A Knight at the Opera (Adam Larsen Mysteries #2)

By Kenneth L. Levinson

As the unplanned finale of the Denver Opera Company's production of Carmen. A member of the audience plunges to his death from the top balcony, nearly landing on Denver lawyer Adam Larsen and his paralegal, former Denver Bronco Maurice White. What appears to be a mere accident becomes far more complicated when the mystery woman who had accompanied the deceased can't be found. Much to the displeasure of Larsen's nemesis, Sergeant Joe Stone, the dead man's wife Larsen him represent her in dealing with her husband's ex-wife and his accounting partners. But questions begin to arise. Why was this happily married man soliciting the services of a so-called escort service? And what is so important about his secret post office box that someone assaults Larsen's significant-whatever-she-is, private investigator Jana Duncan, outside the Cherry Creek Mall? Only Adam Larsen's nimble brain and quick sense of humor can sort it all out—but can he do it in time to save Jana's life? This title is published by Uncial Press and is distributed worldwide by Untreed Reads.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Untreed Reads
• Release date: Jan 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781601741523

Book preview

A KNIGHT AT THE OPERA

By

Kenneth L. Levinson

Uncial Press       Aloha, Oregon

2012

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-152-3

A Knight at the Opera

Copyright © 2013 by Kenneth L. Levinson

Cover art and design

Copyright © 2013 by Judith B. Glad

All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five (5) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Published by Uncial Press,

an imprint of GCT, Inc.

Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

For Shauna, with love and gratitude.

CHAPTER ONE

It had been a busy week, the last half of a ten-day trial. I was working eleven hour days--until Thursday, the night before closing arguments, when we went even longer. I was still at the Jefferson County Courthouse at 9:50 p.m., haggling with the judge and opposing counsel over jury instructions. We made our closing arguments first thing Friday morning and I spent the rest of the day languishing at the courthouse, which had become my home away from home, waiting for the jurors to reach their verdict. By Saturday, I was looking forward to an uneventful evening at the opera.

One of my favorite clients, a bank president I'd gotten out of a difficult situation four years earlier, had called my receptionist, Diana Hollister, on Thursday to offer two orchestra level seats for the Denver Opera Company's production of Carmen. Knowing that if I didn't use the tickets, she and her husband could, Diana accepted without bothering to consult me. She knew that when I was in trial, all other matters were placed in limbo, especially when it was a complicated case like this one, a high-dollar real estate dispute with some thorny legal issues.

We finished closing arguments at about ten-thirty. The four men and two women filed silently out of the courtroom, heading off to begin their deliberations. After ordering the lawyers to remain at the courthouse until the jury had rendered its verdict, the judge vanished through the door behind his bench. I went across the courtroom to shake hands with opposing counsel in a gesture of professional civility. Even though he and I disagreed on the merits of my client's case, we'd been able to establish a decent rapport, which made the process less unpleasant--and less expensive--for our clients.

My client, a seventy-year-old real estate developer, was eager to get back to work, having spent the last two weeks sitting in the courtroom. Since his office was located in downtown Golden, only half a mile from the courthouse, I told him I'd call him when we heard from the judge's clerk, so he could return in time to hear the verdict.

When he was gone, I reached for my new iPhone and held the Home button until the voice control screen appeared. Call work. Main.

A few seconds later, Diana answered in her crisp, British accent, Adam Larsen and Associates.

Hi, Diana. We're done. It's in the hands of the jury.

Splendid. How did closing arguments go?

I turned to my legal assistant, Maurice White, who was loading boxes of trial materials onto a wheeled cart so we could remove them from the courtroom. Maurice had played linebacker for the Broncos for four seasons, so hefting these boxes was child's play for him.

Diana's asking how it went. What do you think?

He said in his raspy voice, Hell, I don't know. Your guess is as good as mine.

Maurice says we're guaranteed a victory. Absolutely. He's very confident. He rolled his eyes bemusedly as I said into the phone, Anything I need to know about?

Nothing urgent. She read me my messages and then told me about the tickets to the opera. Do you want them? You might actually relax for a few hours.

Probably not, I told her candidly, But I'm willing to try.

I'll leave them on your desk. Will you be returning to the office today?

I don't know. The judge ordered us to hang around the courthouse until the jury reaches its verdict. There's no way of knowing how long they'll take.

Well, good luck, she said. Let us know when you hear. The us meant Diana and my law clerk, Ann Stivornik.

