A Knight at the Opera (11 page)

"Positive. I had to go down there and identify his body. It was awful! But it was
definitely him. Why on earth would you ask me something like that?"

"Just a random thought. Here's another one, although not random. Did your
husband have any credit cards accounts with Bank of America?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"As sure as I can be, I suppose. I'm the one who paid all the bills. He only had one
card that I know of, and it was issued through AT&T. Nothing through B of A. We have
no accounts there. Why do you ask?"

"I don't mean to sound mysterious, but I'm going to ask you to indulge me. I
have reason to believe he had another credit card."

"Well, I suppose I could call or write them, but without an account number, I
doubt they'd be able to do anything for me."

"Do you have his social security number?"

"Not memorized, but it's on our tax return. We filed it a few weeks ago. Do you
want me to try?"

I thought it over. "No, not until after you're issued Letters by the probate court.
At that point, you'll have legal authority to communicate with them. Did he keep any files at
home?"

"Oh, yes. All sorts of files. And, knowing him, they're in good order,"

"Would you mind looking through them, just to make sure there isn't anything
from B of A?"

"Not if you think it's important. I'll get going on it this afternoon. There are
probably some files at his office, too. I'll call Vicki and arrange to pick them up. Is there
anything else?"

"There is one thing," I said. "For the same reason I'm asking about the credit
card. It's probably nothing, but there appears to be something odd going on. You haven't
asked anyone to pick up Karl's mail, have you?"

"No. Is someone claiming I did?"

"Not exactly. As soon as I have enough information to sort it out, I'll explain it in
full."

"That's fine," she said. "I have complete faith in you."

"Thank you. Have you been contacted again by the police?"

"No."

"That's a good sign. And I'm probably making a big deal out of nothing. I'll let
you know if I hear from anyone at PMBT."

"Thank you."

When I ended the call, Jana said, "Thank you for not telling her what happened
to me." She said bitterly, "I can't believe it was so easy for that man to render me helpless.
Next time, he won't get be so lucky."

"Next time?" I asked. "You expect there to be a next time?"

"Oh, there's going to be a next time. And he's going to regret it."

With an indulgent smile, I said, "Well, you're obviously feeling better. That's a
good sign."

"No, I feel like shit. But I'll get over it. Are you going down to the office
now?"

I regarded her. "Yes. I can take a hint." I leaned over and kissed her. "Call me if
you need anything."

"I'll be fine."

At ADAM LARSEN & ASSOCIATES, P.C., Diana was seated at her reception desk.
She buzzed me into the office and handed me a stack of phone messages. "Is Jana
okay?"

"She's almost back to normal. She'll soon be as feisty as ever."

"Good for her," she said. "Apparently there's news. About the man at the opera.
Ann found something online."

"Interesting." I headed down the hallway and stopped at Ann's office. She had a
stack of books open on her desk and was working on a brief in a contract case we were
handling. As always, she was chewing on the end of a ball point pen.

Ann and I seldom had long conversations. I really had no idea about her friends
or family, likes and dislikes, except that I knew she couldn't stand Joe Stone. To her, he was
a Philistine. Or a Hun.

Ann was somewhere around five-foot-five, with a narrow oval face. Somewhere
in the past few months, she'd abandoned her bookish black glasses and started wearing
contact lenses. She never wore makeup and her brown hair always looked slightly askew.
But she had an amazingly analytical mind. Two weeks earlier, I'd asked about her plans for
after she graduated law school, which was suddenly just a few months away.

Even that conversation had been brief.

She merely said, "I'd like to work here. If that's okay with you." No questions
about salary, the possibility of becoming a partner or anything else. Just the simple
statement. Short and to the point.

"It is," I'd answered. "I'm sure we can work out the details."

She had said, "Thank you," and returned to her work. The subject wasn't
mentioned again.

As I ambled into her office, she glanced up and addressed me in her usual
monotone. "Good morning. Did Diana tell you what I found out?"

