A Knight at the Opera (24 page)

"Ms. Thomkins, this is Adam Larsen. I'm an attorney in Denver. I represent Joyce
Markowsky, the surviving spouse of Karl Markowsky. I'm calling about the death claim.
Your file number is 78230-CO. Do you need the policy number?"

"No, the claim number is fine. We're going to need a written power of attorney
before we can talk to you about this claim."

"Do you have a specific form that you require?"

"We do. I can fax or email it to you."

"Email would be fine." I gave her the address. "I'll have the client sign it and I'll
call you back."

"It will have to be tomorrow," she said. "We close at four o'clock eastern."

"It's five to two here. That means you're on the east coast?"

"We are. Cherry Hill, New Jersey. We open at nine, our time."

"I'll call you in the morning."

"Good. We need to talk about this claim. It's rather extraordinary."

"That doesn't sound like a good sign," I mused.

"It isn't. Call me after you've returned the power of attorney."

* * * *

Around five o'clock, the intercom buzzed. Diana said, "Mysterious gentleman,
line two."

"This is Adam Larsen."

"Amos Rawlings. I just wanted to update you on something. I've been trying to
reach Linda Lawrence, the woman who was working with the fake Markowsky. I haven't
been able to contact her."

"Is that a concern?"

"Possibly. She's not working today, and has a right to her private life. But she's
usually easy to reach. I'll try her again later. Is there anything else we need to talk
about?"

I considered it, and decided there was no reason not to tell him. "I was
summoned by a deputy DA on Saturday to discuss the Markowsky matter. They really want
to find Jillian."

He sounded alarmed. "Did you give her away?"

"I did not."

"Don't misunderstand my intention in asking this, but why didn't you? Most
people would have."

"Because if what you're telling me is true, it doesn't sound like she deserves to
go to jail simply because someone tried to drug her and she had enough sense to walk away
from it."

"Thank you," he said. "That's how I see it, too, Jillian's a decent girl. And it's
driving her crazy to know the authorities are looking for her."

"She could make contact with them and--"

"Not possible. They'd want to know why she was with him and they'd ask a lot of
questions that neither she nor I want answered. Especially questions about that orange
bottle. As it is, they're leaving me alone because they think Markowsky spent three
evenings with Linda and they think he was with someone else the night he died. Someone
who had nothing to do with Rawlings Professional."

"Then I have a problem. I need proof that Joyce Markowsky had nothing to do
with her husband's death."

"I don't know what to tell you. I'm not going to sacrifice Jillian just to help your
client. I have to put my business interests before any sense of altruism. And my own sense
of fair play. As you say, it doesn't seem right that Jillian should be punished for giving the
man a dose of his own medicine, as it were."

"Sooner or later, the police are going to find her. It would be much better if she
went to them than if they had to track her down."

"Maybe so. I'll give that serious consideration. If it comes down to it, could you
represent her?"

"I don't know. At first blush, it seems like a blatant conflict of interest. But as I
think about it, I'm not so sure. Her coming forward would obviously benefit my client. I'll
have to talk it over with Ms. Markowsky. No names, of course."

"You know," he said, "you're all right. I think you're going to figure out a way to
make this whole thing work out."

"You'd need a miracle for that, Mr. Rawlings."

"Let me tell you, Mr. Larsen, I'm a big believer in miracles."

At seven-thirty Tuesday morning, I called the California Mutual adjustor from
Fort Larsen.

"California Mutual, this is Irene Thomkins."

"Irene, this is Adam Larsen. We spoke yesterday about--"

"Oh, yes," she said. "Karl Markowsky. I have the file in front of me. And I have the
power of attorney, signed by your client. You work fast."

"I try. Tell me, what is so extraordinary about this claim?"

"I've seldom encountered anything like this. Our office has received a letter from
an attorney, claiming that the beneficiary, your client, is responsible for the death of our
insured. He demands that we deny your client's claim for the proceeds, and immediately
deliver the funds to him on behalf of his client."

