The Alibi Man (5 page)

chapter
6

         
THE SUV
in the photo of the tailgating party had vanity plates.
STAR POLO 1
.

The best polo in the world is played in Wellington, Florida, during the winter months. Big-money-sponsored teams. Players with rock-star status. The ultrarich, the ultrapowerful, the ultrafamous filled the stands at the International Polo Club every Sunday. Early rounds of tournaments were played all week long on the fields stacked one after the next behind the main stadium.

I had a passing familiarity with the sport, having dated several completely inappropriate men involved in it back in the days when pissing off my father was a priority in my life. By reputation, polo players are wild, passionate, aggressive, hot-tempered, unfaithful, and their riding skills are not limited to polo ponies.

There were plenty of women in Wellington who believed a mad hot affair with a polo player was just the thing to spice up life. Perhaps Irina had been one of them.

Not interested in sticking around for the arrival of Landry and his team, I got in my car and drove into town, still in my riding clothes and smelling of stale sweat and horses. No one would look at me twice. Half the population of the town went around that way every day during season.

Still, I felt vulnerable and self-conscious, as if anyone looking at me would know instantly what had gone on that morning. I jammed a black baseball cap on my head and put on a pair of dark sunglasses and went into the Tackeria.

The Tackeria, located in a strip mall on Wellington Trace, was a tack shop and social hub where horse people of all disciplines went to shop for essentials and catch up on the latest gossip. The specialty of the store was polo, with several aisles dedicated to polo equipment and clothing.

I was known there, stopping in from time to time to pick up the odd thing for Sean or to buy myself a pair of breeches. One of the clerks at the counter looked up and said hello as I approached.

“What can we help you with today, Elena?”

So much for my disguise.

“Just a question. I need to go out to Star Polo, but I’m not exactly sure where it is.”

“In the back,” the clerk said. “Jim Brody. He’s the owner. Your lucky day.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks.”

I went toward the back of the store but turned down one of the aisles of polo gear. Too many years as a narc. I always want to know what I’m walking into. Conversations were going on around me. Somebody was complaining about the price of gas. A woman wanted to know if the store carried a particular brand of gloves. Three people were in a discussion about the prognosis of an injured polo pony.

“…tore up the deep flexor tendon, right hind.” Voice number one. Strong, with the potential for bluster.

“How long will that take?” Voice number two. Quieter. Even.

“Too long. The season is over for her.” Voice number one again. “She may not come back at all.”

“What a shame.” Voice number two.

“The team is so deep, you’ll never miss her.” Voice number three. A smooth Spanish accent.

“Barbaro scored a lot of goals off her.” Voice number two.

“Barbaro could score off a donkey.” Voice number one.

I moved to the end of the aisle and checked them out while I pretended to look at horse halters. A big guy with a red face and a Tommy Bahama shirt. Fifty-something, gray hair, good-looking forty pounds ago. A tall, lean man in denim with a narrow face that looked to be carved from old leather. And a neat, tanned man in pressed khakis and a pink polo shirt with the collar turned up, his black hair slicked straight back. Handsome. In his fifties. Probably Argentinian. White-white teeth.

The tall man worked in the back, repaired equipment, fitted saddles. I had seen him back there different times when I was in the store, but I didn’t know his name. That made Tommy Bahama the owner of Star Polo: Jim Brody. I didn’t recognize him from any of the tailgating photos. The third man had been in the background of one of the shots, laughing, raising a glass of champagne, a cute twenty-something blonde at his side.

Brody slapped the denim-shirt man on the shoulder and said he’d see him soon.

I turned and made my way to the front of the store, careful not to be seen by the clerk I had spoken to. She was occupied with a customer. I slipped out the door and went back to my car. Brody and the other man came out. Brody got into a pearl-white Cadillac Escalade:
STRAR POLO 1
. The Argentinian slid behind the wheel of a silver Mercedes convertible and followed the Cadillac out of the parking lot. I drove out behind them.

chapter
7

         
THE MAIN
entrance to Star Polo on South Shore Drive (which is, of course, nowhere near the shore of anything but a drainage canal) looked like the entrance to a five-star resort. Stone pillars, huge trees, banks of red geraniums, clipped grass. The Cadillac and the Mercedes turned in. I drove past and went to the stable gate farther down the road.

A rider went past with three ponies tethered on either side, going for a jog. The farrier was banging on a hot shoe, shaping it to fit the foot of a horse being held by a barn hand. A groom was hosing the legs of a chestnut in the wash racks across the drive from the barn. Apparently there was no day of rest at Star Polo.

I parked my car in the shade and went to the girl in the wash rack.

Her focus was on the horse’s forelegs and the cold water that ran down and puddled on the concrete. Lost in thought, she held the hose in one hand, and with the other toyed compulsively with a medallion she wore around her neck on a thin black cord. She looked sad, I thought; then again, maybe it was just the way I felt and I wanted to project that onto everyone around me. It seemed wrong that people should be going on in a normal way. But their reality was not mine.

