A Knight at the Opera (21 page)

Diana arched her brow. "How so?"

"I haven't had time to tell you about some things. You know what happened to
Jana last week. You probably don't know that somebody planted a GPS device on my car,
presumably hoping I'd lead him to her. Jana managed to identify the man, a former
policeman who was--"

"Uh oh," Ann said. "Not the man they found beaten to death in an alley?"

"'Uh oh' is right, Ann. His name was Bonners. And it's almost a given that
whoever attacked Jana also killed him."

Maurice said, "Is it all about the envelope she picked up?"

"It has to be. Unfortunately, we don't have all the facts."

Maurice said, "How do we get them?"

"Our nameless man said I'd be hearing from him."

"You mean a phone call?" Maurice said, "Or somebody sneaking up behind you,
trying to crack your skull with a jack handle?"

"I suppose we'd better be ready for both."

* * * *

I didn't have long to wait for the next act. Less than an hour after our meeting
adjourned, the man with the precise voice called again. As before, his number was
blocked.

He opened the conversation with, "I've been checking around about you, Mr.
Larsen. By all accounts, you're a man of high character. I'm going to assume you're being
truthful with me. I've also checked out that credit card charge. We need to sit down and
talk. Face to face." His tone sounded businesslike and unthreatening, but I could envision
several possibilities as to what "face to face" could mean.

"Well," I said, "I have time this afternoon. My office is located--"

He laughed. "I know where your office is located, Mr. Larsen. That won't
do."

"Since I don't know your name or where your office is, that won't do,
either."

"I anticipated that. We need a neutral location, somewhere we can speak in
private. Just the two of us. There is a suite of offices in the Republic Building, you can rent
them for the day or for weeks at a time. They're on the thirty-fourth floor, south
tower."

I knew the place. I'd been there for mediation on more than one occasion. "What
time?"

"Two-thirty. Tell the receptionist you're meeting with someone from
Rawlings."

"I'll be there." I was tempted to add, "I'll be armed," but what was the point? He
would almost certainly be armed, too. And we certainly weren't going to start shooting at
each other in one of the rent-a-box office suites.

Were we?

At two-fifteen, I rode the elevator downstairs and caught the shuttle bus on the
Sixteenth Street Mall. I had briefed my staff as to where I was going and who I was meeting,
just in case. In truth, I had a sense that I was in no danger, but nevertheless I was taking
what seemed like reasonable precautions.

At the Republic Building, the receptionist gave me a reserved but welcoming
smile when I emerged from the elevator. "May I help you?"

"I'm here to meet with Rawlings."

"You're Mr. Larsen?"

"I am."

"He's already here." She directed me toward the hallway behind her reception
desk. "Just go around to the right. He's in the third room. There's coffee in the kitchen.
Please help yourself."

I'm not much for drinking coffee in the middle of the afternoon, so I bypassed
the kitchen and headed straight for the meeting room, counting doors as I passed them. My
little .38 was tucked away in its holster, shielded by the back of my dark blue suit
jacket.

The third door was open. A tall black man was seated behind the desk. He
looked me over as I paused in the doorway. "Mr. Larsen?"

I nodded.

He stood and offered his hand. "Amos Rawlings." His handshake was firm, and
not overpowering. He had a bony face, with a narrow nose and dark eyes. His tailored gray
suit couldn't have cost less than two thousand dollars, and his tie probably two hundred. I
didn't recognize his cologne, but it was subtle and expensive. "Please," he said, "have a seat.
I've heard good things about you."

"I'm afraid I can't say the same about you," I told him with an enigmatic smile.
"To me, you're a blank slate.
Tabula rasa
."

"Well, let's remedy that, shall we?" he said. "I am a businessman, Mr. Larsen.
Cornell University, 1986. Rawlings Professional Services is just one of my many companies.
But it is my favorite. All of my people are W-2 employees. Health insurance through an
HMO and a profit sharing plan. We treat our people right."

