A Knight at the Opera (12 page)

"Knowing you, it will turn into something nefarious."

"You could be right," I agreed, feeling somehow buoyed by the thought. "It does
make life more interesting, doesn't it? Speaking of which, what is your status with Robin
McCormick?"

"We're going out for drinks on Friday. She says she wants me to see what she's
like when she isn't feeling sorry for herself. Or shit-faced drunk."

"Hopefully, she'll limit her consumption," I said. "The Larsen taxi service won't
be available on Friday."

"Good," he said with a laugh. "They give lousy service."

We finished eating and headed back to the office. When we arrived, I could see
through the glass--which was bulletproof, because of the same incident that had led to the
installation of the security door--that Diana was on the phone. She gestured to us to come
in, her wave conveying a sense of urgency.

As I approached, she covered the mouthpiece with her hand. "This is Joyce
Markowsky. She urgently needs to speak with you."

"I'm on it," I said. Crossing over to the little table between the two couches in the
reception area, I picked up the handset. "Hi, Joyce. What's going on."

She sounded out of breath. "Adam, two police officers are here, with a
warrant."

"What sort of warrant?"

"A search warrant. They want me to let them go through the house."

"Did they say what they're looking for?"

"No. I have no clue. Do I have to let them in?"

"I'm afraid so. Are you somewhere where you can talk?"

"Not really. I'm on my cell phone. One of them is standing here with me."

"Then just listen. I'm guessing they're looking for drugs. In particular, Rohypnol.
Please tell me you don't have anything like that lying around the house."

"Of course not," she assured me indignantly. "Not now, and not ever."

"Good. Then you have nothing to hide. Sit tight, and don't say a word to the
police. Don't engage in idle conversation, don't offer them water or coffee or anything else.
Just stand aside and keep out of their way. Do you want me to come over?"

"Yes. And please hurry."

"They probably won't let me in until they've finished searching, but I'll get there
as fast as I can. Keep your eyes open, especially if they take anything. It might be helpful to
know what they consider important."

"Will do," she said.

"I'm on my way."

As I hurried toward the door, Diana arched her brows. "Off to rescue another
damsel in distress?"

"Apparently so," I said. "Why should Maurice have all the fun?"

The drive to Joyce Markowsky's house took just over fifteen minutes. She lived
near Hilltop, in one of the newer McMansions, as the pundits sometimes called them. Large
and imposing, Mediterranean styling, too big for the lot. You could look out your upstairs
windows into your neighbor's back yard. Or, if the angles were right and the drapes were
open, into your neighbor's bedroom.

Two police cars were parked in front of the house. I pulled up behind them, shut
off the engine, and headed up to the front door. Through the living room window, I could
see Joyce sitting on a couch, with a policeman seated in a chair across from her. I rang the
bell. Joyce and the cop exchanged words, and then they both stood and came to the
door.

The uniformed officer began, "I'm sorry, sir, but--" He cut it off because he
recognized me.

"Dan McKeever, right?" I said. "We met a few years ago at--"

"I remember, Mr. Larsen. We're here executing on a search warrant. You can't
come in."

"I know. I'll wait to talk to her when you and the boys are done." I grinned at
him. "You know, if you'd care to tell us what you're after, we could probably help you look
for it."

There was a tiny flash of amusement in his eyes, and then he said solemnly, "You
know I can't do that. That would be--"

I flipped my hand. "Yeah, I know. I just figured it wouldn't hurt to ask." I knew
that to get a judge to sign a search warrant, they had to have submitted an affidavit proving
there was probably some evidence at the home. I added, making it sound like a question,
"I'm also assuming you can't tell me who's claiming Ms. Markowsky has committed a
crime."

"No, I can't. Not unless and until she's charged with something."

"I didn't think so. How's our dear friend, Sergeant Stone?" I knew from our past
dealings that he disliked Stone as much as I did. I also knew he wasn't going to admit it,
especially in front of a witness.

"I'm sure he's just fine," McKeever said, sounding very official and proper. "Just
fine. Now, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Okay. I'll go wait in my car. Do you have any idea how much longer you're going
to need?"