"Let me guess. Seymour Millpond?"

"That's right. Do you know him?"

"Yes," I said between gritted teeth, "and I'm about to get to know him better.
What will you need to release those funds?"

"I'll need to verify this with our legal department, but I'm assuming we're going
to require a release from the claimant, authorizing us to pay the death benefit to your
client. Either that or an order from the probate court, determining who is entitled to the
proceeds."

"Meanwhile, California Mutual will hold onto those funds?"

"We will."

Damn that Millpond!

"Well," I said, "please tell your portfolio people not to invest Ms. Markowsky's
money in anything risky."

She laughed. "Oh, no. Actually, since we know there will be a payout to
somebody, the funds will be specifically earmarked for this claim."

"Will they be placed in an interest-bearing account?"

"I don't know," she told me. "I'll have to find out."

I did a quick calculation. The interest on two million dollars was somewhere
around two hundred and seventy five dollars a day. This thing could easily drag on for six
months, which could cost Joyce nearly fifty thousand dollars.

"Will you please let me know?"

"I will. Have a great day," she said, way too cheerfully.

She probably knew her company was monitoring her calls.

I waited until I got to the office and called Millpond. They actually put me
through to him. "What is your basis for claiming my client was responsible for her
husband's death?"

He was his usual pompous self. "We believe the developing evidence will prove
that she had a hand in his death."

"What developing evidence?" I demanded. "I've been talking with the police and
the DA's office, and there isn't a shred of proof to tie Joyce to her husband's death. She isn't
even a person of interest to them."

"So you say. We think differently."

I nearly said, "You don't think at all," but restrained myself. What I did say was,
"I think you ought to talk to the police before you make any more accusations against Joyce
Markowsky. You're way out in left field on this one, and it's costing my client money. Which
we're going to be seeking from your client."

"Hell," he said in a confident tone, although to me he sounded a bit defensive,
"they came out to her house with a search warrant. That's enough proof they think she did
it."

What planet was this guy living on? Had he ever even read the rules of evidence?
"That isn't proof at all. They were looking for evidence of Rohypnol, and they didn't find a
damn thing. Is that all the proof you have to support your claims?"

"Our hearing is set for May sixth. I'll present my evidence at that time. Until then,
I have nothing further to say to you."

He slammed down the receiver.

I leaned back in my chair and smiled.

I would have bet a whole year's worth of fees that he was back on the phone,
frantically calling his client.

* * * *

After hanging up with Millpond, I did my morning check for emails. One of them
was from Conner Pennington, telling me his lawyer was available to meet Thursday
morning. He and the other partners could also make it work, as long as the meeting didn't
last more than an hour. After checking my calendar to make sure I was available, I
forwarded the email to Joyce, adding a summary of my discussions with the insurance
company and Seymour Millpond.

She called me a few minutes later. "I'm not sure I understand your conversation
with Gretchen's lawyer. Does he really have some kind of proof that I had something to do
with Karl's death?"

"No. He couldn't prove a thing at the F.E.D. hearing, and I'm not aware of
anything that's happened since then that he could use against you. Gretchen has the burden
of proof."

"This is all way over my head," she lamented. "I'll just have to leave it to you. Do
we need to meet before we sit down with the PMBT partners and their lawyer?"

"It depends. Do we need to hire an expert to value your interest in the
partnership?"

"No," she said. "I've gone through those financial statements. My share is worth
three hundred and seventy five thousand dollars."

"Fair enough," I said. "I'll meet you Thursday morning at the PMBT offices."

* * * *

Tuesday afternoon, at a little after four, Diana announced, "Adam, your nameless
acquaintance is calling. He says it's urgent."

I immediately took the call. "Good afternoon. What--"

He sounded terrified. "I need your help. I'm here at her apartment. She's dead.
"

"Who's dead?"

"Linda Lawrence."

