A Knight at the Opera (16 page)

Diana was already there when I arrived. "Good morning," she said in her lilting
British voice. "How was your evening?"

"Nice. No surprises."

"No dead bodies?"

"None worth mentioning."

"Good. A man just called for you. His name is Ray Alioto. He said to tell you he's a
security guard at the Cherry Creek Mall."

That changed--or at least deferred--my plan for the morning. "Oh? Did he say
what he wanted?"

"No, just to call him."

"Which I'm going to do right away." I headed down to my office and dialed the
number. I'd left him one of my business cards when Maurice and I talked to him the night
Jana was attacked, but I hadn't expected to hear from him.

A man answered on the second ring. I said, "Is this Ray Alioto?"

"It is. Is this Mr. Larsen?"

"Yes. What's up?"

"Something came up this morning, and I thought you'd want to know about it.
Some guy called me, says he's a private investigator. He's looking for the lady I found
outside the parking structure last Wednesday. I assume that means the woman you and
your friend were asking about."

"I assume that, too. Did he say why he wants to find her?"

"No, he hinted she might have some money coming to her. But I wasn't buying
that. That's the oldest trick in the book."

"Good thinking. Did you get his contact information?"

"Just his phone number. He left a message on my cell phone. Should I call
him?"

I thought it over. "What would you tell him?"

"Not a hell of a lot. I have no idea who she is. Like I told you last week, I just
called 911 and that was it. Management doesn't want employees getting involved in things
that don't concern the mall."

Right answer, I thought. I'd just wanted to make sure he was sticking to his
story. "I suppose it's okay to call him. Please don't tell him I'm involved. For legal reasons,
it's important that we keep this confidential for the time being." That was mostly a lie, but I
figured it was harmless enough. "Will you let me know what else he has to say? I'd
especially like to know who he is and what he's after. I'd be glad to pay you for your
time."

"I'd be glad to be paid," he said cheerfully. "I'll let you know."

After we hung up, I logged onto the computer and leaned back in my chair to
think. Should I tell Jana about this? Yes, that was a no-brainer. What did it mean? That was
more complicated. And did it change my plan for the morning? That was the hardest of the
questions. I stood and strolled down to Maurice's office.

"Good morning," he said, while wolfing down the last bite of a doughnut. "I hear
things went well in court yesterday."

"They did. I never got a chance to ask you, how was your rendezvous with
Robin?"

"Not bad. She's an interesting person, when she's sober. Which she was. But I
don't think it's going anywhere long term." He never supplied details about his private
escapades, and I never asked. "What's up?"

I said, "I'm not sure. That security guard we talked to last week just called.
Someone's looking for Jana."

"Yeah? Who and why?"

"I don't know. Her so-called client had her phone number and email address
from her website, but I'm fairly sure he doesn't have her physical address. That could be
one explanation."

"Yeah, but why is he after her?"

"I can think of several possibilities, none of them good. But that's not what I
came to talk to you about."

"Oh, yeah? Then what?"

I told him about the credit card bills that Joyce Markowsky had received from B
of A.

Maurice narrowed his eyes at me. "Let me guess. You're thinking of getting in
touch with this Rawlings Professional Services."

"Inc.," I said. "But I can't decide how to make the approach. Do I masquerade as a
prospective client? Do I just contact them and ask to talk to the owner? Do I ask Jana or
someone else to contact them and pose as a prospective employee?"

"Not Jana. She doesn't have the look."

I knew he wasn't being mean-spirited. Maurice seldom was. He was just calling
it the way he saw it. "You're right," I admitted. "Joyce Markowsky does, but I don't see that
as a viable alternative. And, given my suspicion that someone at Rawlings may have been
behind the attack on Jana, it would be unthinkable to expose Joyce to the same
danger."

