A Knight at the Opera (26 page)

"How did you get home?"

"My car was in the parking garage. I got in it and drove home."

"Good. Now, I have to backtrack. The police will ask you about an orange bottle.
You know, the one you didn't see? "

She smiled. "I understand, Mr. Larsen. I get it now. You don't have to keep
reminding me."

I shook my head. "This is a different question. This is just between the three of
us. Did you touch any orange pill bottles that night?"

"No," she assured me. "I never--I did not."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure. I swear to God."

I turned to Rawlings. "I think the next step is for me to contact the police and
make arrangements for them to interview Jillian. In the meantime, she needs to, shall we
say, work on her presentation?"

"I understand, Mr. Larsen. I'll help her with that. And I will pay your fees. We
haven't discussed that."

"Fair enough," I said, and told him my hourly rate.

"Done," he said. "Anything else we need to discuss?"

Jillian spoke up. "There is one more thing. The man who killed Linda, is he going
to try to kill me, too?"

"Probably not. Linda knew who he was. They were together on three different
occasions. She could identify him. As far as we know, you never met him."

"So I'm okay?"

"Probably. But I wouldn't take any chances."

"I'll vouch for her security," Rawlings said. "I don't want any more of my people
getting hurt."

"Good. Meanwhile, I need to figure out exactly how to present this to the police.
Jillian, how do I contact you?"

"Through me," Rawlings said. "We'll be waiting to hear from you."

Thursday morning at five minutes to ten, I pulled my car into the parking garage
beneath the building where PMBT's offices were located. Joyce Markowsky was standing in
the lobby, and we rode the elevator together.

"Are you nervous?" I asked her as we ascended to the eighth floor.

She patted the soft briefcase she was carrying under her arm. "No. I've done my
homework and I know what I'm entitled to."

"Perfect."

The receptionist greeted us as we entered the office suite. I noted it was the
same woman we'd seen before, so apparently Barbereau hadn't gotten his way and fired
her.

"They're in the conference room." She pointed to the same conference room
we'd used in our previous meeting.

Pennington and Barbereau were seated at the conference table. Thomas was
standing at the end of the room, pouring himself a cup of coffee. Pennington still looked as
distinguished as he had the first time. Barbereau seemed no less smarmy. Thomas was just
nondescript.

Seated at the head of the table was a man I'd never met before. He had the same
look as Pennington, decked out in a pricey suit and a blue tie that, from the pattern, I
guessed was an Hermès. His gray hair was cropped shorter than Pennington's. He
handed me his business card, which announced that he was Spencer Waterson, one of the
senior partners of Groves & Waterson. G&W was among Denver's largest and
most prestigious law firms. Presumably I was supposed to be impressed that he was
handling this matter himself.

"Pleased to meet you," he said. He added with a little twinkle in his eye, "I've
heard quite a bit about you." About a year earlier, one of the lawyers at his firm had been at
my office for a deposition when a murder occurred in the conference room.

"That one worked out well enough," I said. "Let's hope we can do the same here
today."

"That's what we're here for."

I'd been around long enough not to be deceived by Waterson's amiable manner.
You didn't get to be the head of a major law firm by being a pushover.

From the hostile expression on Barbereau's face, that obviously wasn't what
he
was there for.

I turned to my client. "Joyce, do you want to tell him your thoughts?"

She didn't mince her words. "Sure. By my estimation, the book value of PMBT is
one and a half million dollars. That would make my one-fourth worth three hundred and
seventy-five thousand."

"How do you figure that?" Waterson asked without betraying any emotion. He
must have been a killer poker player.

She opened the briefcase and pulled out the financial statements I'd emailed her.
She spent the next fifteen minutes explaining how she had calculated the number, based
upon gross billings, with various adjustments. At one point, she and Larry Barbereau got
into a heated discussion about how much of a discount should be applied to the receivables
that were over ninety days past due. Since Joyce seemed to know all the concepts better
than I did, I sat back and let her do the talking.

