A Knight at the Opera (25 page)

* * * *

I made it to the office before eight o'clock Wednesday, to work on a contract
case I'd been neglecting. I hadn't slept much. I'd made Jana aware of what happened to
Linda Lawrence--assuming that was even her real name--but I hadn't mentioned anything
about the frantic call from Amos Rawlings. He and his organization could be behind all of
this, but I couldn't envision any scenario where his killing those two people made any
sense. It simply didn't fit, especially his finding the body. It would only bring more heat
down on his beloved company.

With a shrug, I forced those thoughts out of my mind and dug into the other
case.

Rawlings called at a quarter to nine. I'd been expecting to hear from him and had
taken the phone system off "night mode", so the voice mail system wouldn't kick in.

Diana wasn't in yet, so I answered the call myself.

"Mr. Larsen, this is Amos Rawlings. Do you have time to talk?"

"I do."

"Thank you. I spent, literally, hours with the police yesterday. You were right
about their asking question after question. They expressed little interest in me as a suspect,
although they pressed hard on the issue of my having a key to her apartment."

I hadn't thought about that. "You had a key?"

"Of course. That's how I got in yesterday. Technically, the tenant at her
apartment is another company owned by me. She had a sublease. The way we are
structured, it is a legitimate business expense. I--but that's neither here nor there. The
point is, they finally ran out of questions and let me go home. You were also right about the
fingerprints. They asked me countless questions about what I had touched and what I had
done while I was in the apartment. You name it, they asked it."

"They're good at that sort of thing," I said without feeling. "Mr. Rawlings, I need
to ask you something."

"What might that be?"

"Who did you tell that about Markowsky being an imposter?"

"Are you serious? Nobody. Why would I spread that around? And to whom
would I spread it?"

"I don't know. But doesn't the timing of her death strike you as significant?"

"Meaning what?"

"She was killed after she told us that her 'Karl Markowsky' was a phony, but
before she could help us find out who he really was."

"I see your point, Mr. Larsen. Thus you think I told someone, and he killed
her."

"Or you killed her yourself," I said bluntly.

"And why would I do that?"

"Frankly, I don't know. It wouldn't make sense."

"No, it surely wouldn't. If I were going to do that, I wouldn't have told you her
client was an imposter."

"Probably not," I conceded. "The other alternative is that the fake Markowsky is
in panic mode and decided to kill Ms. Lawrence simply because he knew she could identify
him."

"I've told you before, and I'll repeat this. Violence is not a part of my business
model. In fact, that's why we're having this conversation. I need to meet with you. Jillian is
here with me, and she's very frightened. Aside from concerns of being charged with causing
Mr. Markowsky's death, she is terrified that whoever killed Linda will now come after her.
I've tried reassuring her, and have offered to temporarily locate her somewhere safe, but
that has proven inadequate."

"I understand," I said. "She obviously can't hide out forever. What do you want
me to do?"

"Meet with her. Talk to her. Figure out what she should do. If necessary, go with
her to talk to the police. My own skills and experience are inadequate to the task."

I needed a chance to think this through. "I'm working on a few projects this
morning that need to get done, but I have time this afternoon, if you can wait that
long."

"I can," he said, "and I am grateful to you for making yourself available. The
Republic Building at, say, two o'clock?"

"I'll be there."

* * * *

At a quarter to two, I was one of the two dozen passengers riding the eastbound
Sixteenth Street Mall shuttle bus. There was always an interesting mix of riders on those
busses: people in business suits, tourists in all sorts of getups, and the inevitable characters
who looked like they were homeless. Everyone rode for free, hopping on and getting off at
any stop they chose. It was all very democratic.

I had decided that my agenda for the meeting was just to listen. It would
definitely benefit my client if Jillian was really willing to come forward and admit she was
at the opera with Markowsky the night he died.

