The Alibi Man

by Tami Hoag

  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 in-sane!

  “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.”

&
nbsp; 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—”

  I held up a hand to stop him. “I think what happened to Irina is a little more important than me getting upset that I have to deal with an old boyfriend. But thanks for your input,” I said with a sharp edge in my voice.

  Sean set his jaw and looked away from me, which was what he always did when he couldn’t reason with me. I didn’t want to be reasonable. I wanted to speculate that Bennett Walker had killed Irina, because that theory offered the possibility that he would finally have to pay for what he’d gotten away with all those years ago. And I wanted my best friend to support me in that, whether he thought it was reasonable or not.

  One of us should have said something to break the tension, but neither of us did. My phone rang.

  “Yes?”

  I must have sounded impatient to be bothered. There was a beat of silence before the caller spoke. “Elena, it’s Juan Barbaro. Is this a bad time?”

  It took me a second to register and to downshift the tension in my voice.

  “Oh. Juan. No. I’m sorry if I snapped at you. I’m on edge with everything that’s happened,” I said, staring at Sean.

  “Then you must take some time to escape it, yes?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “Come, then, this afternoon. Watch a friendly polo match. We’ll have drinks after. Dinner if you like.”

  “Ah… sure,” I said. “Who’s playing?”

  “Myself, Mr. Brody, some other friends. Not Bennett Walker,” he assured me. “You have to promise not to accuse anyone of murder,” he added, but in a casual tone. Joking.

  “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

  “Hmmmm… Now, what fun would that be?” he said, and chuckled deep in his throat. Like the purring of a panther, I thought.

  We set a time to meet at the International Polo Club and ended the call.

  I took a deep breath and let it go, trying to clear my head of the argument with Sean. I had been invited into a circle of suspects. I needed to be sharp.

  “I have to go,” I said to Sean, and turned and walked away.

  I should have apologized to him. He was the only person in my life I truly considered to be my friend, and I knew that he was. But I felt like being petty and childish, so I went with that instead.

  Chapter 21

  The old yellow-painted Palm Beach Polo Club stadium, located a stone’s throw from Players, had been the polo mecca of the world for many winter seasons. Everyone who was anyone had drunk champagne and stomped divots during halftime on that field, including Prince Charles and Princess Diana. But big-time high-goal polo had decamped from there several years before and moved farther out of town to the new International Polo Club Palm Beach, leaving the old stadium at the mercy of hurricanes and the zoning commission. Plans were in the works to knock down the venerable old facility and put up yet another strip mall. So much for landmarks.

  The International Polo Club on 120th Avenue had become the place to see and be seen, a state-of-the-art facility with a stadium for thirteen hundred spectators and seven impeccably groomed polo fields, each spanning more ground than nine football fields.

  I turned in at the main gate and went past the entrance to the stadium and club. The palm-lined drive led past tennis courts to the stadium, the pool-house pavilion, and the Grand Marquee ballroom, where brunch was served on Sundays. Beyond all that, horse trailers were parked on the shoulder of the road—big gooseneck aluminum stock trailers, with polo ponies tied along the sides. Grooms tacked horses up, cooled horses out. A farrier had his truck-mounted oven glowing red-hot as he prepared a new horseshoe to replace one lost in the heat of battle. Iron rang against iron. Conversations rose and fell, interspersed with laughter, with orders, with fits of temper in three different languages.

  Several of the fields were in use, riders rushing up and down, mallets swinging, whistles blowing. Cars, trucks, and SUVs were parked down the sidelines with friends, family, and spectators tail-gating and e
njoying the day. The atmosphere was casual. No high-goal tournament matches were being played. These were less important contests, practice games, amateurs having a good time.

  A line of small ponies walking nose-to-tail came down the road from one of the far fields. The kids riding them were so small, their helmets seemed to swallow their heads whole. They all wore numbered polo shirts and carried mallets. Pee Wee Polo.