Read A Knight at the Opera for Free Online Page B

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