The Alibi Man (11 page)

chapter
18

         
THEY SAT
around a mosaic-tile-topped table imported from Italy. It was three hundred years old and had come from the villa of a wealthy merchant in Florence. It weighed as much as any one of the polo ponies grazing in the irrigated field on the far side of the vast, manicured back lawn and gardens.

Jim Brody believed in living the good life, and he had more than enough money to do it. With nothing but a BA, a big ego, and a good bluff, he had started his own firm in 1979, representing professional athletes in contract and endorsement negotiations. In the beginning, his knack for picking up underestimated athletes about to become superstars had built his reputation. His reputation for big-dollar deals had then brought big-dollar players.

He often called his practice “a license to print money.” And he had no problem spending it.

Two young Hispanic men in white jackets and black slacks served the breakfast. Omelets made to order, bacon, sausage, hash browns, pastries, fruit, three kinds of juice, champagne, and fresh-ground coffee Brody had flown in monthly from a private plantation in Colombia.

His friends gathered here weekly for breakfast. The Alibi Club, they called themselves. Men who shared his passions for money, polo, beautiful women, and assorted other vices. Sebastian Foster, forty-three, at one point the fifth-ranked tennis player in the world. Paul Kenner, forty-nine, former major-league-baseball all-star, one of Brody’s early successes. Antonio Ovada, fifty-one, Argentinian, old money, owner of one of the top polo teams in Florida, breeder of top-dollar ponies. Bennett Walker, forty-five, Palm Beach, old money, Brody had known him for years. Charles Vance IV, fifty-three, CEO of a company that owned a fleet of luxury private charter jets. Juan Barbaro, thirty-three, Spanish, one of the top polo players in the world.

“Have the detectives spoken with you yet?” Ovada asked.

“No.”

“They will. And when they do, what will you tell them?”

Brody looked across the patio, not really seeing the lounge chairs or the pool. “That she was at my party. I knew the girl. That’s not a crime.”

“I suppose not.”

“What will
you
tell them?” Brody asked.

“That I saw her at the party. I didn’t see when or with whom she left. I was with you, here, for the rest of the night, drinking your most expensive scotch and smoking illegal Cuban cigars.”

“Me too,” Kenner said.

“And the woman you were with?” Ovada asked. “What will she say?”

“Nothing. She doesn’t want her husband to know. I don’t want him to know either. He’s the size and temperament of a grizzly bear.”

“I’ve met him,” Foster said. “You definitely need an alibi.”

“You slept with her too?” Kenner asked.

“Yeah. Nice piece of ass, but not worth getting my legs broken.”

Bennett Walker, in dark glasses, hungover, shifted restlessly on his chair.

Charles Vance sliced a piece of sausage on his plate and chewed enthusiastically. “Home with my wife,” he said. “The in-laws are visiting. I wasn’t at the party more than an hour. I have witnesses.”

Brody looked down the table at Barbaro.

“I was passed out on my friend’s pool table,” the Spaniard said with a grin. “You know how to throw a party,
Patrón.
Bennett was like a corpse himself the next day. Neither of us would have been of any use to a woman. Isn’t that so, my friend?”

Walker looked at him, distracted, and lifted a hand as if to say,
whatever,
then got up from the table and went into the pool house.

“What’s his problem?” Kenner asked.

Barbaro shrugged. “Too much vodka at Players last night.”

“Is his wife having trouble again?” Vance asked.

“Who can know? She is always a fragile creature, is she not?”

“I’d wish him my sympathy,” Vance said, “but considering what he gained marrying her, she doesn’t seem like that much of an inconvenience.”

“You don’t have to live with her,” Kenner said.

“Neither does he,” Vance pointed out. “When was the last time Bennett crossed the bridge to the Island?”

Walker emerged from the pool house and came back to the table. His hair was wet and slicked back.

“How’s Nancy these days, Ben?” Brody asked.

“She’s fine. Helping her mother plan some charity event. Keeps her mind occupied.”

Walker’s wife was the daughter of one of the wealthiest old-money families in Connecticut. A beautiful but emotionally unstable girl, Nancy Whitaker seemed to live in her own world much of the time, doped to the gills just so she could function, in and out of mental hospitals and sanitariums.

Some people had been surprised when it was announced the very eligible Bennett Walker was going to marry her. Other people looked at the net worth of the two families and saw a merger, not a marriage.

