The Alibi Man (12 page)

“What does that mean?”

“That is a rating system, a handicap. Players are handicapped, based on their statistics and abilities, from one goal to ten. The higher the number, the better the player,” he explained. “When I was a three-goal player, Mr. Brody saw my potential and hired me away. I have now been a ten-goal player for three years.”

“Mr. Brody has a good eye.”

“Which is how he made his fortune.”

“You’ve earned your place at that table,” Landry said.

“I have been good for Mr. Brody. Mr. Brody has been very good to me,” Barbaro said, raising his hands. “And now I must go to work, so that all of this remains the same.”

Landry took his phone number and let him leave. Weiss came into the wide hall from the back terrace, still looking pissed off.

“I hate these people.”

“Because they’re rich?” Landry asked.

“Because they’re assholes.”

“Turning on your own kind?”

“Very funny. They didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything, don’t know anything, and they all alibi one another. And,” Weiss said, “they want to know where they can send memorials. I could puke. What did yours have to say for themselves?”

“Same,” Landry said as they walked out. “Barbaro alibis Walker. Walker alibis Barbaro. They both knew the girl, but neither of them saw her leave the party. She’s screwing everybody, but nobody’s screwing her.”

“I don’t like it,” Weiss said. “I don’t like it that they’re all here. I don’t like it that they were talking about the girl.”

“It’s a fucking alibi club,” Landry said.

“So now what?”

Landry looked off toward the stables. “We find someone who isn’t a member.”

chapter
20

         
I DECIDED
not to think about Alexi Kulak. It wasn’t denial. There just wasn’t anything I could do about him. I wanted to find Irina’s murderer. That was my priority. My priority happened to coincide with his. The rest I would deal with when I had to.

I wondered if Irina’s autopsy was under way. I wondered what information the medical examiner would come up with: Had she been raped? Tortured? When had she died? How much had she suffered? Had they by some miracle been able to find anything on or in the body that could yield a DNA profile of the killer?

Mother Nature is a strange old bird. I knew of cases where there should have been no hope at all of finding the perp’s skin cells under the victim’s fingernails—and yet it had happened. It could happen. The odds weren’t good, but…

I thought of the Laci Peterson case in California, where all hope of finding the woman’s body had gone overboard with her and the concrete anchor tied to her body. But that body had defied all odds, not only washing up onshore where it could be found but washing up onshore literally blocks from the state crime lab.

I knew that if there was any way Irina could have, she would have gone down fighting. I could only hope the ME had found evidence that was so.

Of course, I would not be privy to that information. When I was a cop, all the technology available had been at my disposal, provided the county wanted to pay for it. As a civilian, I felt as handicapped as Billy Quint.

I still had contacts in law enforcement, the few people who had not judged me as harshly as my fellow officers had judged me—or as I had judged myself—when my career went nova with the death of Hector Ramirez. I had known Mercedes Gitan when she was just made assistant chief at the ME’s office. I had stood and watched her perform more than one autopsy when I was on the other side of the badge.

It had been three years and a lifetime since I’d seen her. She had actually come to the hospital a couple of times in the first weeks following my near-death experience. I hadn’t wanted to know anyone then, certainly hadn’t wanted anyone to know me. The people who tried to support me, I had shut out, and they gave up. I wondered now if she would even take my call, let alone give me information only the sheriff’s detectives were supposed to have.

I stopped at a drive-through Starbucks on my way back to the farm to pick up something chokingly sweet and artificially flavored for Sean and a straight-up double-strong espresso for myself. Sean was leading a horse to the barn when I drove in. He looked like a Ralph Lauren ad. Tall, handsome, chiseled, narrow-hipped.

“I got you a venti white-chocolate mocha with whipped cream and enough artificial sweetener to kill a dozen lab rats,” I said, offering his drink to him, as he put the mare in the cross ties to groom her.

He looked at me, wide-eyed. “My God, El! What happened to you? What happened to your lip?”

“I tripped and fell. Don’t make a big deal. Take your coffee.”

He took the cup and set it aside, never taking his eyes off me. “I don’t believe you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a known liar, young lady.”

“Nevertheless,” I said, “that’s what happened.”

“Elena, I’m a nervous wreck already. Please don’t make me worry about you.”

“That’s a very good outfit,” I said. “The brown breeches, the matching shirt, the pinstripes. Very chic.”