I shook my head. "She just said you had news."

She pulled the pen out of her mouth. "I do. I remembered there was an article in
the
Clarion
last week that I thought might support one of our arguments in the
Petrie case, so I got online to search for the story. The lead headline on today's home page
is about that man at the opera. Apparently, the toxicologist found Rohypnol in his system.
Enough to make him goofy."

Something in her tone amused me. "Did they use the word 'goofy'?"

She colored. "No. That's my word. I--"

I laughed. "It's a perfectly good word. It just sounds like something Hal Gross
would say. Any other details?"

"No. Only that they're still looking for the so-called mystery woman. They're
really playing that up to the max."

"Good work," I said. "I think I'll give Hal a call."

She jammed the end of pen back into her mouth and returned to her work.

To get to my office, I had to pass Maurice's. He was at his desk, his shirt sleeves
rolled up, poring over documents in the same case Ann was working on.

"Good morning," I said. "Sandies?" Sandies was a sandwich shop about a block
from the office.

"Sure. What time?"

"How about eleven forty-five? We can beat the rush."

"Great."

I finished the trek down the hall to my office and tried to call Hal. As usual, I had
to leave a voice message. I booted up my desktop computer, waiting for the hard drive to
finish grinding while it loaded all the programs and services it needed in order to function.
Finally, I was able to open Outlook. Even with spam filters, there were nearly fifty emails,
and I began going through them. I noticed a series of communications among all of the
lawyers in a construction defects case I was defending, squabbling over how many
depositions would be permissible and whose depositions would be taken at whose office.
I'd discovered that if you simply went to the last one, you could avoid all the brain damage
of responding to each of them along the way, and simply weigh in at the end.

When I finished the emails, I navigated to the
Clarion
website and read
the article about Karl Markowsky. There was nothing I didn't already know.

At about eleven fifteen, Hal Gross returned my call. "Good morning, Counselor"
he said warmly. "To what do I owe the honor?"

"My curiosity."

Hal knew me too well. "Personal or professional?"

"Both. I've been hired to represent Joyce Markowsky, the widow of--"

"I know that," he interrupted. "I've been waiting for you to tell me, so I could
print it."

"Really? Who could possibly care about something like that?"

"I would. And my readers, and Facebook friends and Twitter followers. You're
quite a celebrity, my friend."

"Thanks to you," I said ruefully. "You know I prefer to sit quietly in the back of
the room."

"And keep your light under a bushel? You? No chance of that. So what curiosity
of yours can I satisfy?"

"Karl Markowsky. And Rohypnol."

"The tox report shows he had it in his system. Probably ingested sixty to ninety
minutes before he died."

"Which means during intermission," I said.

"Which it does, at that. Good point. I hadn't connected those dots. So where was
he during intermission?"

"Presumably where everyone else was. Either out in the lobby on the first floor
or one of the upper level hallways, or in the VIP lounge downstairs. Or in the rest room, or
outside the building, or any combination of the above. Your guess is as good as mine.
Better, probably. Have the police found anyone who claims to have seen him?"

"Not a soul. He wasn't exactly a mover or shaker in this town. From what I've
picked up, he was basically a plodder. Competent, but not flashy. Some people thought he
was kind of a goober."

"What about the woman he was with?"

"No word on that. Not even a consensus as to whether it was his wife--meaning
your client--or some femme fatale. They took DNA samples off the seat and railing, and
dusted everything in sight for fingerprints, but nothing. Bupkus. So many people use those
seats that any DNA sample would be a useless hodge-podge. And the word is, they didn't
find any usable prints. Stone is not a happy boy."

"But the presumption is still that, whoever that woman was, she drugged
him?"

"It depends on who you're talking to. Can I tell you something strictly in
confidence? Not to Jana, not to Maurice, not even to your client."

