A Knight at the Opera (5 page)

He didn't look pleased. "Or remembered that Adam picked up the dinner check
she had volunteered to pay." He took the paper and stuffed it into his coat pocket. "Thanks.
I may call her."

"Also, Adam, a woman named Joyce Markowsky is keen to meet with you."

"Markowsky?" I said. "That doesn't ring any bells. What--"

"She said her husband died over the weekend. She'd like to meet with you."

My law clerk, Ann Stivornik, had joined the group. Her office was around the
corner from the reception area. Ann was one of those rare women who apparently cared
nothing at all about her personal appearance. She was never slovenly or disheveled, but she
always seemed to be wearing the same navy blue skirt and jacket. Her hair had no
particular style and I'd never noticed makeup or perfume.

"That's the name of the man who died at the opera house," she said in her flat
monotone. "Karl Markowsky. I looked him up online. He was an accountant, with a firm
called Pennington, Markowsky, Barbereau & Thomas." She made a face. "Their
receptionist must cringe every time the phone rings and she has to spit all that out. They
ought to shorten their name."

"Unfortunately for them, they're going to have to do just that," I said. "They lost
their number two partner Saturday night. I'd bet--"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the elevator doors out in the main hallway
slide open. Joe Stone came striding out. My first impulse, as it always was when Stone
showed up, was to head down the hallway and slip out the side door. But I knew it would
just delay the inevitable. Besides, I knew he had seen me seeing him. I decided to be
gracious, and walked over to the door to let him in.

"Good morning," I said. He was in uniform, which of course meant this wasn't a
social call. With Stone, it was never a social call, which was just fine with me. I couldn't ever
imagine us being drinking buddies.

"Yeah," he muttered. "Where can we talk?"

"How about in here?" I stepped across the reception area and opened the door
to the library, which doubled as our conference room. I knew he hated meeting with me in
my office. Whenever we were there, he had a habit of standing in front of my desk, as
though sitting down might be construed as some sort of concession. Maybe as a child, he
spent too much time in the principal's office. Or it might have had something to do with the
signed apology from him that hung in a frame beside my desk, the result of his having gone
berserk years earlier and arresting me without probable cause.

In any event, I decided to spare him the discomfort.

The conference room was the centerpiece of our office suite, nearly four
hundred square feet, with a high ceiling and rows of mahogany shelves overflowing with an
eclectic collection of books I'd accumulated. At the north end, there was a round conference
table, twelve feet in diameter, with a surface of brown tourmaline marble. As Stone well
knew, a man had been bludgeoned to death in that room a few years earlier. That murder
set off the chain of events that introduced me to Tom Swain, the Deputy DA, who had
restrained Stone from punching me on Saturday at the opera house.

Stone grunted and followed me. If he appreciated my gesture of collegiality, he
didn't let it show. We each grabbed a chair at the big round conference table. "So what
brings you to my humble establishment?"

He said, in an almost conversational tone, "Where were you yesterday?"

I raised my brows. Stone and I had never engaged in casual conversation. To my
knowledge, nothing had occurred that would require me to provide an alibi for Sunday
afternoon, but I obliged him, anyway.

"I was with Jana Deacon, hiking around Rocky Mountain National Park. We
spent some time at Mills Lake."

He nodded approvingly which, for Stone, was unheard of. "I know the place." He
had met Jana in that same room a few months earlier and, for reasons I couldn't
fathom--and didn't want to fathom--they had actually hit it off. Maybe it was the fact that she carried
a Glock G20 and knew how to use it.

Stone would like that sort of thing.

"So you really were in Estes Park?"

"I was. I wasn't dodging you, if that's what you're getting at."

"The thought did occur to me." He rested his arms on the marble table top.
"Saturday night you said you noticed something about the angle of the dead man's fall. I
want to hear more about that."

"Unfortunately, there isn't much more. I only noticed him when he was a few
feet from the ground. He seemed to be falling at a fairly shallow angle, not straight up and
down."

"Was he falling head first?"

I thought about it. "I don't know. I think so."