I had to think for a second. She was the brunette. The blonde was named Jillian.
"What happened?"

"She didn't call in today. She was supposed to check in at two o'clock. We left
four messages. I became concerned and came over here. She's lying here on the floor."

"Have you touched anything?"

"I--no, I don't think so. Other than the doorknob. Should I wipe it free of
fingerprints?"

"No. Leave it the way it is. Leave everything the way it is."

"Why? I could just leave and no one would know I've even been here."

"Then how would you report her death? Would you just leave her there
indefinitely?"

"No. But if I wipe off my prints, I can say--"

"No. One of three things would happen. If you leave it alone, there's a possibility
that his fingerprints are on the door, and they'll catch him. If he wiped it clean, your
fingerprints will be the only ones on the knob, and the police will be able to verify that. It
would tend to prove you weren't the one who killed her, since hers should have been there,
too. If you rub it clean and if they ever find out you were there--for example by
subpoenaing your cell phone service provider and figuring out what tower you were calling
me from--then they'll know you cleaned the door. Which would make them think you killed
her. Besides, if you start tampering with evidence, it's a separate crime, even if you had
nothing to do with her death. And, as a practical matter, there's always some chance you'll
inadvertently leave behind some DNA or other evidence that would identify you."

"You're right. I'm sorry, I'm not thinking clearly."

"Did you kill her?"

"No. Hell no! She was a valued employee. And I was quite fond of her."

"Can you tell what killed her?"

"Not for certain. There isn't any blood anywhere, but her face is blue and puffy
and her tongue is sticking out. There are also marks on her neck. My guess would be
strangulation."

"Don't try to find out. Don't try to do anything. Amos, you need to call the police.
Immediately."

"What do I tell them?"

"The truth. They're going to ask you a boatload of questions, including questions
about her employment, her background, her acquaintances. Unfortunately, you're going to
get to test the soundness of your business model. I hope it stands up."

"It will. Any other advice?"

"Yes. Give them simple, straightforward answers. I'm assuming you want her
killer to be caught, and you may feel inclined to tell them everything you know. But don't
volunteer anything. Don't explain anything unless they ask. If they start sounding like they
suspect you of the murder, and I mean seriously suspecting you, not just asking general
questions, clam up and ask for a lawyer. If it gets to that point, don't say another word to
them. Now, don't wait any longer. Call the police."

"Thank you, Mr. Larsen," he said. "What a damn mess!"

* * * *

Tuesday night, I made a point of catching the ten o'clock news. During the
afternoon, I'd also monitored the websites of the local television channels, and there was
no mention of a woman being strangled. At ten o'clock, the CBS affiliate was the only
channel that picked up the story, and even that lasted no more than fifteen seconds. I could
easily understand why. It had been an eventful news day. Two wildfires were burning out
of control in southern Colorado. The European debt crisis was rearing its ugly head, and the
stock market had dropped well over a hundred points. Congress was squabbling over the
interest rates on student loans, and a Russian passenger plane had crashed over
Indonesia.

The death of a single woman in her high-rise apartment simply wasn't enough to
compete with all the other noise.

Since there was no indication that her head had been bashed in, I concluded that
either her death had nothing to do with the events swirling around Karl Markowsky--which
seemed virtually unthinkable--or the man who attacked Jana and killed Drew Bonners had
changed his modus operandi. Several of the other tenants had told the police that someone
buzzed their apartments over the intercom on the electric door downstairs, but none of
them admitted having let him in. Beyond that, there was no indication how he got into her
apartment. The motive didn't appear to be burglary, and the police had no suspects.

I considered calling Hal Gross, to see if he could add anything, but I rejected that
idea. He would want to know why I was interested, which would only complicate things. As
it was, I couldn't help thinking that I had indirectly caused her death.

Or was it just a coincidence that she was murdered shortly after it became
apparent that the Karl Markowsky she'd been spending time with was an imposter?