"Naw, that wouldn't be cool. I don't know what to tell you. I know you won't
want to hear this, but why not tell Stone about it and let him do the follow-up? If it leads
him to the woman who drugged Markowsky, he's got the manpower to handle any possible
resistance. I probably shouldn't tell you this, because it will only encourage you, but if that
company has someone out looking for Jana, they could play rough with anybody who got in
their way."

"You're right. Let's find out as much as we can about them before we do
anything."

"Sounds reasonable," said Maurice. "For once, you're taking the prudent route.
You know, I've got an idea. Robin is the CFO of a bigwig marketing company. Let me see if
she's ever heard of these people."

"Good idea. Meanwhile, I'll call Jana and let her know what's going on. She may
have some ideas, as well." I added as I headed toward the door, "I won't tell her you said
she doesn't have the right look."

He grinned at me. "I wouldn't, if I were you. She might shoot both of us."

I went down the hall to my office and called Jana's cell phone number. She
answered with, "Hi, what's up?"

"I don't know. But I wanted to warn you, someone's looking for you."

"What do you mean?"

I told her about the call from the security guard, and added, "And the fact that
someone is looking for you seems to prove that the man who hired you isn't the man who
attacked you."

"Why not?"

"Because he already knows your name, doesn't he? If so, finding your address
would take about fifteen minutes online."

"He doesn't know my name," she said. "I advertise the agency as just Deacon
Investigative Services, like my father did. No first names, except for the repeat clients I
know are okay. When this client called, he just referred to me as Ms. Deacon. He didn't ask
my first name and I didn't tell him."

"So, assuming your client is the one who's looking for you, he needs your name
before he can find out where you live?"

"Right. And the only phone number he has is my office. I only give out my cell
number to people like you."

"Then my assumption goes right out the window. Don't be surprised if you hear
from some supposedly new client, wanting your name and address."

"I already have," she said. "First thing this morning. He didn't get either of them.
He told me a story about how he needed a good detective, for something very hush-hush
but lucrative. He asked for my name and address so he could, as he put it, 'verify my
credentials.' I basically told him to go pound sand."

"Well done, Ms. Deacon. Even so, you obviously need to be careful."

"As Maurice likes to say, no shit, Sherlock. There's something else, though. I
checked my office phone messages this morning after you left. There was one, from my
anonymous client, asking me to call him right away. In fact, there were three of them."

"Did you call him?"

"I did. I was going to ask him why the hell he set me up like he did. But I thought
about how you would handle it and counted to ten, instead, and just let him talk."

"What did he have to say?"

"He was pissed off. He said he's been trying to reach me since last Saturday. He
wanted to know why I didn't leave the envelope for him. I told him I'd been out of
commission, because someone attacked me at the mall. He acted like he didn't know
anything about that. He was coy about it, but he was trying to find out whether I had
opened the envelope. I told him of course not. Then he asked, did I at least see who the
envelope was addressed to? I lied to him and told him I hadn't looked at it. I'm not sure he
believed me, though. I figured if it's his post office box, then he knows who the letter was
addressed to. And if it isn't his box, then it's probably a federal crime for him to be asking
for the mail."

"Elementary, my dear Deacon. And in either case, his story doesn't add up. But,"
I added cheerfully, "you may have accomplished one important thing. You've led him to
believe you have no idea what that envelope said. Maybe that will convince whoever he is
that you pose no threat to him. And, come to think of it, I may have an idea that will go one
step farther."

"Such as?"

Maurice had appeared in my doorway, and I gestured him to come in.

"Let me think it over. I'll get back to you."

She huffed, "You make me crazy!"

I turned to Maurice. "News?"

"I talked to Robin. She said she's never heard of Rawlings Professional, but she'd
ask around and get back to me. While I was waiting to hear from her, I did some poking
around online. I couldn't find anything. Zilch."

"That figures. We may have to hire a professional investigator to check them
out."

"Jana?"

"Exactly. It will give her something to do while her arm heals. I'll run the idea
past her tonight. So, did Robin call you back?"