“Boring job,” I said.

She looked up at me and blinked. Twenty-ish, I figured. Her curly streaked blond hair was up in a messy clip. She looked different in a faded tank top and baggy cargo shorts, but I recognized her from one of the tailgating photos. She stared at me with big cornflower-blue eyes.

“Hose duty,” I said. “It’s boring.”

“Yeah. Can I help you?” she asked. “Are you looking for the barn manager?”

“No, actually, I’m looking for you.”

Her brows knit. “Do I know you?”

“No, but I think we have a mutual acquaintance. Irina Markova.”

“Sure, I know Irina.”

“I recognize you from a photograph she has. From a tailgating party at the polo grounds. I’m Elena, by the way,” I said, offering her my hand. “Elena Estes.”

She shook it tentatively, still not sure what to make of me. “Lisbeth Perkins.”

The friend from the caller ID.

“Have you seen Irina around?” I asked.

“She doesn’t work here.”

“I know. I mean, just around.”

“We went out Saturday night. Why?”

“I work at the same barn as her. We haven’t seen her for a couple of days.”

The girl shrugged. “It’s her day off.”

“Do you know where she would go? What does she usually do on her day off?” I asked, fishing for whatever information I could get about Irina’s life away from the barn.

“I don’t know. Sometimes we go to the beach when we’re both off. Or shopping.”

“Where did you go Saturday night?”

“Are you a cop or something?”

“No. I’m just concerned. The world is a scary place, Lisbeth. Bad things happen.”

She gave a little involuntary laugh. “Not to Irina. She can take care of herself.”

How I wished that had been true in the moment it had become clear that she could not.

“She was in a big hurry to leave work Saturday,” I said. “Did you guys have plans?”

“Just to go out. No place special. We went to a couple of clubs on Clematis Street.”

“Which clubs?”

Looking annoyed, she turned to the faucets and shut off the water.

“I don’t know,” she said impatiently. She was nervous with my questions. Whether she had reason to be or whether she was simply sensing something was wrong, I didn’t know. “What’s the difference? We hit some clubs. We had a few drinks.”

“With anyone in particular?”

“I don’t like all these questions,” she said. “It’s none of your business what we did.”

She unsnapped the horse from the ties and started toward the barn with him. I followed.

“I’m making it my business, Lisbeth,” I said.

She put the horse in a stall and busied herself with the door latch.

“Have you seen or heard from her since Saturday night either?” I asked.

“No. You’re scaring me.”

“I sometimes have that effect on people.”

“I wish you would leave.”

She knew something bad was coming. She wanted me to go away before I set the bad thing loose. Then maybe it didn’t really exist and it couldn’t touch her life. Oh, to be twenty and still believe in innocence.

“Lisbeth,” I said.

She didn’t look at me. She seemed to brace herself. I half-expected her to plug her ears with her fingers.

“Irina is dead. Her body was found this morning in a canal.”

The big cornflower eyes went glassy with tears. “You’re lying! What kind of sick person are you?”

From the corner of my eye I could see one of the stable hands looking over at us, frowning. He started toward us with a pitchfork in hand.

I turned to him and told him in Spanish that everything was fine but that I had given Lisbeth some very sad news. The death of a friend.

The aggression went out of him and he expressed his apologies and went back to his business.

“I’m sorry, Lisbeth,” I said. “It’s true. And there is no good or gentle way to say it.”

The girl put her hands over her face and slid down to the ground, her back against the stall door. She drew in a shuddering breath and said, “No,” the word weak and muffled. “No, you’re wrong.”

“I’m not. I wish I were, but I’m not.”

“Oh, my God!”

I squatted down beside her and put my hand on her shoulder. “I’m very sorry. You two were close?”

She nodded and sobbed into her hands until she gagged.

“Can we go sit somewhere?” I asked quietly.

She nodded, pulled a dirty rag out of the cargo pocket of her shorts, wiped her face, and blew her nose. She held on to my arm as we rose. She felt as weak and shaky as an elderly person in poor health.

“What happened?” she asked, hiccuping air between syllables. “Did she drive off the road? She’s a terrible driver.”

“No,” I said, and said nothing more until we were seated on a bench at the far end of the barn.

“It’s not clear yet what happened,” I said. “There was no sign of her car.”

The girl looked at me, confused. “I don’t understand.”

“Her body was dumped there. She was probably murdered.”

I thought she might faint, she was so pale. But she got up from the bench, ran around the corner of the barn, and retched. I waited, feeling empty, drained from telling her and, in telling her, reliving that horrible moment of discovery.

When she came back and sat down again, she put her head in her hands. She was shaking visibly.

“I can’t believe this is happening!”

“Me neither,” I said.

“How can this be happening?”