"Probably half an hour." He hedged his bet by adding, "Maybe more."

"Thanks," I said. "Joyce, remember." I made a pantomime gesture of zipping my
lips together. "We can talk after they leave."

It actually took them an hour. I know because I timed it. Having nothing else to
do, I leaned back against the seat, closed my eyes, and listened to music on my iPhone. Tom
Petty, Heart, Dianne Birch, and Van Halen. At one point, a car drove up, stopping on the
other side of the street. It was a late model Honda. A man in jeans and a hooded Nuggets
sweatshirt climbed out of the vehicle and walked purposefully up to Joyce's door. He was
carrying some papers, and I watched as he taped them to the door. Then he swiveled and
headed quickly back to his car.

A few minutes later, the front door opened. McKeever and two other cops came
outside. They were carrying a large plastic bag that seemed to be nearly full, but I couldn't
tell what was in it. I got out of my car and headed toward them. When they spotted the
papers taped to the door, McKeever took time to look at the first page, but he didn't touch
it.

As he passed me, he said, "Your client isn't having a very good day." He added,
sounding sincere, "I hope it doesn't get any worse."

"Thanks." I glanced at the papers and instantly knew what they were. It was a
summons and complaint for a forcible entry and detainer action--known to normal people
as an eviction. The Plaintiff was Gretchen Markowsky. I removed the documents from the
door and headed inside.

Joyce was sitting on the couch, looking shell-shocked.

I sat down next to her. "Are you okay?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Sitting here, knowing they were going through all
of my things--taking whatever they pleased--I thought I was going to scream."

"I know. It's not a good feeling."

"What are those?" she asked, noticing the papers in my hand.

"More bad news, I'm afraid. Gretchen Markowsky is trying to evict you from this
house."

She blinked uncomprehendingly. "What?"

"These are eviction papers. Gretchen is claiming you aren't entitled to this
house."

"I don't understand. How can she--"

Without warning, she buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. It
seemed like a dam had ruptured, releasing a torrent of emotions. Instinctively, I put my
arm around her shoulders and she leaned sideways against me, her body shaking with
wave after wave of tears. We sat that way for a long while. Finally, the storm subsided as
her self-control gradually returned, and I withdrew my arm.

"Thank you," she said, looking embarrassed. "I'm sorry I lost control like
that."

I shrugged. "That's a perfectly normal reaction, given what you've been through
today. Are you ready to answer some questions?"

"Yes."

"Tell me everything that happened after the police got here."

"When they rang the bell, I saw it was three officers, so I opened the door. One of
them, not the one you called McKeever, handed me a paper--it's over there on the
table--and said they had a warrant to search my house. He said they needed to come inside. I
asked if I had to let them in, and he said I did. I made them show me their badges, to make
sure they were really policeman. Then I called you."

"I noticed that they left with a bag full of goodies. Do you know what they
took?"

"Not specifically, but I can probably figure it out." She stood and led me upstairs,
to what I presumed was the master bedroom. Beyond the bed and dresser was a large
bathroom, with a walk-in shower, hot tub, and a double vanity. She headed straight for the
medicine cabinet and slid the glass door to the side, revealing rows of empty shelves. "This
is the first place they went. They took everything," she said. "From cold tablets to Midol.
After that, they went through every room. Every drawer, every closet, and every cabinet.
They even went out to the garage and searched my car."

I asked pointedly, "Was there anything in any of the bottles that shouldn't have
been there?"

"No," she insisted, meeting my eyes. "There wasn't."

"Good. Then we can only hope they'll be wasting valuable taxpayer dollars
verifying that all of your medications are exactly what they purport to be." It had occurred
to me that if she had fed her husband Rohypnol, this woman was intelligent enough to have
already disposed of the evidence. But, for the record, I honestly believed she hadn't done
any of those things. "Joyce, do you have any idea how Rohypnol would have gotten into
Karl's bloodstream?"