"Was his back to you, or his front?"

"I don't know that, either."

"Were his arms flailing?"

"I don't know. He was just a blur, something I saw as I was falling backwards. All
I really have is an impression that he was moving towards us, as opposed to straight
down."

He shook his head in disgust. "You're a hell of an eyewitness. Did you actually
see anything?"

"Only what I've told you. I know you're frustrated about that. So am I. Just out of
curiosity, I took a look at Wikipedia last night, trying to figure out the velocity formulas for
a falling object. If I'm calculating correctly, and assuming their information was accurate,
the entire thing lasted less than five seconds. From the time he went over the balcony till
the time he hit the floor. He would have been moving at something over 250 feet per
second by the time he landed."

"And you saw him for the last ten feet?"

"Give or take. Maurice saw him for a little longer."

"Great," he muttered, looking aggravated. "This is worthless."

I shrugged. "I didn't tell you it wasn't. I just know what I saw. Or didn't see. You
could have just called me and saved the trip."

"I could have. But I didn't. I have more questions. Could you see his face?"

"No."

"So you don't know whether he was conscious or not?"

I raised my brows. "Is there any doubt about that?"

He growled, "There's doubt about everything. Was he conscious?"

"I don't know. He was just a flash as he went by. I didn't notice him flailing his
arms or anything like that. Or doing anything to break his fall."

"For all the good it would have done him," Stone said. He stood up. "What else do
you know about this?"

"That's everything. I've never met the man, never spoken to him. I didn't see him
before the opera, nor during intermission. Nothing. I now know his name, but it means
nothing to me."

He stared at me. "Why don't I believe that?"

I shrugged. "You never believe anything I tell you. Until it's too late."

His face colored. "What do you mean by that? Are you threatening me?"

"No, Stone. I'm not threatening you. It's just that you always refuse to listen to
me, even when--" The stubborn set of his jaw told me I was wasting my time. "Oh, what's
the point? We are who we are, and neither of us is going to change."

"I guess not," he said in a dismissive tone.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"I'm the one who asks the questions, Larsen. Not you."

I knew that was just a reflex and I didn't take it seriously. That was another
discussion we'd had numerous times before.

"Then let me phrase it differently. I have information for you. Diana tells me that
a woman named Joyce Markowsky called this morning, wanting to set up an appointment.
I'm guessing she's the widow of the dead man. Before I decide whether to meet with her or
not, it would help to know whether this was a homicide, and if so, whether she's a
suspect."

"The widow?" He shifted in his chair, obviously not pleased with what he was
hearing. "Why the hell would you be talking with her?"

I shrugged. "I'm not, yet. But--"

He jumped to his feet. "Damn you, Larsen! Of course, she's a suspect. Why are
you always mixing into my cases?" He seemed ready to say more, but decided against it.
Instead, he turned and headed for the door.

As I watched him leave, an answer to his question popped into my brain.

Something about "Runs With Scissors."

* * * *

My first impression of Joyce Markowsky could be summed up in two words:
trophy wife. I'd called her after Stone left, and she arrived promptly on time for a one-thirty
appointment. Blonde, self-confident and strikingly beautiful, she looked to be in her late
twenties, compared with her deceased husband who, according to my law clerk, had been
forty three. Her frank blue eyes were reddened from crying, but they never hesitated or
avoided mine. She had fair skin and a pleasant, cultured voice. She was tall, about an inch
below my six feet, with the healthy glow of someone who did yoga or Pilates but wasn't
into anything heavy duty like bodybuilding.

Unlike Jana, Joyce didn't appear to be searching for her inner Gladiator.

We met in my office, with me behind the desk and her seated in one of the black
leather chairs. She sat with perfect posture, her hands resting on the small Gucci handbag
on her lap. I would have bet a dozen opera tickets it was no knock-off. I followed her eyes
as she took in the glass-fronted bookshelves that held the first editions, and things like the
1883 Colorado Civil Code, an early version of Wigmore's Principles of Judicial Proof
Evidence, and a rare leather bound collection of The Federalist Papers.