Or rather, the arguing. And in that department, she did just fine.

After a while, Waterson spoke up. "It appears that we are in disagreement over a
matter of two hundred thousand dollars. Split four ways, that means we're fifty thousand
dollars apart on a final number. Let's assume we can agree on something acceptable to
everyone. As you can see from the firm's books, cash flow has been a major problem for the
past three quarters, and was even somewhat problematic before that. The firm can't afford
to pay you three hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars--"

Barbereau lurched forward, obviously planning to object that they hadn't agreed
on that number.

"--or whatever number we agree upon," Waterson continued without missing a
beat, "in a lump sum. This would need to be paid out over time."

"How much time?" Joyce asked.

Pennington spoke up. "We were hoping for three years. That way, you can
spread the income over three separate calendar years and presumably pay less tax on it.
We're prepared to offer you three hundred thousand dollars, paid out over three years. Or,
we could pay two hundred and fifty thousand as a lump sum. You can see from our balance
sheet and cash flow reports that it would be a stretch for us, but we believe we could make
that work."

Joyce was not happy. "Two hundred and fifty thousand? Why should I give you
that much of a discount?"

That started another discussion, led mostly by Barbereau, but joined at irregular
intervals by Pennington and the lawyer and even, briefly, by Thomas, who was trying to
play mediator. I watched, somewhat amused, as Joyce successfully took them all on. My
mind even started to wander a bit, thinking about Amos Rawlings and Jillian Piper who, I
had to admit, did bear some superficial resemblance to Joyce, after all.

And then it hit me like a thunderbolt.

I watched the men arguing their various points of view, and there it was. I
wasn't even sure I'd actually seen it, but it triggered a sudden awareness of something I
hadn't even considered before. It wasn't a suspicion or a hunch. I just
knew
it had to
be. As they continued their discussion, I mentally held the idea up to the light like a prism,
and inspected it from all angles.

All sorts of things fell into place.

One of these men had killed Drew Bonner and Linda Lawrence.

And had attacked Jana with a tire jack handle.

And now I understood why.

And who.

I should have realized it three weeks earlier. I just hadn't looked for the one
telltale piece of information.

Find the man with the black eye.

Weeks earlier, that had seemed like an impossible prospect, and I'd abandoned
the thought. Nobody involved in this matter showed any visible signs of being punched in
the face by Jana. Now I understood why. The assault hadn't happened until after my first
meeting with the three accountants. Several weeks had elapsed since then, and it hadn't
been random delay. One of them had been nursing a shiner, probably doing everything he
could to keep people from noticing.

And from asking what had caused it.

That was the reason it had taken so long for this meeting to occur.

I returned my attention to the conversation. PMBT's offer was frozen at three
hundred and twenty-five thousand over three years or two seventy-five in a lump
sum--neither of which was acceptable to Joyce.

It was time to intervene. "Gentlemen, we seem to have reached a stalemate. Is
there a separate room where Ms. Markowsky and I can caucus?"

"I think that would be a good idea," Pennington said, sounding almost relieved.
"You can use the room across the hall. It's the second door on your left."

Joyce and I departed the big conference room and moved into the smaller one. I
let her lead the way, and closed the door behind us.

Her hands were balled into tight fists. "This makes me so mad! There's no good
reason I should discount my share in this partnership."

"I think there is," I told her in a quiet but firm tone.

She stared at me, the crease in her brow showing that she realized this was
something serious. "What do you mean?"

"Joyce, I think I've figured out what's been going on since Karl's death. I can't go
into the details at the moment, but my advice is that you get the biggest lump sum payment
you can, as quickly as you can."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because three years from now, this company will probably be out of business.
Maybe much sooner than that. I don't want to explain right now."

"Why not?"