That was seventeen or eighteen years in the past. Brody hadn’t yet made the Palm Beach scene, but he’d been aware of Bennett Walker. Walker’s alleged rape and beating of a local girl had been in the national news. Privileged heir to a huge fortune accused of taking what he wanted and walking away scot-free in the end. The stuff of tabloid headlines.

The marriage to Nancy Whitaker a year later had given the impression that Bennett had settled down, that clearly he was a good guy, otherwise the Whitakers would never have allowed their daughter to marry him.

The reality was that the Whitakers had married off their problem child, the Walkers had gained business and political connections worth millions, and Bennett’s wife’s condition allowed him the freedom to do as he pleased. Not a bad trade-off, Brody thought.

“So, everybody’s covered,” he said.

They always made certain of that, watched one another’s back. That was what the club was all about. No man went without an alibi if he needed one. One of them always covered. Hookers, mistresses, drugs, booze, gambling—whatever the vice, one of them always covered for another.

It had seemed harmless for the most part, in the beginning. Who cared who fucked who? So what was the big deal, telling a little white one for a buddy with a small cocaine problem? Company money lost on a sure-thing bet in the fifth race at Gulfstream? Not a problem. They covered for one another.

As he sat there looking at his friends, all of them with secrets of their own, he wondered if any one of them had ever imagined covering for a murderer.

chapter
19

         
KULAK NEVER
showed at the address Svetlana had given Landry. At least not in the two hours he had sat on the place before going home to catch a couple hours of sleep. She had probably sent him on a snipe hunt, he thought. Svetlana and the gang back at Magda’s would be having a laugh on him later.

Whether the woman had lied to him or not, he didn’t consider his visit to the bar to have been a waste of time. He’d made an impression. He’d gotten his word out. That word was sure to pass to Alexi Kulak.

“You look like shit,” Weiss pointed out as they drove out South Shore to find Star Polo. Weiss was behind the wheel. It made him feel important. Landry was too hungover to care. “What happened to you? Did you get dragged behind a truck or something? I thought you went home last night. You look like you slept in your car.”

“I went and got drunk,” Landry said. “I stopped at that Russian bar and pounded down some vodka. You should do that once in a while, Weiss. Loosen up your sphincter.”

“You went there without me?” Weiss said in the Tone. “We agreed we would wait until today.”

“It was today.”

“I can’t believe you went there without me.”

Landry gave him a look. “What are you? My new girlfriend? Are your latent homosexual tendencies emerging? Should I be watching my back, Weiss?”

“Oh, fuck you, Landry.”

“Not interested,” Landry said. Weiss snatched a breath to bark back at him. “Don’t miss the turn, sweetheart.”

“You never used to be this big an asshole,” Weiss said. “You been taking lessons from Estes?”

“Don’t try to be clever, Weiss,” Landry said. “It just magnifies your inadequacies.”

Weiss leaned out the window and jabbed the button on the intercom for the gate. The person who answered had to go see if Mr. Brody was available to receive them.

Weiss huffed, “Fat bastard’s probably watching us over closed-circuit television. This guy’s so fucking rich, he shits money. He reps Milton Marbray, NBA rookie of the year. He reps half the all-stars in baseball. Money for nothing.”

The ornate iron gates opened, inviting them in. A guy in black slacks and a white jacket greeted them as they pulled up in front of what looked like a Caribbean plantation house. The cars parked on the curved drive in front of the house looked like they had just come out of the exotic-car-dealership showroom—a Jaguar, a Ferrari, a Mercedes, a Porsche.

Landry got out of the car and introduced himself to the servant, showing his badge.

“Mr. Brody is on the rear terrace entertaining friends. Follow me, please.”

As they walked through the center of the mansion, Landry’s attention wasn’t on the dark teak floors or the white walls hung with art that was probably worth more than he made in ten years. His attention was already through the open doors to the terrace, where half a dozen men sat lounging around a table under the shade of an arbor covered in striped fabric.

He immediately recognized Paul Kenner, the ex–baseball player. Elena had told him Kenner was at the birthday party the night Irina went missing. Another guy sitting at the table did beer commercials—some Aussie tennis player from the last decade. The rest he didn’t know.

A big man with an aggressive smile and a loud shirt got up from the head of the table and came across the flagstone, sticking out his hand.

“Detective. Jim Brody,” he said. His grip was like a can crusher.