"And your customers, as well?" I said.

"We try to."

"Markowsky was one of those customers?"

"He was. I've already told you that."

"Why was he hiring your company?"

He smiled, but I could see in his eyes that he didn't like being cross-examined.
"Does it matter? People hire us for a variety of reasons."

"It does to his widow."

"I suppose so," he conceded. "Our records indicate it was for
companionship."

"Sex?"

He smiled again. "We have a strict policy against that."

"But?" I prompted.

He shrugged. "I can't control the personal lives of the people who work for me.
What they do on their own time is their own business."

"And if they do it for money?"

He shrugged again. "They just report their hours. We don't quiz them on how
the time was spent. Everything is reported as income, less our service fees, and we make
the proper IRS withholding."

So Maurice's information was right.

This was a high-class escort service.

Rawlings seemed to have anticipated my response. "We are not some
sex-for-hire company. The flaw in their business model is that the more successful they become,
the more likely they are to be exposed, and subjected to criminal liability. We screen our
people carefully. No drugs, no criminal records. We do no advertising. You won't find our
company listed on any website other than our own. We don't place ads in the
Denver
Post
or
Westword
or any other publication. Our clients learn of us by word of
mouth. Our growth has been slow, but steady, and we have a solid customer base. We make
clear to our clients that we are not offering sex."

I grinned at him. "But if they happen to 'hit it off' with your employee..."

"I'm not going to tell you the nuances of my business plan, except that it works,
and very well, at that. But I don't like it when the police start subpoenaing my records. I
don't like being on their radar at all. That causes me concern."

"I can imagine. But I didn't know what else to do. Those credit card bills have
caused too much trouble, and we needed to tell the police about them."

He cocked his head. "Trouble?"

I didn't bother to explain. I was convinced he knew full well what had happened
to Jana and to Drew Bonner. "Tell me about the woman Markowsky was with the night he
died."

"What do you want to know?"

"Is she the 'mystery woman' the police are looking for?"

"I'm afraid she may be. That's why I'm here. Let's assume for the sake of this
discussion that she was with him that night at the opera. What legal consequences could
she have?"

Timing is everything, I told myself. While I was waiting to meet with Rawlings,
I'd taken the time to read Ann's memo. "It depends on what happened that night. There are
several charges they could bring. The obvious one is first degree homicide. That doesn't
seem likely since, as I understand it, she wasn't even there when he went over that balcony.
They'd be hard-pressed to prove that one. Another possibility is criminally negligent
homicide, meaning an unintentional killing caused by a person's failure to perceive a
substantial and unjustifiable risk that a certain result will occur. That's from a case called
People v. Hernandez
. I can provide you with the case citation, if you need it. Last, and
least in terms of possible punishment, is second degree assault. The statute is C.R.S. Section
18-3-203. The gist of the crime is to give someone an illegal substance in a way that causes
him injury. Death would presumably qualify as 'injury.'"

He didn't look happy. "I can't have any of my people charged with felonies."

"I don't know what to tell you. She intentionally drugged Markowsky and left
him at the opera house. I can't change that."

He stared at me, as though making up his mind about something. After probably
a full minute, he seemed to have decided. "She didn't intentionally drug him, Mr. Larsen. It
was the other way around. He was trying to drug her. She switched their drinks."

Now it was my turn to stare. I said, "I won't ask you how you could possibly
know that. That's obvious. Why would Markowsky be trying to drug her?"

"I have no idea. I just know she had no reason to want to drug him. As I've told
you, we're a legitimate business. We don't medicate our customers."

"What happened that night, Mr. Rawlings?"

"I don't know all of the details. And what I tell you is spoken in confidence.
I--"

I raised a palm. "Just to be clear, I can't promise it will be in confidence. I owe
duties to my client and, under some circumstances, a duty to report a crime if I know one is
about to be committed."