Will do.

I immediately called my significant whatever she is, January Deacon, known to her friends as Jana, to invite her to the opera. She responded with something that sounded like she had jammed three of her fingers down her throat. Of course, that didn't surprise me. Jana was definitely not an opera fan. At that point in her life, her notion of great entertainment involved action movies, especially spy thrillers and martial arts films. In the months since her father's murder, she'd immersed herself in activities like kick boxing and karate, and was spending two hours a day at the gym.

Her body had become sculpted like the women in those abs of steel infomercials, which I had learned from experience not to mention in her presence. She had taken considerable umbrage when I once unwisely suggested that she was starting to resemble Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Only younger.

And on estrogen.

It nearly got me pummeled.

As my grandfather used to say, sometimes the best opinions are the ones we keep to ourselves.

She's not interested? Maurice asked, looking amused. Probably not enough violence for her taste.

A definite no, I said. How about you?

He made a sour face. An opera? Last time, didn't this client give us Nuggets tickets?

I shrugged. Evidently, he's a Renaissance man. Come on, I chided him, "it's Carmen. Everybody likes Carmen."

Okay, he said. Why not? We can sing along with that one catchy song, the one about the toreador.

Oh, sure. Then they'd probably kill us, instead of Don José.

Maurice looked puzzled.

He's the bad guy.

Oh.

And, as it turned out, I wasn't that far off the mark.

* * * *

The opera began promptly at seven-thirty. I had actually managed to unwind, and even had good reason to celebrate. After taking nearly five hours to reach a verdict, the jury had split the baby, awarding my client about two-thirds of what he was asking for. Since he was the prevailing party, he would also be awarded his attorney fees and court costs. He was satisfied with the outcome, and there was virtually no chance the other side could successfully appeal the verdict.

Case closed.

I could forget about the office for a few days.

Maurice and I had an early dinner at Elway's in Cherry Creek before heading downtown. The parking structure was nearly full, which was typical when there were multiple events going on at the Denver Center for Performing Arts complex. It took us fifteen minutes to wend our way to the top level of the parking garage, where we finally found an available space. By the time we'd made it across the plaza and into the opera house, the place was nearly full--which meant a crowd of around twenty-two hundred people.

The seats at the orchestra level, upholstered in red, were arranged in the shape of a large horseshoe. Behind them, half a dozen additional rows were laid out in traditional straight lines. High above us were three balconies, jutting out in giant arcs over the main seating area.

A sprightly woman in a blue DCPA uniform escorted us to our seats at the stage-right end of Row M. Because of his size, I let Maurice have the aisle seat, and I took the spot next to him. Down in front, the musicians were already arranged in the pit, starting to tune up.

Out of habit, I glanced upward toward the ceiling. Suspended far above us was a massive wooden structure, shaped like a sleek and glossy snow sled. I had always been fascinated by it, and wondered what sort of artistic statement it was supposed to be making. Inside the wooden formation was an immense chandelier, shaped like a jet engine.

Welcome to The Rosebud, I told Maurice.

Rosebud? He followed my gaze up toward the ceiling. I thought they called this place the--oh, I get it. Rosebud. Citizen Kane. He put one of his big paws on my shoulder. Wow. You really need a vacation. Somewhere far away.

I just grinned at him. He was right, of course. I'd been working much too hard. I turned my attention to the glossy printed program. As I began reading, I noted that the woman playing Carmen had previously sung at the Met and the Santa Fe Opera. That meant we could expect a top-flight performance. I was halfway through the synopsis of the opera when the lights began to dim. I looked upward and watched as the chandelier inside the wooden structure ascended toward the ceiling. The lights faded and the conductor took his place in front of the orchestra, as the audience rewarded him with the obligatory applause. At a jerk of his baton, the orchestra launched into the prelude, which included the Toreador's Song.

For the record, Maurice and I didn't sing along.

Nothing extraordinary happened during the first two acts--which were performed in sequence, without an intermission--other than the complete ruin of Don Josè as he devolved from a corporal in the army into prisoner and then deserter, smitten by the illusion of love for the fickle Carmen. Or, at least, that's how the program had described it. We spent the intermission in the main lobby, milling around with the rest of the crowd. Maurice went over to the bar and bought himself had a mixed drink, but I decided to pass. After waiting in line for the men's room, we returned to our seats and watched the chandelier ascend to signal the start of the third act.