Once she seemed to have settled in, I said, "The man who died at the opera was
your husband?"

"He was. I understand you were there when it happened."

"I was. At least, down at the ground level. Not up in the balcony."

"I understand. I read the article about your legal assistant in today's
Clarion.
I'm glad no one else was hurt."

"Me, too. I take it you weren't there?"

"No," she told me firmly. "I was not."

"Just asking," I said, with a smile. "Don't--"

"You and everyone else, Mr. Larsen. The police have gone over that with me half
a dozen times. It's quite apparent that they don't believe me. That's one of the reasons I
came to see you."

"I understand. Can you prove you were somewhere else?"

"Not really. I was at home. Alone. Although I did make some cell phone calls. I'm
hoping T-Mobile can verify that they were made from my home."

"That would be helpful," I said. "Did your husband typically go out without you
on Saturday nights?"

"No. But he sometimes played poker with a group of friends. That's where he
told me he was going on Saturday. For the life of me, I can't understand what he was doing
at that opera, especially with some other woman. If he'd have asked me, I would have been
happy to go with him."

"You don't know who she was?"

"No, not even a guess. The police have asked me that a dozen times. The only
thing I know for sure is that it wasn't me. And there's something else. They keep asking me
whether he was having any health problems and, especially, what medications he was
taking. Things like that."

"Interesting. I can understand them asking about health issues, but I'm not sure
where they're going about the medications. Did they tell you why they think that's
important?"

"No. I asked, of course. They wouldn't tell me."

"Was he taking anything that might make him dizzy or--"

"No, nothing like that. He was in perfectly good health."

"I understand. When is the funeral?"

"We're doing a memorial service tomorrow morning." Tears began to well up in
her eyes. She reached across my desk and took a Kleenex from the box. As she dabbed her
eyes, she said, "I'm not looking forward to that."

"Nobody ever does. When we spoke this morning, you didn't tell me why you
wanted to meet with me."

"That's because I'm not sure myself. I am--was--Karl's second wife. He has two
sons by his first wife, Gretchen. The three of them have already lawyered up. I decided I'd
better do likewise."

"Why does anybody need to 'lawyer up', as you put it?"

"To make sure they get their full piece of the pie. Karl was a very successful CPA,
with a sterling reputation in the community. His estate will be considerable. He and I have
only been married for seven and a half months, and there's a prenuptial agreement. With
two exceptions, everything he has will go to his sons."

"Two exceptions?"

"I have an accounting degree from the University of Denver, but I've never used
it. I've recently passed my CPA exams. I just need a year of experience under the
supervision of a licensed accountant. Karl left me his interest in the accounting firm so that,
if I wanted to, I could gain that experience and then I'd have a source of income. He
expressly put that in his will."

"Interesting," I said. "His idea or yours?"

Her eyes flashed at me. "His."

I smiled disarmingly. "Just asking. And what is the other exception?"

"There's a life insurance policy. Two million dollars. Karl bought it about a
month after the wedding."

It occurred to me that the premiums for a two million dollar policy on a
forty-
three year old man must have been hefty, but I kept that thought to myself. Instead, I said,
"I see. Why do you need my services, Ms. Markowsky?"

"Well, for one thing, to deal with Karl's partners. None of them particularly like
me. One of them, Larry Barbereau, has been outright hostile. I believe there's a buy-sell
provision in the partnership agreement."

"Who's the managing partner?"

"Conner. Conner Pennington."

"That's some name," I said, with a little smile. "Sounds like the society
type."

She returned the smile. "He is. Definitely upper crust."

"Have you spoken with him about any of this?"

"Not yet. I'm still dealing with the shock of Karl's sudden death."

"So, what do you want me to do, Ms. Markowsky?"

"For the moment, nothing. I need to make it through the funeral." She added
distastefully, "That means dealing with Gretchen and the boys." The sour look abruptly
vanished, as if she had realized how unbecoming it looked. "Then I'll talk to Conner. My
thought was just to make initial contact with you and, if it looks like I'll be needing your
help, you can get involved at that point in time. Does that make sense?"