A Knight at the Opera (22 page)

"Well, disabuse yourself of that notion. My organization does not engage in
violence. Not now, not ever. That wouldn't fit into our business model. It would destroy
us."

I was studying him carefully. He seemed to be telling the truth, but I had no way
of verifying what he was saying. If he wasn't the one chasing after that credit card bill, then
who was? I stood up. "How do I reach you if I need to?"

"Just call the number you originally called. They know where to find me." He
stood. "I don't think I'm going to regret this meeting."

By the time I reached my office, it was nearly four o'clock. I'd made it a leisurely
walk from the Republic Building to my office on Arapahoe Street, lost in a fog of thought.
Anyone who was so inclined could have sneaked up from behind and bashed me on the
head with a jack handle.

None of this was making sense. One obvious possibility was that Rawlings had
lied to me, about a few things or even about everything. But that struck a discordant note in
my mind. What he was telling me seemed logical. I realized that he was, in essence, nothing
more than a pimp with expensive clothes and an Ivy League education. There was no
reason I should believe a word he'd told me. Yet, somehow, I did. And even if I assumed he
was responsible for Bonners' death, I couldn't come up with any motive that made any
sense.

It had occurred to me that I could at least verify one aspect of what Rawlings
had told me, with little risk of anyone else getting killed. When I reached my office, I dialed
Stone's number. After the operator had put my call through, he answered with, "What do
you want? I'm busy. The Aurora police have my report. You'll hear from them."

"I have a question for you. You're not going to like it, but it's important. It's
about Karl Markowsky. Did your officers find an orange medicine bottle in his
pocket?"

There were four ways Stone ever responded to any question I posed to him. The
first, and most frequent, was to sidestep the question completely by pointing out that he
was the cop and therefore he was the one who would ask the questions. His second option
was to explode with threats and demands, which I never actually took seriously. I knew he
was just blowing off steam and he never followed up with what he threatened to do to me,
especially since the incident, years ago, when he'd had to write that written apology. The
third reaction was a long, quiet silence. That was the dangerous response, because I knew
he was so mad he was speechless. When that happened, there was no telling what he might
do. That Saturday night at the opera, Tom Swain had to restrain him. Since I had become
involved with Jana, a fourth option had opened up, and he would occasionally actually give
me the information I needed.

It was the third reaction that I received late on that Friday afternoon. The
silence must have lasted a full thirty seconds. I knew better than to say anything, and just
needed to give him time to get his rage under control.

Besides, his silence answered my question, and his verbal response was
unnecessary.

Finally, he said. "What do you know about that?"

"That's why I said you're not going to like it. I came across the information in the
course of representing Joyce Markowsky, meaning it's protected by the attorney-client
work product privilege and I can't divulge it."

"The hell you can't," he said. "You're going to tell me where you found out."

"Stone, you know it's not my privilege, and therefore not my decision as to
whether to waive it. It belongs to the client. And she's not going to talk to you as long as
she's suspected of causing her husband's death. Especially with Markowsky's ex-wife
pressing you to blame it on Joyce. I can tell you, on my word, it didn't come from anyone in
law enforcement, so don't go off on one of your Captain Queeg inquisitions, trying to plug
some leak that doesn't exist."

"Who told you about it, Larsen?" he demanded in a low growl.

"I can't tell you. And, aside from the privilege issue, it's complete hearsay. It
wouldn't be admissible in any court of law. Look, you know from our past dealings that as
soon as I can tell you, I will. I don't suppose you'd tell me if you found any fingerprints on
the bottle other than Markowsky's?"

Stone needed no time to think about that one. His reaction was immediate.

He hung up on me.

That seemed to be happening to me quite a bit.