“Mr. Brody, I’m Detective Landry. This is Detective Weiss,” he said, nodding in Weiss’s general direction. “We’re looking into the death of Irina Markova, and we’re speaking with everyone who may have seen her the night she went missing.”

“Terrible tragedy,” Brody said in a booming voice. “Of course I saw it on the news yesterday. We were all just talking about it. Everyone here was at the party that night, at one point in time or another.”

“Really? Hey, one-stop shopping for us, Detective Weiss,” Landry said. “Great coincidence, huh?”

Weiss looked at Brody like he was a piece of dog crap. The tough guy. “And you were all just talking about it?” he said flatly. “Then it’s fresh in your heads.”

Landry looked around the table. A couple of them looked cool. A couple of them didn’t.

Kenner stood up with a stupid grin on his face. “Hey, I think I met you once.”

Landry gave him the cop eyes. “Yeah? Did I arrest you?”

“No.”

“My mistake.”

“Detective.” A distinguished-looking man, probably in his early fifties, grass-green Lacoste shirt, khakis with knife-sharp creases, rose from his chair and handed Weiss a business card. “I’m afraid I have to leave. I have a tee time with my father-in-law. But I’m happy to speak with you later, although I don’t have much to contribute. I didn’t see the girl. I was in and out of the party early in the evening. After that I was with my family.”

Another one pushed his chair back. Mid-forties. Dark hair, wet, slicked back. Black wraparounds. Ralph Lauren shirt: collar open, sleeves rolled up neatly to mid–muscular forearm. He slid out of his chair and stepped to the side, like he thought he might be able to slip away unnoticed.

“And you are…?” Landry said.

He was hungover, that was what he was, Landry thought. He had that look. Landry recognized it because he’d seen it staring back at him out of the bathroom mirror that morning.

Even slouching, the guy was tall. Good-looking, like a Kennedy. He turned his head to the side, as if he didn’t realize he was being spoken to.

“Having a memory problem?” Landry prodded.

“Bennett Walker,” he said, and wiped a hand down the lower part of his face. “I’m afraid I’m not feeling well, Detective. One too many last night.”

Landry shrugged. Be a buddy. “Hey, me too. I’ve got a head like a medicine ball. If I can just ask you a couple of questions on your way out…”

Walker gave the smallest of nods and started toward the house. Landry walked beside him.

“Russian vodka,” Landry said. “From real Russians. I think they made the shit in a bathtub. Nasty.”

Walker was breathing very carefully through his mouth. “Me too,” he said. “Vodka. But I don’t know any Russians.”

“Sure you do,” Landry said as they went into the house. “You knew Irina Markova.”

Walker’s step faltered. “Not really.”

“I looked at some photographs from the party that night,” he bluffed. “You looked pretty friendly to me.”

“It was a party. I had a lot to drink.”

“Is that a habit of yours, Mr. Walker? Drinking too much?”

“No more than anyone else.”

“The party was Saturday night. Last night was Monday. I don’t know too many people who tie one on every other night of the week,” Landry said. “Do you?”

Walker stopped and held his head in his hands for a moment, a man in pain.

“It was a party,” he said again.

“And last night?”

“Drinks with a friend after a long day. Look, Detective,” he said, his patience fraying around the edges. “I appreciate your concern, but my drinking habits are none of your business.”

Landry spread his hands. “Hey, you’re right. I don’t know anything about you. Maybe you’re under a lot of stress. Maybe you’ve got problems with your finances or your wife or your girlfriend, boyfriend, whatever. What do I know? I only know what you tell me…and what other people tell me—friends, enemies, observers. Wouldn’t you rather tell me yourself?”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Walker said. “I left the party…I don’t know…maybe two-thirty. Went home. Passed out.”

“Can someone vouch for that?”

“Yes. Juan Barbaro.”

“And where can I find Mr. Barbaro?”

Walker motioned back from where they’d come. “He’s at the table. If you’d excuse me now, Detective. I would really rather go home and be sick in private. If you have other questions, I can try to answer them later.”

Landry ignored him. “Did you see Irina Markova leave the party?”

“No.”

“Did you see her with anyone in particular during the evening?”

“No. It was a party. Everyone was with everyone.”

“One big happy family.”

“There had to be a hundred people there,” Walker said, frustrated, “probably more. I didn’t have any reason to keep tabs on anyone. I can’t help you.”

“Excuse me, Detective, but I have a quick question for my friend.”