"Yeah. One of her male colleagues says the name sounds vaguely familiar. He
thinks it's a high class prostitution service. Of course, he made it clear that he hasn't used
their services. He's just heard rumors. Or so he says."

"I'll bet." In a grim tone, I said, "I can't wait to break
that
news to the
client."

* * * *

The Secretary of State's website showed Rawlings Professional Services, Inc. as a
Colorado corporation in good standing. I recognized the name of its "agent for service" as
Corporations, Inc., one of those companies whose sole function was to act as the official
agent for other companies. I knew from past experience that, short of a subpoena, they
wouldn't cough up any information about Rawlings Professional Services.

After thinking of--and rejecting--every other line of attack I could try, I finally
decided to go with the old-fashioned method. I dialed the number listed on the Rawlings
website. The woman who answered was polite and professional-sounding, but her
overblown cheeriness reminded me of way the long distance operators used to sound, in
the days when there still were long distance operators.

"Rawlings Professional. May I help you?"

"I don't know," I told her candidly. "I'm trying to find out about one of your
customers."

"Oh," she said in a regretful tone, "I'm sorry, but we don't give out information
about our clients."

"I figured. But this one's name was Karl Markowsky. He died last Saturday. I
need--"

"Sir, all of our client information is confidential," she insisted, sounding
noticeably less cheerful. I had a feeling she had experience deflecting this sort of call.

"Well then, may I speak with the owner of the company?"

By now she was getting irritated. "I'm sorry, sir, but that wouldn't be
possible."

"Okay, then let's try this. I understand that I'm not going to get past you with this
call, so I'll just leave a message. The police are examining Mr. Markowsky's credit card bills.
I think it would be a good idea if someone from your company contacted me before it's too
late."

There was a long silence. Given that she didn't hang up on me, I figured I'd
piqued her interest. "Do you want to take down my name and number?"

"If you'd like. But I can't promise anyone will respond to you."

"That's very smart of you," I said breezily. "Nobody should ever make promises
they don't intend to keep." I gave her my name and office number. "Nice chatting with
you."

She didn't respond.

It occurred to me that I hadn't heard from any of the boys at Pennington,
Markowsky, Barbereau and Thomas, so I called and left a message. The receptionist--who I
recognized as Vicki, the woman Barbereau wanted to fire--told me that none of the senior
partners were available. She gave me the option of being transferred to voice mail or
leaving a message with her. I left the message with her.

I was starting to suspect they were avoiding me.

Not surprisingly, nobody from Rawlings Professional Services, Inc. had called
me by the time I was ready to leave the office. I unintentionally ended up working late. I'd
started drafting a response to a motion opposing counsel had filed in a federal diversity
case, and lost track of the time. Finally, my stomach announced that it was past time for
dinner. I shut down my computer and locked up.

As I entered the basement parking garage, I was thinking that I probably ought
to be careful, given that someone was searching for Jana and might know of my association
with her. Plus, by calling Rawlings Professional, I had dropped a potential bomb on the
people I figured were looking for Jana. I decided that, as soon as I reached Fort Larsen, I
would fetch the .38 Terrier from its spot in my nightstand and keep it handy until this thing
was resolved.

But for the time being, I was uncomfortably aware that I was unarmed.

I walked at a brisk pace toward my car. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted
some sort of movement in the distance. I kept going, as if I hadn't noticed anything. Off in a
corner, sheltered against one of the concrete pillars, was a shadowy figure, wearing a dark
overcoat and standing at an angle with his face turned away from me. I tried to maintain a
steady pace while I considered my options.

Should I go over and confront him?

It took me about two seconds to reject that option. I could head back, trying to
pretend I'd forgotten something, and hope to make it into the elevator before he could
catch up with me. But if it wasn't still waiting in the basement, there was no telling how
long it would take to return--and the door to the stairs was locked at night.

I was running out of ideas.