It happened sometime around ten-thirty, just after the opera ended. Don José had stabbed Carmen to death, while Escamillo, off-stage, vanquished an unseen, but no doubt ferocious, bull. The audience applauded enthusiastically as the cast went through the usual routine of bows, first the minor players and then the primary characters. The female lead who played Carmen received a well-deserved standing ovation. When the applause finally subsided, the lights came up and people began migrating into the aisles.

My first awareness of something wrong came when Maurice shouted, Look out! and sprang into action. For a big man, he could move fast.

With his right arm, he shoved several people toward their seats. Simultaneously, his left arm grabbed a dark-haired woman who was passing our aisle, lifting her over the arm of his seat. As he lurched backwards, he knocked me into the irritating little man next to me, who had spent most of the opera cracking his knuckles.

We all went down like a row of dominoes.

As I tumbled, I banged my elbow painfully on the arm of my chair, just as something large and blurry came crashing down into the aisle, right where the dark-haired woman had been standing when Maurice grabbed her. My first impression was that the falling object resembled the Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz, except that it was dressed in a dark pin-striped business suit. It had slammed against the floor with a sickening thud.

I rescued my legs from under Maurice and scrambled to my feet, vaguely aware that my arm had gone numb. People were shouting. A girl screamed. The woman Maurice had grabbed was on her feet, and cursing loudly at him, as though he had tried to molest her. There were several long, deep scratches on his face, which she had obviously inflicted on him, one of them bleeding considerably. But Maurice appeared totally oblivious to her histrionics.

He was gaping down at the floor.

A man's body was sprawled on the carpet, blood seeping from his flattened skull and dripping onto the carpet. His arms and legs were splayed at bizarre angles, as though the fall had shattered most of his bones. He had short-cropped gray hair and looked to be in his late forties. I guessed that the hissing sound I'd heard was the sound of his last breath being forced out of his lungs as his body smacked against the floor.

The woman had stopped yelling at Maurice, and was now staring, open-mouthed, at the dead man. The people around us were frozen into a stunned silence. Suddenly, pandemonium broke out, and they all began to move. One couple tried to step over the body, but I moved forward and blocked their path.

Everybody stay back, I shouted as I reached for my phone and called 911. You'll have to find another route.

It took the emergency operator six rings to answer. By the time I'd finished telling her what had happened, I noticed two men in dark blue uniforms, embroidered with the name Semper Security on their shirts, working their way against the flow of people and heading in our direction.

One of them confronted Maurice in an official-sounding voice. Is there a problem here?

He took a moment to glare at the dark-haired woman before pointing at the corpse. You tell me.

The security man started to react, looking as though he might try to manhandle Maurice, but something in Maurice's manner stopped him. Maurice was slow to anger, but once he was there, it was best to leave him alone. He weighed two hundred and thirty-five pounds and was still in decent shape, six years after his football career ended.

I stepped forward. The man apparently fell from one of the upper levels. That's all we really know. It could have been a heart attack. It could have been anything. The police are on their way. A thought occurred to me. You should probably keep people from leaving.

His partner spoke up. He's right, Tom. The cops will want to take statements. Especially the people who were sitting near him.

They seemed to hesitate, as though thinking one of them should stay with the body, but they couldn't decide which one it should be.

Go do what you have to do, I said. We'll keep people from touching anything.

Thanks. He called out loudly, Everyone, please, can I have your attention? I need your attention, please. The room quieted. My name is Brandt Johnson and I'm here with Semper Security. I know that this is a horrible tragedy, but the police are going to need to talk to you, and I need you to stay calm. I also need to ask you not to leave just yet. The authorities are on their way. Please take a seat, preferably the seat you were sitting in during the opera. You'll be doing a great public service.

He repeated his speech half a dozen times as he moved through the auditorium. The power of his voice made me suspect he had theater training. Most of the people followed his direction without protest. A few--there are always a few--argued with him and insisted they needed to leave. Meanwhile, his partner was speaking into a walkie-talkie, telling other security men throughout the building to keep people from going home.

I sighed and turned to Maurice. I'm afraid this is going to be a long night.

He shook his head in disgust. Even at the damn opera! I can't go anywhere with you without someone getting killed.

A stampede of policemen suddenly burst into the room. I hadn't had time to think about it, but as soon as I saw them, my Spiderman senses began to tingle, and I knew immediately that their commander was going to be him.