He looked offended. “Do you really think I’m so shallow you can distract me with compliments?”

“It’s always worked before.”

Behind him, the small bay mare pinned her ears and shook her head from side to side, raised one front leg in a threat to paw the ground.

“I think the queen bee is ready to retire to her chambers,” I said.

He took the horse back to her stall, but the break in concentration didn’t distract him from my split lip.

“Swear to me that is not the result of domestic violence,” he said, staring down at me.

I rolled my eyes. “First: I broke up with Landry two days ago. So just who beat me up? My imaginary friend? I was home alone last night. Second: Frankly, I’m offended you think I would let some jerk do this to me. And I’m offended on Landry’s behalf.”

“I didn’t say you would let him get away with it,” he said. “Is there a corpse in your house we need to dispose of?”

The words were barely out of his mouth before his eyes filled with tears. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe I just said that.”

Poor Sean. Unlike myself, he had chosen to stay floating along on the cushy cloud of the sheltered Palm Beach lifestyle. The sensitivity hadn’t been ground out of him working drug deals and homicides, living day and night among the cruelties of a baser existence.

He looked away toward the door to the lounge. “I keep expecting her to walk out that door and complain about something. I wish she would.”

“I know. I wish yesterday never happened.”

“Never in my life did I ever think I would know someone who got murdered,” he said.

“What about me?”

“You’re too mean to die.” He turned and gave me an uncharacteristically stern look. “You’d better be. You’re the bratty little sister I never had. I’d never forgive you.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said, thinking that a year before I might not have said the same thing. Sean was thinking that too.

“I didn’t save you from the gutter so you could check out on me,” he said.

“I have no intention of checking out.”

He reached out a hand to not quite touch my fat lip. “That looks awful. Don’t you know how to use concealer? And a little Preparation H would take the swelling down. You could create the illusion of symmetry with a neutral lip liner.”

“Are you a closet transvestite now?”

“Honey, there isn’t a closet I haven’t already come out of,” he said. “I haven’t spent a small fortune on personal trainers and diet gurus to cover this physique with women’s wear. Let’s drink our coffee.”

We went out of the barn to sit on the bench by the arena. Sean stared into the middle distance, where a couple of news vans were parked on the road.

“Have they tried to talk to you?” I asked.

“I’ve declined all interviews. I couldn’t possibly be so tacky as to comment on the murder of someone I know. Of course, that doesn’t stop them from standing out there with their cameras.

“‘Look!’” he squealed, pretending excitement. “‘That’s the barn where the victim shoveled horseshit! That’s the grass she walked on!’”

“It’s news,” I said. “Like it or not. People get engrossed in these stories in part to make them realize how lucky they are. Their lives might be shitty, but at least no one has murdered them. Yet.”

Sean took a long drink of his coffee and was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, he said, “You’re going to get in the middle of this, aren’t you?”

“What? The media?”

“The investigation.”

“Of course. What else would I do?”

“What else
would
you do? Nothing else,” he said. “What else
could
you do? Leave it to Landry.”

It was my turn to say nothing.

“Why did you break up with him?” he asked.

“God, that sounds so high school. What was there to break up? We didn’t have a relationship. We had sex.”

“He wanted something more?”

I turned and looked at him, annoyed he had made the assumption that I was the one who backed away, even though I was.

“Well, I knew you wouldn’t be the one pressing for commitment,” he said.

“I did him a favor. I can hardly stand myself twenty-four/seven; I wouldn’t wish me on anyone else.”

Sean didn’t comment. I was glad.

“What happens next?” he asked.

“They’ll do the autopsy today, continue interviewing people who knew her, people who saw her Saturday night.

“Did you ever see Irina out on the town?” I asked.

“Once in a while. At Players. Once or twice at Galipette.”

“Having dinner or in the bar?”

“Dinner.”

“Was she on a date?”

“With girlfriends.”

“Pricey dinner for hired help.”

Sean shrugged. “Irina made a decent living. What could she have had for expenses? She lived here rent-free.”

“She has a closet full of Worth Avenue,” I said.

He looked a little shocked. “I didn’t pay her well enough to shop on Worth Avenue.”

Worth Avenue was the Rodeo Drive, the Fifth Avenue, of Palm Beach. The hunting ground of old-money matrons and young trophy wives alike. Lunch on Worth Avenue could cost a day’s pay for the average groom.