Rawlings was already there when I arrived, in the same room, third door on the
right, where we'd met before. He was accompanied by a blonde who looked to be in her late
twenties. Other than her hair color and the fact that she was trim and healthy-looking, she
bore almost no resemblance to Joyce Markowsky. This woman had a higher forehead and a
vaguely European look. Her nose was longer than Joyce's, and her skin wasn't as
smooth.

Still, she was an attractive woman--who looked very frightened.

Rawlings was wearing an expensive gray suit and a pale yellow tie. "Mr. Larsen,
thank you for coming. This is Jillian Piper."

"Mr. Rawlings says you can help me." She put her hand on my arm. "Do you
think you can?"

"I don't know. Let's find out." I gestured for her to sit, which she did.

Rawlings lowered himself into the chair next to hers, meaning that this time it
was my turn to sit behind the desk. He was yielding control of the situation to me.

"You're the woman who was at the opera a couple of weeks ago with the man
who died?"

"Yes and no," she said. "I went to the opera with him--that's the yes part--but no
he didn't die while I was there. When I left, he was sitting in his seat, watching the
show."

"Let's start at the beginning. How and when did you first come into contact with
him?"

"I guess he called our office. They told me he was asking for someone with my
qualifications, and--"

"What qualifications?" I interrupted, deliberately being obnoxious. The police
wouldn't be shy about asking questions, and neither could I.

She looked me in the eye, meeting the challenge. "Bookkeeping and general
accounting. I'm proficient in Excel, QuickBooks and Quicken."

"Really?" I asked in an aggressively skeptical tone. "Those are the qualifications
he was looking for?"

She didn't flinch. "Those are the only ones that mattered. This was strictly
business."

"On a Saturday night? At the opera?"

"He wanted to get acquainted first, to see if we could work together on a
professional level. He needed a companion and I was willing to go with him."

"As long as he was paying you, right?"

"I was being paid," she said, with a matter-of-fact flip of her hand. "But only for
legitimate purposes."

"Right," I said sarcastically, "and you're still a virgin."

She didn't respond. The muscles around her eyes tensed almost imperceptibly,
but she didn't utter a sound.

I turned to Rawlings and smiled. "She's good. She just might pull it off."

She looked at Rawlings, creasing her brows in an unspoken question.

He explained, "He was testing you, to see how you would do if the police started
asking tough questions."

"Oh," she said, looking relieved. "I just thought he was being a jerk."

"No, I'm only obnoxious when it serves a purpose," I told her. "Now that we've
gotten that out of the way, tell me what really happened that night."

She looked over at Rawlings, who nodded his approval.

She let out a deep breath, as though she was letting her guard down. "Like I said,
he called our office. He was asking for someone who was tall and blonde. I had no other
appointments that night, so they sent me. He was real different. Usually, they want to meet
me for dinner and buy me drinks, to loosen me up. This man didn't do any of that. No
dinner, no drinks. He just described himself and told me to meet him at the box office. I
drove downtown by myself. I didn't have any trouble picking him out."

"It was Karl Markowsky?"

"I guess. At least that was the name he used. Sometimes clients don't use their
real names."

"It was Markowsky," Rawlings assured me. "Before we came over here, I showed
her the picture you emailed me. We're not going to make that mistake a second time."

"Okay, Jillian," I said. "What happened next?"

"He was there like he said he'd be. He already had the tickets, and we went
inside."

"Did he say anything?"

"Not much. He seemed uncomfortable and kept looking around, like he was
afraid someone would see us. He told me he asked for a blonde so that if anyone saw us,
they'd think I was his wife."

"Did you ask him why he didn't just go to the opera with his wife?"

She smiled at what she obviously thought was my naiveté. "We don't ask
that kind of question."

"Probably not," I said. "What happened next?"

"We went in and watched the first part of the opera. When things happened was
during intermission."

"What happened?"

"Like I told you, he was strange. No, strange isn't right. He was clumsy. He tried
to act casual, but he was asking lots of questions."

"What kind of questions?"

"That's what was odd about it. Usually they ask about me. Whether I'm dating
anyone, how long I've been at Rawlings, and sooner or later they hint around about sex.
This guy wasn't like that. He asked things about the company. Who we are, what we do,
how long we've been in business. That sort of thing."