Walker looked relieved. “Detective, this is Juan Barbaro. My alibi, not that I need one.”

Barbaro held a hand out. Landry shook it. Strong, but not out to prove anything. The man looked him in the eye when he spoke, something Bennett Walker hadn’t yet managed to do. Still, he seemed too slick to trust, too good-looking, too sure of his own charm. In breeches and brown riding boots, he looked like a male model in an ad for some cologne with a sporty name—Rider, Player, Jock.

“Too much partying that night,” Barbaro said, smiling, at ease. He sat down on the arm of a fat upholstered chair. “It’s a wonder we managed to find his house.”

“You both went there and crashed,” Landry said.

“Yes.”

“Just the two of you.”

“Yes,” Barbaro said. “I am afraid we were both beyond entertaining.”

“You live together?” Landry asked.

“No, no,” Barbaro said. “Ben’s home was closer. I knew I could not drive.”

“Wise choice, then.” And convenient, Landry thought. He watched Walker, who was a very unhealthy shade of ash. Sweat began to bead across his forehead.

“I have to go,” he said, and turned again for the door. Landry didn’t try to stop him.

“Are you playing later, Ben?” Barbaro called after his friend.

Walker didn’t turn around. “No.”

“He’s not doing so well, your pal there,” Landry said as Walker hustled out the front door.

Barbaro frowned. “My friend is a complex man with a complicated life.”

“Complicated in what way?”

“In the way of women, of course. His wife, she is…difficult.”

“Was she at the party that night?”

“No, no.”

“Was she at the house when you got there?”

“Mrs. Walker lives on ‘the Island,’ as they say. They have a lovely home on the ocean side. Ben and I went to his home in the Polo Club.”

“They’re separated?”

“No,” Barbaro said. “They are wealthy. The wealthy do not live like you and me, Detective. Bennett keeps a home here in Wellington, where he stays for the polo season. He is quite a good amateur player.”

“And the wife?”

“Has her charities and so forth in Palm Beach. Benefits and balls, and so on.”

“And it’s fine with her that her husband is over here partying with twenty-some-year-old girls?”

Barbaro shrugged in that European way that made Landry want to smack him upside the head. “As I said, the wealthy are not like you or me.”

“Maybe not,” Landry said. “But in my experience, women are women, and women don’t like their husbands off fucking around on the side.”

Barbaro smiled like a wise man to a moron. “You have much to learn about these people, Detective.”

“Oh, I plan to learn everything about them. What about you, Mr. Barbaro? Did you spend any time with Irina Markova that night at the party?”

“To say hello, party talk. We may have danced, I think,” he said, looking up as if he might see the image of that on the ceiling.

“How well did you know her?”

Again with the shrug. “Irina enjoyed the scene, as many pretty young women her age do. I knew her socially. It’s a terrible thing that happened to her.”

“She was a groom,” Landry said. “Doesn’t seem like a groom would be included in this crowd.”

“Did you ever meet Irina?” Barbaro asked with raised brows. “Aye yi yi! She was a beautiful, sophisticated young woman. Very self-assured, very sexy. A young woman like that is welcome everywhere she goes, is she not?”

“Did you have a relationship with her?”

“No.”

“Did Bennett Walker?”

“You would have to ask him that.”

“I’m asking you,” Landry pressed.

“Ben is a wealthy man,” Barbaro said. “Irina liked wealthy men.”

“Was he sleeping with her?”

“I don’t know. They were friendly. But she was friendly with other wealthy men as well.”

“She slept around.”

“I don’t go into the bedrooms of my acquaintances, Detective. I find it unwise to know too much,” Barbaro said. “I am a polo player, a professional athlete. I am an entertainer. I am very good at what I do, and because of this, I am desirable to know among these wealthy people. But I am not one of them. I make my living off their largesse. I am an employee.”

“I don’t see any other hired help sitting at that table out there, Mr. Barbaro,” Landry pointed out.

“Nevertheless…If I was a player of no consequence, I would not be here. Inasmuch as these gentlemen may tell you otherwise, I know better.”

Strange, Landry thought. Barbaro was setting himself apart, distancing himself from the pack. Most people went out of their way to appear to belong to an exclusive social set.

“How long have you known these people?”

“I have been coming to Palm Beach and Wellington for four years, five years,” Barbaro said. “I came here to play for Ralph Lauren when I was only a three-goal player.”