The worst possible person to deal with a situation like this.

The worst possible person to deal with any situation.

Arrogant, cocky, and unable to think his way out of a paper bag, bad skin and a jutting jaw that was too big for the rest of his face.

Sergeant Joe Stone.

He reminded me of Inspector Javert, the cruel policeman in Les Miserables, who relentlessly pursued the petty thief Jean Valjean through the sewers of Paris. And Stone typically went berserk whenever I referred to him that way. It was one of those things that made life interesting.

He came swaggering into the room and led his men down the aisle, like storm troopers brought in to subdue a violent mob. He stopped in his tracks when he saw me.

You! His face turned bright red. Always you! What the hell are you doing here?

Same as everyone else, I said. I was watching an opera. And after the curtain calls were over, this man came crashing down from the balcony. Beyond that, I have no idea what happened. If Maurice hadn't stepped in, other people would have gotten hurt, as well.

I noticed that the dark-haired woman Maurice had pulled out the path of the falling body was standing next to him, no longer looking angry. In fact, she was standing very close to him, as though finding comfort in his presence. I also noticed that she was quite attractive.

He saved my life, officer. She added, in a matter-of-fact tone, He was my knight in shining armor.

Somehow when she said it, it didn't sound as lame as it does now.

Stone's face twisted into a mocking smirk. "Knight in shining armor? I'd say more like Shrek. In a tailored suit."

Ignoring Stone, she reached up and gently touched the scratches on Maurice's face. I'm so sorry about that. I misunderstood your intentions.

It's okay, he mumbled. But I knew it wasn't okay. Something was bugging him, and I had a hunch I knew what it was.

Stone said, So what happened, White?

Before the opera began, Adam pointed out whatever that thing is up on the ceiling. While we were waiting for the people in front of us to leave their rows, I took another look at it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something moving fast. I had no idea what it was.

And you did what? Stone prompted.

I'm not exactly sure what I did. I guess I just reacted.

The brunette said, He grabbed me and pulled me out of harm's way. If that man had landed on me, I could have been seriously injured.

Stone stared skeptically at Maurice. So you just happened to be looking up and just happened to see a man falling? And just reacted?

Maurice stirred irritably. Let me tell you something, Stone. From the day you start youth football, they train you to react to things, and to react quickly. That carries on into high school, then college and then the pros. You end up with hypertension--if the concussions don't kill you first--but when you see things happen, you instinctively act. It becomes second nature.

Stone turned to me. Why is that every time I bump into you, there's always a dead body nearby?

Maurice said, Because he attracts trouble like a black hole attracts light. If he was a Native American, his warrior name would be 'Runs With Scissors'.

Stone cocked his head in surprise. He had never seen Maurice so agitated. I knew Maurice was resenting something. And I knew that he knew it wasn't my fault. He was just pissed off, and he needed to vent.

Stone said, What else can you tell me, Larsen?

Nothing, unfortunately. I didn't see anything until just before the man hit the ground.

I think he was sitting up there, Maurice said, gesturing toward the top balcony. But I'm not sure. I just know he fell a long way.

I eyeballed the distance. That's probably seventy feet.

Stone said, Higher. The tech guys will figure out the exact distance.

The uniformed officers were beginning to cordon off the area around us. There were probably only a dozen of them, but they seemed to be everywhere in the theater--and were definitely taking charge of the situation.

After a while, a tall man, with hair just beginning to turn gray, quietly joined our group. I recognized him as assistant DA Tom Swain. He was a soft-spoken man who had the understated mannerisms of a country doctor.

He stuck out his hand. Well, Mr. Larsen, he said in his full, baritone voice. We meet again.

Yeah, I said, not quite as politely, But this time I'm not in handcuffs. And you're not questioning me as a murder suspect.

He nodded. I'd forgotten he was a nodder. But still not underestimating you, he said with an understated smile. He turned to Stone. What is the situation?

Stone shrugged. They say the guy fell out of the balcony. That's all I know for now.

Swain eyed the dead man. That's an expensive suit. Any idea who he is?

Not yet, Stone said. I'm guessing he has a wallet. But nobody touches anything until Yamamoto and his crew get here.

He was referring to Fred Yamamoto, the head of the mobile crime lab. I turned to Swain and gestured toward the dead man. "Doesn't it seem odd that no companion of his has come rushing