"Because if I told you what I now know, you couldn't possibly manage your face
when we got back into that room. It might even put you, and possibly me and several other
people, in grave danger. It would also put these negotiations indefinitely on hold. You might
never see a penny from this firm."

She looked shaken and alarmed. "Are you sure?"

"I am. Joyce, you've got to trust me."

"So you think I should take the two hundred and seventy-five now?"

"Actually, I'm betting we can get it up to three hundred. I know that's a
significant discount over fair market value. With the two million you'll be getting from the
life insurance policy, plus the house, you should be able to scrape by for a while."

"I could do more than scrape by," she said. "And I must admit, I would like to get
all of this behind me." Her face brightened as something occurred to her. "What you've
figured out, will it get Gretchen off my back?"

"This won't. But I've got something else that I think will. I didn't want to tell you
this and risk distracting you during the negotiations, but I've spoken with the woman who
was with Karl the night he died."

"You have? Really?"

"I have. I think I've persuaded her to come forward and tell her story. That
would get rid of Gretchen. But first we need to wrap up these negotiations."

"Then let's do it."

"All right. When we go back in there, pretend that nothing has happened. Don't
look at anybody, don't say anything. Let me do the talking. They'll just assume you're
unhappy about settling for so little. Okay?"

She said, "I hope you know what you're doing."

"I do. This is one time when I'm absolutely certain."

We left the little conference room and rejoined the PMBT group. "I have a
proposal," I announced. "If we can get this done within the next week, Joyce would accept a
lump sum of three hundred thousand dollars. That's her bottom line."

Pennington glanced at the others, his brows raised in a silent question. One by
one, they nodded. Barbereau looked like had just sucked on a lemon, but he didn't say a
word.

The senior partner held out his hand. "I'm glad we could work this out, Joyce.
Spence will draw up the necessary papers."

I shook my head. "Let's get something in writing now. We can formalize the
details later."

* * * *

Joyce said nothing as the elevator carried us downstairs. I'd noticed a little
coffee bar on the main floor, with two or three tables and a few wooden chairs. I suggested
that we sit and talk. I bought us two coffees and filled the cups with the Kona brand that
was in the pump carafe. We were the only patrons, so we had our choice of tables. I picked
the one farthest away from the cashier, where we could have at least a modicum of
privacy.

When we had settled in, she said, "Are you going to explain what just happened
upstairs?"

"Of course."

She knew nothing about Jana's recent adventures, nor how Karl's death had led
to Drew Bonners' demise or the murder of Linda Lawrence. It took me a while to walk her
through the entire parade of events, pausing to answer her questions as they arose. I
fudged by describing Jana as an investigator I'd hired to help try to find the mystery
woman. The term "significant other" seemed inappropriate to the circumstances. It was
obvious that Joyce was having trouble digesting all of this new information, so I left out
many of the details, including my conversations with Amos Rawlings.

Finally, I reached the part about what I'd seen upstairs in that conference room.
She wanted to know which one of them it was.

I told her.

She shook her head in disbelief. "That can't be. It just can't be."

"I'm afraid so."

"What did you see that told you it was him?"

"The attack on Ms. Deacon happened a little more than three weeks ago. She was
certain she landed at least one punch, somewhere on his face, and she knows how to punch.
Her attacker would have had a significant bruise to show for it. As I was watching you
decimate those men upstairs--great job, by the way--I caught a glimpse of him in just the
right light. It was very faint, but it was still there."

"I didn't notice anything," she said.

"You had no reason to. And you were distracted by all of the verbal jousting. If I
hadn't been sitting at just the right angle, I never would have noticed it. And he might have
gotten away with two murders."

"How are you going to prove all of this?"

"I'm not going to," I said. "For once, I'm going to let the police do that for
me."

* * * *

As I drove back to the office, I told my phone to call Jana's number. I loved the
voice recognition feature. At Jana's end, the call went to voice mail, but I didn't leave her a
message. It would take too long to tell her everything that had just happened. I figured I'd
explain it to her later.