I checked my emails just before I left the office. Joyce Markowsky had forwarded
an email from the lawyer handling Karl's estate. Gretchen, through Seymour Millpond, had
filed an objection to having Joyce appointed as the Personal Representative. The Court had
set a hearing on the matter for May 6, and Joyce wanted to make sure I could attend. I
checked my calendar--both the paper version and Outlook--and I was clear. I wrote back to
let her know. I also said, "Your husband had a little orange medicine bottle in his pocket the
night he died. Do you know anything about that?"

My phone rang about twenty seconds later. It was Joyce. "What kind of
bottle?"

"I don't know. The police won't give me any details. He had it with him at the
opera. The suspicion is that he tried to drug the woman who was with him."

"Karl? He would never do anything like that."

"Apparently this time he did. The question is, why?"

She was adamant. "I'm sorry, I just don't believe that. There's no reason on earth
for him to have done anything like that."

A vague picture was beginning to take shape in my mind, which suggested a
reason, but I couldn't translate it into words. I just said, "Don't kill me, I'm just the
messenger. Part of my job as your lawyer is to pass on the information I receive. Even the
bad stuff."

She said, "Sorry. This is all just making me crazy. What are we going to do about
Gretchen?"

"Not so much Gretchen," I said. "We need to find a way to get the police to clear
you as a suspect in Karl's death. That would kill two birds with one stone."

"That would be great. How--"

"I'm working on it," I told her in a resolute tone. "I'm working on it."

* * * *

Jana had resumed her exercise regime except that, of course, she couldn't lift a
barbell or practice punching things with her left arm. She'd been back to the doctor, who
told her she was healing on schedule. She bristled over the fact that he had advised her not
to overdo it, which was a sign that she was getting back to normal emotionally as well as
physically.

We met for dinner at the little Chinese restaurant on Evans, near her condo. Jana
had loaned me the GPS detector, and I made sure there was nothing on my car when I left
the parking garage downtown. I also kept an eye on traffic, taking a few sudden turns and
three detours, to convince myself I wasn't being followed. It was completely possible that I
was being paranoid, but I figured there was no harm in exercising caution. If Drew Bonners
had done that, he'd still have been alive.

When I arrived at the restaurant, just after six-thirty, she was seated in one of
the booths. On the table in front of her was a half empty glass of Tsingtao. I leaned over and
kissed her before I slid into the booth across from her. "Have you been here long?"

"This is my first one. So, no. Busy day?"

"Odd day," I told her. "I met my first pimp today."

"Yeah? Was he wearing a zoot suit and a hat with a feather? And lots of
bling?"

I smiled at the image. "No. Actually, he was wearing a very expensive business
suit, and a Cornell class ring. And he spoke better English than I do. But he is black, which at
least in part matches your stereotype."

She reached for her glass and took a healthy sip. "How do you know he's a
pimp?"

"He's the Rawlings of Rawlings Professional Services."

She glanced up sharply. "You mean the place where that Markowsky was
running up credit card charges?"

"I do. I think we've found the mystery woman who left him at the opera. She
works for Rawlings."

She looked at me as though I'd lost my mind. "And he just came out and told you
who she is?"

"Basically, yes."

"Why would he do that?"

"I'm not exactly sure," I admitted. "He didn't give me her last name, but he did
provide some very useful information."

She was still staring at me. "And you believe him?"

"I do, up to a point. Especially since I was able to verify what he told me.
Through your esteemed friend, Joe Stone."

"This I've got to hear."

"The woman at the opera wasn't trying to drug Markowsky. He was trying to
drug her. She got wind of it and switched their drinks."

She looked skeptical. "And Stone verified that?"

"No. What he verified is one specific detail. They found an orange pill bottle in
Markowsky's coat pocket. It had to contain the Rohypnol. And, although Stone didn't
expressly say this, his reaction confirmed the other thing I suspected. The only fingerprints
on the bottle were Markowsky's. Meaning nobody else touched it after he did."

"Someone could have wiped it clean and then touched Markowsky's fingers to
it."

"Sure, if he were dead and she had the opportunity to tinker with the bottle. But
sitting in the middle of the VIP room at the opera house? How would she have
accomplished that? He thought he was drugging her. If she'd done anything with that
bottle, he'd have known she was onto him."