"No crime is about to happen, Mr. Larsen. Any damage that is going to occur has,
in fact, already occurred. As I say, I've checked you out, thoroughly. I'm comfortable telling
you what I'm about to say. You'll do the right thing. They were downstairs, in the VIP
lounge, during intermission. Mr. Markowsky had been acting peculiar all night, and she
didn't know why. He was asking questions that a regular customer wouldn't need to ask. As
a result, she was on her guard. Evidently, there are mirrored tiles on the walls in the bar
area. As she was heading away from the table. bound for the ladies room, she caught his
reflection in one of those mirrors. He was acting secretive. He pulled a little orange bottle
out of his pocket and dumped some unknown substance into her drink.

"When she returned from the rest room, he said something like, 'Drink up, Baby,'
as lame as that sounds. She knew the glass had something in it, but she didn't let on that
she knew. They were both drinking red wine. She pretended to be feeling amorous. She put
her arm around his neck and pulled him very close--so that he couldn't see what she was
doing. What she did was reach with her other hand and catch hold of his glass. He then took
what he thought was his own drink and finished it. They returned to watch the opera. After
a while, he started acting drunk and was slumping in his chair. He placed his hand on her
thigh, which is unacceptable. Public displays of that sort are anathema to our business. She
decided to get out of there. She waited until one of the chorus scenes, and then left. He
seemed to be in no distress, and she assumed he'd just sleep it off."

"But, of course," I said, "he didn't."

"Evidently he got up and tried to leave, and lost his balance. There was no way
she could have anticipated that."

"Unfortunately, if she were charged with a crime, that would be an issue for a
jury to decide. I assume she didn't tell anyone at the opera about his condition before she
left?"

"No," he said ruefully. "From what you've told me, it might have shielded her
from criminal responsibility."

"Maybe so. What did he do with the bottle? Did she ever touch it?"

He regarded me appreciatively and smiled. "I see your point. I don't know. But I
know how to find out." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a smart phone. After
pushing a few buttons, he said, "Me. What did that man do with the pill bottle after he
drugged your drink?" He listened for about thirty seconds. "You're sure? All right. Thank
you." He turned to me. "He slipped it back in his coat pocket. And, no, she never laid a finger
on it."

I voiced what I figured he was already thinking: "Which means the police would
have found it there when they went through his pockets. And it would have had his
fingerprints all over it. But not hers."

"Which exculpates her?"

"Not completely. For two reasons. First, it's still true that she knew he was
drugged and left him there. Second, Joe Stone is the officer in charge of this investigation.
He doesn't bother with nuances like that."

"Surely somebody must?" he said.

"The Deputy DAs."

He leaned back in his chair. "What can we do about all of this?"

"We?" I said, letting the surprise show in my voice. "How did it become
'we'?"

He smiled. "A poor choice of words, perhaps." He eyed me studiously. "Perhaps
not."

"I know," I told him wryly. "It does seem like we have some common goals. And,
with that in mind, I have a suggestion. But before I act on it, there are a few things we need
to talk about. First, I need to make sure of something. How sure are you about this bottle
and the fact it was still in his pocket?"

"I'm sure," he said. "Jillian is a reliable person. That's one reason I want to help
get her out of this scrape."

"I won't ask what the other reasons might be," I said. "Second, I need to know
about the private detective. Drew Bonners. The one who was murdered Tuesday
night."

"That's the second time you've alluded to that. What does he have to do with
me?"

I narrowed my eyes. "I need you to tell me."

He met my stare. "I don't know what you're talking about." He added, placing his
open palms on the desk. "And that's the unvarnished truth."

"Mr. Rawlings, somebody has been following me around, trying to get me to lead
them to a woman who was found unconscious outside the Cherry Creek Mall a week and a
half ago. When she was attacked, only one thing was taken from her: one of the credit card
bills showing Markowsky's charges with your company. That's the only thing her attacker
seemed to be after."

For the first time in our communications, he seemed nonplussed. "Is this on the
level?"

"Every word of it. I've been assuming you were behind all of this."