“Irina had a life we didn’t know anything about, Sean. She hung out with the polo crowd, the high rollers. And she did some kind of work for a Russian mobster named Alexi Kulak.”

He looked at me, astounded. “A Russian mobster? This is insane!”

“Do you know Jim Brody?”

“The sports agent? Not really. I’ve seen him at the polo matches, of course.”

“Irina was at his birthday party Saturday night. As far as I’ve found out, that’s the last she was seen by anyone other than her killer. From the photos I saw, she was the life of the party.”

“You can’t think someone from that crowd…” His words trailed off at the look I gave him. “Who was there?”

“Brody, Paul Kenner,” I said. “Polo players, of course. Juan Barbaro.”

“Oh, my God, he’s gorgeous.”

I held my breath for a moment, trying to decide if I should say the next words in my mouth or choke them back.

“Bennett Walker.”

Sean’s face went carefully blank as he watched me. “Oh, El…”

“You had to know he was around, Sean. You have a box at the polo stadium. You have to have seen him. Your social circles overlap.”

“Of course I’ve seen him,” he admitted. “I just…didn’t want you to.”

“Too late for that. I saw him at Players last night.”

“Oh, Jesus…Did he see you?”

“Yes. I was on my way out. He was on his way in.” I didn’t tell him the son of a bitch hadn’t even recognized me. “I was my usual charming self: snide, sarcastic, accusatory, and threatening.”

“And he was…?”

I shrugged. “Not happy to see me.”

There was so much to say, he didn’t say anything. Sean had been there through all of it—my relationship with Bennett, the engagement. He had watched me fall in love and be in love. He had been my only support when Bennett came to me asking for an alibi and my happy fairy tale turned into a nightmare. Sean was the only person on earth who knew the whole truth of that story.

“Sean, he was there the night Irina went missing. I saw photos of Irina sitting between him and Jim Brody. They looked very chummy.”

“Elena, you’re not saying Bennett killed her?”

“He has to be considered a suspect.”

“Why would he kill Irina?”

“Why did he rape and beat Maria Nevin?” I asked.

“That was twenty years ago.”

“What’s your point?” I said, annoyed. “He beat and raped a woman then, why not now? The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior.”

“He was what? Twenty-four? Twenty-five?” Sean asked. “He’s a grown man. He’s married. He has responsibilities.”

“Ted Bundy was a Young Republican. What’s that got to do with anything? He has a history of violent behavior toward women; he was seen with the victim the night she went missing.”

“Maybe he has an alibi.”

“Of course he has an alibi,” I snapped. “Bennett always has an alibi. He’s the Alibi Man. There’s always someone willing to lie for a rich man. Juan Barbaro claims they left the party drunk, went to Bennett’s house, and passed out. And I imagine the dog ate his homework too.”

“Did anyone see Irina leave the party with him?” Sean asked.

“Not that I’ve found. That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“And it doesn’t mean that it did.”

I got up from the bench and faced him. “Why are you being such an asshole?”

“I’m not! I just see you getting fixated—”

“Fixated? I was a cop for half my life. I know a viable suspect when I see one. He’s a known violent sexual predator—”

“He committed one crime twenty years ago—”

“I can’t believe you!” I shouted. “He nearly choked that woman to death. Violent sexual predators who commit a crime and get away with it don’t quit while they’re ahead. They get a power rush, and they do it again.”

“And in the last twenty years he’s been a serial killer and not gotten caught or even suspected of any crimes?” he said, also standing up from the bench, gaining the height advantage.

“I didn’t say he’s a serial killer,” I said. “But how difficult is it to imagine him getting away with anything? If Bennett Walker had been a poor minority kid, he would just now be getting out of prison for what he did to Maria Nevin.”

“I understand all of that, Elena. I’m only saying, just because he was at the party doesn’t mean he’s the one. I imagine there were a hundred people there.”

“You know, I don’t know why I’m having this conversation with you,” I said. “I guess I thought I might get a little support from the one person who should understand—”

“I
do
support you! For Christ’s sake, how can you say I don’t support you?” he demanded. “I’m supporting you now, you’re just too pigheaded to see it. I don’t want to see you get tangled up in something that’s going to upset you and hurt you and take you down a road—”