"Good point," she said. "That's why I leave all these mental gymnastics to you. So
what does all of this mean?"

"I don't know. This Rawlings seems to be on the level, and--"

"Yeah, for a pimp," she cut in.

"Okay, for a pimp. What I don't understand is the man who attacked you and,
presumably, killed Drew Bonners. If it wasn't one of Rawlings' people, none of this makes
any sense. There's something going on that just isn't clicking. I--" I cut it off because
something had dawned on me. It seemed pretty improbable, but it might explain some of
the events that had been swirling around Jana and me.

"What?" she said. "You've thought of something?"

"Maybe. I need to think it through."

I gave her a quick outline of what I was thinking.

Otherwise, it would have been a long, solitary evening.

I should have known Stone wouldn't leave things alone. After I asked him about
the pill container in Karl Markowsky's pocket, it was inevitable that he would react. My cell
phone started buzzing at eight fifteen Saturday morning. I had set it on vibrate--or "stun" as
I sometimes called it--but I could still hear it vibrating on the little night stand next to Jana's
bed. Probably half an hour later, it happened again, and I squinted over at the display to see
who was looking for me. I didn't recognize the number, but from the prefix, it was probably
someone associated with the City and County of Denver.

Of course, it had something to do with Stone.

I touched the voice mail icon and listened. Tom Swain was asking me to come
down and meet with him. I groaned and pressed the "recent calls" button. Since it was the
weekend, I wasn't surprised when he answered the call himself. He said he would like to
meet with me right away, and we set it up for ten o'clock.

Jana was still half asleep. "Who was that?"

"An assistant DA. He wants to talk to me."

"On a Saturday?"

"The law never sleeps," I told her. "But you should. I'll be back in a couple of
hours."

Swain's office was located in a refurbished brick building on West Colfax. I had
to have the guard buzz me in and run me through the security scanner. I took the stairs up
to the third floor. Swain was tall and energetic, with hair just beginning to turn gray. He
greeted me at the doorway with a hearty, "Good morning, Mr. Larsen. Thank you for
coming down here," and escorted me inside.

His office was comfortable, but nothing fancy. One wall was lined with books,
including the red paperback set of Colorado Revised Statutes. He circled around his desk
and sat down. I took the chair across from him, which wasn't like the molded plastic chairs
in Joe Stone's office. It actually had some padding and was moderately comfortable.

"You have questions for me?"

"I do," he said. "I hope you don't mind."

His friendliness did nothing to put me at ease. This wasn't a social occasion. "It
depends on what you ask."

"That's fair. You told Joe Stone something yesterday that had him, well..." He let
it trail off, as though searching for the right word.

"Rabid?" I suggested. "Fuming? Foaming at the mouth?"

He smiled. "Any of those would suffice. He wanted me to secure an arrest
warrant and have you brought in for questioning."

"He did that once. I--"

"Yes, I've heard that," he said seeming vaguely irritated. "You understand he was
just doing his job, don't you?"

"No, I don't. Stone was completely over the line. But I don't think you invited me
down here to debate that, did you?"

"No, I didn't. Let me start with this, Mr. Larsen. Police investigations require the
utmost in confidentiality. If criminals learn unreleased details about a crime, it hampers
our ability to complete our investigation."

So that's what this was all about. Damn that Stone! "Mr. Swain, other than Stone,
the only people I've told about that pill bottle are people under my direction and control, or
my client, who has an absolute right to know. Look," I added. "I know Stone thinks I
somehow infiltrated the police department and planted a microphone under his desk, but
I've done no such thing."

"Well," he said affably, "I'm glad we've eliminated that possibility. So, tell me,
how did you find out?"

I shook my head. "I can't tell you. It's information I stumbled upon in gathering
information for my client's defense. That makes it work product, which makes it privileged.
Which means I can't tell you."