"No, I don't," she said. "I'm getting tired of having to keep telling everyone
that."

"Don't take it personally. I'm just making sure. As your lawyer, it's important
that I know exactly where we stand. Let's go back downstairs."

As we crossed the bedroom, the phone rang. Joyce answered, "Hello?"

I could see her stiffen. "Yes, Gretchen, I did receive the papers. No, I'm not going
to move out of the house. What makes you think you can take it away from me?" She
listened for a while. "Oh, yeah? That's bullshit, and both of us know it. His lawyer drew up
that will, and he signed it in front of witnesses. And, you know full well, Karl didn't leave
you because of me. He left you because he couldn't stand living with you anymore. Really?
Then I guess I'll see you in court!" She slammed the receiver down and turned to me. "That
bitch!"

"What was that all about?" I asked, although I could have made a pretty good
guess.

She spoke as she led the way downstairs. "That was Karl's ex-wife. She wanted
to know if I'm going to, well, you heard."

"I did. She's claiming your husband's will isn't valid?"

"That's right. And she said she's going to prove I'm responsible for Karl's death,
and I won't get a dime from his estate."

"That explains it," I told her.

"Explains what?"

"The police coming out to search your house. Someone is actively pushing the
theory that you were at the opera with your husband. And that you drugged him with
Rohypnol."

"Are you serious?"

"I'm afraid so. Why else would the police come out and confiscate every
medicine bottle they could get their hands on?" By now, we were back in the living room.
"Joyce, can you prove where you were Saturday night?"

"I was home. I thought Karl was at a poker game, so I downloaded a movie."

"That wasn't my question. Can you prove it?"

"No. How could I prove it?"

"Actually," I told her, as something occurred to me, "maybe you won't have to.
How did you download the movie?"

"Online. We have Netflix. I-- Oh, I get it. They would have records, wouldn't
they?"

"I assume so. It would tend to prove you were home and not, for example, at the
opera."

She put her hand on my arm. "Adam, you've got to believe me. It wasn't
me."

"I believe you," I told her. "I'm just looking for ways to prove it to the police. And,
indirectly, to the ex-wife. What about phone records? Did you make or receive any
calls?"

"I think I did. But I haven't followed up yet with T-Mobile. I'll add it to my 'to do'
list. Other than that, I don't know what else we can do."

"That may be enough." I said. "You contact Netflix, T-Mobile and Bank of
America. I'll talk to Gretchen's lawyer. But, most important of all, I need to find the woman
who was with your husband."

* * * *

As soon as I got back to the office, I went to work. Lawyering had evolved to the
point where virtually everything I did involved the computer. My first task was
accomplished by means of the online records of the Denver Assessor's office. Next, I called
the medical examiner's office. I'd been to their offices on Bannock Street half a dozen times
over the years, and had at least a basic idea of who did what. It took three transfers and
going around in circles with one of the clerks, but I finally found the person I needed. He
told me the two things I wanted to know: we could get a preliminary death certificate from
the mortuary almost immediately; and the completed autopsy report, which was a public
record, wouldn't be available for several months.

That meant we could start the process of getting Joyce appointed as the personal
representative of her husband's estate within the next week. We could then litigate the
issue of whether Gretchen--or anyone else--could prove that Joyce was disqualified as a
beneficiary or representative of the estate. The only way anyone could win that battle
would be to prove she caused her husband's death. If she lost, she couldn't inherit any of
his property. She would lose the house, the life insurance and any claim to his interest in
PMBT. For her, it would be an all or nothing proposition.

I buzzed Ann's office on the intercom. "Ann?"

"Here," she said, as though I was a teacher taking roll. I could almost picture her
putting her arm up in the air as she spoke.

"Can you come down to my office? I have a project for you."

"Sure."

A minute later, she was seated in one of the black leather chairs across from my
desk.

"Ann, there's a Colorado statute that disqualifies a person from being a
beneficiary or representative of an estate if he or she happened to have killed the decedent.
I know it's in Title 15, somewhere, but I'm not sure where. Can you find it and take a look at
it?"