I would have told her that life is cruel and unpredictable, but she had just discovered that for herself.

“Lisbeth, I need to know everything that happened Saturday night.”

“We hit some clubs on Clematis. Had some drinks, danced.”

“Any guys involved?”

“Sure. We have this contest…to see which one of us can get the most free drinks.”

“Did any of the men seem to think they should get something in return?”

“Ha,” she said with very little strength. “All of them. They’re guys.”

“Did Irina have any interest?”

“No. ‘Boys,’ she would say, and make a face. She didn’t waste her time on boys.”

“Did any of them take that news badly?”

“All of them,” she said again. “They’re guys.”

“I mean a guy who got pissed off, maybe made a threat, made you uncomfortable.”

“No. Well…” She shook her head as if shooing away a thought she didn’t want to have.

“Just say it. Maybe it’s nothing, but maybe it isn’t.”

“There’s this guy we run into a lot. Irina dances with him…kind of leads him on…. He always wants her to leave with him, but she never does.”

“And Saturday night?”

“He called her a name. We were leaving. Irina laughed at him. He didn’t follow us or anything.”

“What did he call her?”

“He told Irina she should go for a ride with him. She said he meant a ride
on
him and that she wasn’t interested in riding a pony.”

“And he said what?”

“‘You fucking Russian cunt,’ pardon my language. Irina just laughed and blew him a kiss.”

“What’s his name?”

“Brad something. I don’t know. He wasn’t interested in me, I wasn’t interested in him.”

“What club was this in?”

She rubbed her hands over her face and shrugged. “Monsoon, maybe…or Deuce. I don’t remember.”

“When you’d had the fun you could have at the clubs…”

“We came back to Wellington and went to Players for a while. It was Mr. Brody’s birthday. There were a lot of people there. I left around one.”

“And Irina?”

“She was still there.”

“With anyone?”

“No one in particular.”

“And no one was paying special attention to her?”

The girl laughed, but her eyes were welling again. “Everyone paid attention to Irina. Every
man
.”

Something dawned on her then, and she said, “Wait,” and dug into another of the many pockets on her shorts, coming up with her cell phone. “I took some pictures.”

She called the pictures up and scrolled through several, then stopped on one. “This is that guy. Brad.”

The photo was cockeyed and the lighting wasn’t great, but I could make out his face. A good-looking kid with the spoiled expression of a privileged youth.

“Can I send this to my phone?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said, and handed me the phone. “There are a couple more.”

I scrolled through them. Irina dancing. Irina laughing with another girl. “Who’s she?”

“Rebecca something. She’s a tutor for Sebastian Foster’s kid.”

Sebastian Foster had been a hell of a tennis player in his twenties. The Wonder from Down Under—wild blond hair, tan, quick as a cat, with a massive serve—until his shoulder had given out. I had read in
Wellington Lifestyles
magazine that he wintered in Wellington so his daughter could for the most part skip her education in favor of riding in horse shows.

I had firsthand knowledge of that life. My mother had taken me out of school and brought me to Wellington more than one winter growing up so I could ride and show, the only activity that seemed to keep me out of trouble. I had routinely bribed my tutor to get out of doing work. Math? Why would I ever need to know that?

I clicked to another photo. Partying hearty at Players, a restaurant and club just outside the Palm Beach Polo and Golf gated community. Like most places in Wellington, Players was overrun all winter with horse people. It was the place pretty young grooms and riders liked to go to cut loose. Not surprisingly, many wealthy gentlemen went there with eyes for those pretty young things half their age.

“Who is this?” I asked.

Lisbeth looked at the photo. “You’re kidding, right? That’s Barbaro. Juan Barbaro, the polo player.”

“I don’t follow it,” I admitted.

“He’s a ten-goal player. He’s the best in the world.”

And he was gorgeous. Thick black hair, dark eyes that seemed to stare right out of the photograph with confidence and sexual energy to burn. Adonis should have looked like this guy.

“He rides for us,” Lisbeth said. “For Star Polo.”

I had no doubt that Juan Barbaro did a lot of riding, and not all of it on horses. This guy probably had women tossing their panties onto the polo field.

Beside him in the next photo was Jim Brody with his arm around Irina, who was young enough to be his granddaughter.

And on Irina’s other side was a face I hadn’t seen in years, except in very bad dreams.

Time stopped. My body went numb. I stopped breathing but realized it only when black cobwebs began to encroach on my peripheral vision.

Bennett Walker. Still handsome. Dark hair, blue eyes, tan. Scion to the Walker family that owned half of South Florida.

Bennett Walker. The man I had meant to marry long ago, in a previous life, before everything about and around me changed.

Before I dropped out of college.

Before my father disowned me.

Before I became a cop.

Before I became a cynic.

Before I stopped believing in happily ever after—twenty years ago.

Before Bennett Walker asked me to give him an alibi for the night he raped and beat a woman nearly to death.