"He didn't know?"

"It seemed like he didn't." She glanced in Rawlings' direction. "Of course, I made
it clear that we're a respectable business, and the services we provide are done only on a
professional level."

"But," I said knowingly, "sometimes it becomes something more intimate?"

She glanced again at Rawlings. He said, "You can be honest with Mr.
Larsen."

She turned back toward me with a secretive smile. "Sometimes."

"But he didn't seem to know about that?"

"No. He just kept asking silly questions."

I took time to regard her. What she was saying was consistent with what I
suspected had happened.

Almost too consistent.

But there was no way she or Rawlings could possibly know what I had
theorized.

Could they be telling me the truth?

Rawlings spoke up. "Do you still think I killed Linda, Mr. Larsen?"

"As an active hypothesis, no. But I'm not completely ruling it out."

"I suppose that's reasonable. If I had, you can rest assured, we wouldn't be
having this meeting."

"No, probably not."

It was time to employ a trick Lenny Foot had taught me early in my career.
When he'd first explained it, many years ago, it had seemed completely beyond the bounds
of ethics. But he had finally persuaded me that the rules in criminal cases were much
different than in civil matters.

I said, "Mr. Rawlings has related a tale to me about the Rohypnol and a little
orange bottle."

"Yes," she said. "That's--"

"No. Don't say anything. Just listen. One of the reasons you are here is because
they apparently found some of the drug in his system. And apparently, he had an orange
bottle with him that night. Now the police are looking for the woman who was with him.
They're thinking about charging her with felony assault or negligent homicide. To do that,
they have to prove that she either fed him the drug or knew he had taken it and left him in a
situation where his physical safety was at risk. Are you with me so far?"

She was watching me carefully. "I think so."

"Good. There are surveillance cameras at the opera house, but apparently they
didn't capture any images of that woman slipping the drug into his drink. Or switching
drinks with him. So far, there is no indication that any witnesses have come forward,
claiming they saw anything like that. The wine glasses were run through a dishwasher long
before the police started suspecting Rohypnol. It's too late for them to go back and identify
the particular glasses. No traces of the drug would remain. What I'm telling you, Jillian, is
that the only way someone could be convicted of drugging him would be if she, herself,
proved it by admitting it to the police. So, my question to you is this: what happened while
you were with Mr. Markowsky during intermission?"

"Well, as I was leaving for the restroom, I saw him reach into his pocket
and--"

"No," I said. "You're not listening. The police have no proof that this woman was
even aware of the orange bottle or that she did anything about it. I'll ask you again, what
happened during intermission?"

She looked confused, and turned to Rawlings for guidance. He looked at me,
looked back at her and then leaned over and whispered something in her ear.

A look of comprehension dawned on her face. "Oh, I get it. Nothing happened.
We just sat and talked."

I smiled at her. "Thank you. And then?"

"We went back to see the rest of the opera."

"You left before it was over, though, didn't you?"

"Right. He was starting to act even stranger than before. Almost as though he
was drunk."

"Did he drink during intermission?"

"Just the one glass of red wine. On the way back upstairs, he seemed confused.
He said he was feeling funny. He wasn't stumbling or falling down or anything like that. But
he was slurring his words a little. On the way, it seemed like he saw somebody he knew, but
I might have just been imagining that."

She was volunteering too much. "Don't keep explaining things. The less you say,
the better. Why did you leave the opera?"

"I started getting nervous. By the time we sat down, he was getting worse. I
thought it must be the drug."

I spoke harshly. "What drug?"

She stared at me until it finally registered. "Oh, I forgot! Not a drug. I thought it
was the alcohol. And what happened, what honestly happened is, he put his hand on my leg
and I moved it away. He tried that again a little while later, and then it looked like he'd
fallen asleep. I decided I needed to get out of there. I was afraid I'd get in trouble at work,
because he wasn't going to be happy when he woke up. I waited until a loud part of the
opera and got up and left."