around to talk to the police?"

"Sure. Didn't the woman do that?"

"No. And that seems odd."

"I guess it does," she agreed.

By the time we finally got seated, we were both famished. Hiking long distances
in thin mountain air was a sure way to build up a healthy appetite. We munched on tortilla
chips and salsa until our food arrived, and promptly dug in. When the last remnants of her
burrito and enchilada were gone, Jana excused herself and went to the ladies room. I
reached for my phone and called the number that popped up as the newest of the recent
calls.

All I got was Stone's voice mail, so I left him a message. "This is Adam Larsen,
returning your call. I'm up in Estes Park, but I'll be in the office all day tomorrow. Call me at
your convenience."

We reached Denver at about six-thirty and headed directly to Fort Larsen, as
Maurice liked to call my house at 815 Gilpin. There was a story behind my acquiring the
place. The prior owner had decided to sell it because he was involuntarily moving to the
state penitentiary at Cañon City. For reasons I could only imagine, when he
remodeled the 1930s home to add all of the modern conveniences, he had also equipped
the house with a high-tech burglar alarm system, including motion sensors and glass-break
detectors. The doors were heavily reinforced and equipped with massive dead bolts. I
suspected the windows were bullet-proof glass, but I'd never tested them out. The broker
who sold me the house also claimed there was an underground escape passage somewhere
in the basement, but I'd hadn't really believed him.

Because Jana had brought her laptop computer, I knew she was planning to
spend the night. Other items she might need, such as a toothbrush, deodorant and the like,
were stored in the guest bathroom on the second floor, next to the extra
bedroom--although we both knew that wasn't where she'd be sleeping. During the drive down from
Estes Park, she had told me about some of the matters she was handling in her burgeoning
career as a private investigator--nothing confidential, of course--and said she needed to
catch up on paperwork. Most of the detective business, like the practice of law, seemed to
consist of paper shuffling. Or--in this, the second decade of the twenty first century--
electronic file management.

We headed for the den and made ourselves comfortable. Jana had known the
burglar alarm code for Fort Larsen almost since the day we met. Later, as further proof of
the bonds of our friendship, I'd even given her the WEP key to the wireless router. Her
computer automatically logged onto the network. The Avalanche had made it into the
playoffs, so I switched on the flat screen and flipped through the channels until I found the
game. At ten o'clock, I watched the news, while she finished putting together a bill for
services rendered, which she emailed to her client.

After that was done, she decided we needed to do more work on increasing our
stamina.

And this time, I didn't ask her to slow down.

Monday's
Clarion
was a small newspaper. Like most big city dailies, its
circulation--as well as its advertising revenue--had been declining steadily over the past
decade, fueled by the ascendency of the internet and social media. I'd had several long
conversations with Hal Gross, mostly over half-empty bottles of wine, about the future of
journalism. Our consensus was that the future was definitely going to be something very
different than the past.

Jana had gotten up early and headed over to her health club, so she could finish
her morning workout in time for a nine o'clock client meeting. I poured a bowl of cold
cereal and milk, with coffee and half a grapefruit, and had breakfast in the little nook in the
kitchen. When the blinds were up, I could look out onto the wide expanse of Cheesman
Park, which was named after a local businessman whose widow donated the money to
build the Greek pavilion located in the middle of the park. The grass and trees were just
beginning to come alive in their annual spring rebirth.

After taking time to appreciate the greenery, I turned my attention to the
Clarion
. The box on page one bore the headline, "Former Bronco is Hero to Local
Businesswoman. Page 7." The article on page seven filled about half of the page, describing
Maurice's college career and his tenure with the Broncos, conveniently leaving out the
incidents that led to his being suspended and then "released," as the team had carefully
phrased it for the press at the time. After a description of the events at Saturday's opera,
and Maurice's role as hero of the night, the article shifted focus and talked about
Robin--whose last name was apparently McCormick, and not Fish--as the CFO of an up-and-coming
local marketing company. There were several references to her father, George McCormick,
who was well known in the Colorado oil and gas business.

Evidently, Maurice had saved a bigwig. Or, to be more accurate, the daughter of a
bigwig.

The article ended with a hint that there was more to the opera death that met
the eye, but offered no indication what that "more" might be. There was also an oblique
reference to the dead man's "mystery" companion who, as the writer suggested, might have
been someone other than his wife.

I finished breakfast, loaded the dishes into the dishwasher, and headed
downtown.

My office was located on the top floor of the McGaa Building, at Sixteenth and
Arapahoe. I stepped out of the elevator in front of the door marked ADAM LARSEN &
ASSOCIATES, P.C. at a few minutes after nine.

As usual, Diana was sitting at her desk in the reception area. She pressed the
button to buzz me into the office suite. We'd added the security door, and a simple alarm
system that was only activated at night, because of an incident involving a disgruntled
husband in a divorce case a few years earlier. My staff had mutinied, claiming that I
attracted danger like clover attracts honeybees, and I had yielded to their demands.

In truth, I had agreed with them.

"Good morning." She pointed to the copy of the
Clarion
on the corner of
her desk. "I see you managed to turn a tranquil respite at the opera into one of your usual
escapades."

I grinned at her. "It wasn't me. I've decided it was Maurice's fault."

She arched a brow. "Maurice?"

"Sure. I mean, think about it. These things only happen when he's with me. He
must be the reason all these things keep--"

"Oh, sure, blame it on the dumb jock," Maurice interrupted. I hadn't noticed he'd
joined us. He was wearing gray slacks and a blue striped shirt, and looked to be in a jovial
mood, despite the fact that he had two nasty scratches on his left cheek.

"Actually, in truth, this time there may be no one to blame," I said. "Sometimes,
things just happen. I take it you've seen the story in the
Clarion
?"

"Yeah. That Hal Gross is okay. Not a single reference to, well, you know."

"I figured he'd be true to his word. I'll let him know how much we appreciate it. I
had no clue that the woman you rescued was George McCormick's daughter."

"Me, neither."

"You ought to marry her," I told him. "She's probably worth millions."

"I just might," he agreed with a smile, "right after she joins AA and stays
completely sober for five years. She must have had a hell of a hangover."

"Would this be Robin McCormick?" Diana asked.

He eyed her warily. "Yeah, why?"

She flashed a knowing smile and held out a pink phone message slip for Maurice.
"She called at eight forty-five, asking to speak with you. Evidently, she's smitten."