I didn't even have to think about it. Lawyers are required to share all important
information with clients; but there are times when we're permitted to defer the disclosure
if we know it is in the client's best interest. This seemed to be one of those times.

"Not even the client," I said. "My word."

"There seems to be a little detail the cops don't want released. I don't know what
it is, but it's something big and it's got them scrambling around like ants at a picnic. My
people think it's something that was found at the scene, but that's just speculation. I've
never seen the cops so mum about anything."

"Is it something that proves his death was a homicide?"

"Don't know. You now know as much as I do. So you tell me? Was this a
murder?"

"It's hard to see how it could be," I told him. "From what I understand, whoever
that woman was, she wasn't even there when it happened."

"Well, only time will tell," he said. "Anything else?"

"Not today." I considered telling him what had happened to Jana, but decided the
last thing she needed was a news article about a private investigator getting mugged at the
mall. I was concerned enough that she might be in danger. Until I had some idea why that
envelope was so important, anything I did might only make it worse.

We had barely hung up when Diana buzzed my office again. "Joyce Markowsky.
She says it's important."

I pressed the button. "Hello, Joyce."

"Adam, you were right. I've been going through Karl's files. There's something
you need to see."

"What is it?"

"A credit report. You can get one free once a year. I'm putting it on the fax
machine right now. You should have it in a minute or two."

"All right, let me put you on hold. I'll run down to the copy room and pull it off
the machine."

"I'll wait."

I pressed the red "hold" button and walked out of my office, turning right. At the
end of the hallway, I turned left, toward the copy room. The fax was just coming in. So far,
there were four pages, and more on the way. I waited until it was done and pulled the
sheets off the machine, stapling them together. It was a credit report for Karl G.
Markowsky. I glanced through it as I retraced my steps to my office, but nothing obvious
jumped out at me.

"I've got it," I said when I reached my desk. "What am I looking for?"

There was no response.

For a moment, I had a panicked feeling that something had happened to Joyce.
But then I heard her voice, "Sorry, another call came in. An old college friend of mine. I told
her I'd have to call her back. Look at the third page from the back."

I did what she said. Someone had written an exclamation mark next to one of the
entries. It was for a Bank of America credit account in the name of Karl Markowsky.

"Do you know what that mark means?"

She said, "No. I'm guessing it's Karl's writing, but I have no idea why he wrote
that. Shall we tell the police about this?"

"Not yet. I have a feeling we should find out what the credit card was being used
for before we do anything."

"That makes sense," she agreed. "I'm going to contact the bank right away. I'll let
you know what I find out."

Sandies was nestled between a flower shop and a custom men's clothing store. It
couldn't be classified as a hole-in-the-wall because there weren't any such establishments
left in downtown Denver. Urban renewal and gentrification had driven out all of the good
old-fashioned dives. The place was well maintained and always spotless. You could
probably have eaten off the floors if you were so inclined. Contrary to what the name
implied, the establishment had never been owned by anyone named Sandy. Or even Sandi.
The owner was Harriet O'Reilly, a plump brunette who had a friendly face with a small
round birthmark on her left cheek.

She greeted Maurice and me with her customary, "Howdy do, gents?" When I
was alone, it was always "Howdy do, Mr. Larsen?" even though I'd often invited her to use
my first name. She led us to a table she knew I preferred, near the window, facing out
toward Curtis Street.

"Menus?" she asked.

"Not really," Maurice told her. "We both know everything that's on it."

"That you do," she agreed. "What'll you have today?"

I opted for roast beef on rye, with a side salad; Maurice went for the French dip
with fries. After Harriet brought our food, he said, "Anything new on the Markowsky
thing?"

"A lot." I filled him on Jana's escapades, including the name on the stolen
envelope, and the credit report Joyce had found.

"What do you think is going on?"

"I don't know. There's obviously some connection between Markowsky and the
attack on Jana, but I have no idea what it might be. We'll just have to wait and see."