by Tami Hoag
“You can view the body on closed-circuit television—” he started.
“No.”
“All right. Just to prepare you, your niece’s body was submerged in water for some time, and there is some… damage… to her face, from fish and so forth.”
A thick muscle pulsed in Kulak’s jaw, but his expression did not change.
“The medical examiner performed the autopsy last night. You’ll see stitches.”
The jaw muscle pulsed again.
The night attendant led them into the cold room, with its wall of drawers where bodies were filed away like old tax returns. Kulak stood square, his hands in front of him. If he’d had a blindfold and a cigarette, he would have looked like he was waiting for a firing quad. Landry nodded to the attendant.
Kulak jolted at the sight of Irina, as if he’d been hit with a powerful current of electricity. He caught the sound of pain in his throat. His entire body was trembling. Sweat popped on his fore-lead. His facial muscles began to contort.
When he finally pulled his eyes away, Kulak turned, and a terrible, wild animal sound of torment and grief tore out of his chest, -le fell to his knees and held his face in his hands.
The man was considered one of the most ruthless bosses in the south Florida Russian mob. The things he had seen, the things he gad allegedly ordered done to people, were horrific. All of it lone—guaranteed—without batting an eye. That man sat crumbled on the floor, crying silently into his hands.
Even Landry had to feel for him, regardless of how black and mite he preferred to see the world. Grief was a common denominator, crossing all boundaries.
He stood off to the side and left Kulak alone for a few minutes. When Kulak began to gather himself, Landry said, “You’ll have to all in the morning to make arrangements. The ME will release the body as soon as all the autopsy results have come back.”
They walked out of the room, and Kulak sat down on a fake leather chair in the viewing room. Landry took a seat perpendicular to him.
“I have some questions for you,” he said.
Kulak didn’t acknowledge him.
Landry pressed on. “When was the last time you heard from Irina?”
Kulak didn’t respond, just sat staring, devastated.
“Do you know anything about her personal life? Can you tell me about her friends, boyfriends?”
“I am going to kill the man who did this to her,” Kulak said quietly.
Landry didn’t bother to tell him that he would go to prison for it. Frankly, he didn’t blame the guy. If he ruled the world, that was how he would have set it up—so that the loved ones of the victim could go into a room with the perp and not come out until they were through with him.
“Mr. Kulak, do you have any idea who that might be?”
Kulak looked at him with an expression that could have cut through steel. “If I knew that, Detective, I would now be cutting his beating heart from his chest.”
With that, he stood and walked out.
Landry let him go.
Chapter 31
Jeff Cherry had never known one valuable thing in his life until he had taken the job as a valet at Players. He had taken the job because it seemed pretty much like money for nothing and he got to drive cars he otherwise could only have dreamed about. But he had figured out pretty quickly that he could make an extra five or ten bucks off certain customers if he sucked up hard enough, complimented the ladies, offered to do little extras like clean out the ashtrays while the customers were in having dinner.
The more he began to pay attention to the customers, the more the customers expressed their gratitude. Then one night a gentleman slipped him a twenty to turn his head and pretend he hadn’t seen a certain young woman—not his wife—leave with him.
Being an entrepreneurial sort, Jeff had built himself a nice little side business, turning a blind eye to all kinds of things. Then expanding to provide other services, such as getting small amounts of recreational drugs delivered while his clients were in the club. His success relied on his discretion and on knowing things he shouldn’t have.
Talking with the cops was not on his agenda.
He split as soon as the bitch with the questions and the cell phone was out of sight.
He made a call from his cell phone while sitting in the parking lot of Town Square shopping center on Forest Hill and South Shore.
The client didn’t pick up, of course. None of these people were going to take a call from a valet. He waited for the beep, then blurted it all out.
“Hey, this is Jeff from Players. From the parking lot. So anyway, this woman called the cops and told them I might know something about that dead girl—like who she left with that night. So I split, ”cause I don’t wanna talk to them, but I gotta figure they’re gonna come looking for me. I can’t just get out of Dodge. I have a lucrative business to run, but lying to the cops isn’t a regular service. So I gotta charge extra for that, is what I’m saying. So call me back.“
He left his number and ended the call, out of breath.
Wow. What would that kind of lie be worth? Ten grand? Twenty? It would sort of depend, he thought, on whether or not the client had actually killed that girl. He couldn’t imagine that was what had happened. These people were rich. Rich people didn’t go around killing people. But they wouldn’t want people thinking that maybe they did even if they didn’t, so that was worth a lot.
Fifty grand? More?
And what if the client had killed that girl? How freaky would that be?
A hundred grand?
He went over to the gas station and bought himself half a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts and a quart of chocolate milk, went back to his car, and waited for his phone to ring.
Chapter 32
“She’s a problem.”
“She’s a detective.”
“Used to be a detective,” Barbaro corrected.
“She’s investigating the girl’s murder, badge or no badge,” Brody said.
They had adjourned from an uneasy dinner and regrouped at Brody’s house, in the game room, where an antique billiards table dominated the space and oxblood leather club chairs were scattered around on Persian rugs a hundred years old.
Walker paced back and forth in a not-so-straight line. “I don’t want her around.”
“What do you want to do, Ben? Knock her off?”
He wheeled and shouted, “Fuck you! Just fuck you, Kenner! Fuck yourself!”
“You’re the problem,” Kenner challenged, scotch slopping out of the tumbler in his hand as he gestured. “You have to be an asshole every time you open your mouth.”
“She tried to put me in prison!” Walker shouted. “She’ll try to do it again! She’s a fucking cunt, and she hates me!”
“Let’s stay on point,” Ovada said calmly. “How does she know about the after-party?”
“What does she know about the after-party?” Kenner asked.
“I saw her talking with Lisbeth this afternoon,” Brody said.
Foster made a face. “Lisbeth? She wasn’t even there that night. She doesn’t know anything.”
“She’s been to other parties,” Barbaro pointed out. He sat against the back of one of the club chairs, looking bored and unhappy to be there.
“So what?” Kenner said. “It’s not against the law to have a party.”
“The party isn’t the issue,” Brody said. “The cops want DNA, for God’s sake. That means they have something to compare it against.”
“It’s not against the law for consenting adults to have sex either.”
“It’s not against the law to own a gun,” Ovada said, “but if you are seen with the gun and a murder victim before the crime, you become a suspect.”
Walker turned a dark look on Brody. “She’s your groom. Fire her. Get her out of here. Send her back to where she came from.”
“And give her every reason to make trouble?” Brody said. “No. I keep my friends close, and my enemies closer.”
&
nbsp; “Well, get her close and impress on her to keep her stupid mouth shut,” Walker said. “Stupid little bitch. Does she have any idea how lucky she is? How many hick-town chicks from Bumfuck, Michigan, get to have the life she does? And she’s so ungrateful, she’s shooting her mouth off to someone she met yesterday. Fuck that.”
“She’s hardly the only girl who has been to a party,” Barbaro said.
“No,” Walker returned. “But she’s the only one talking.”
“Maybe she’s thinking she’ll get her fifteen minutes of fame,” Ovada offered.
“Oh, great,” Walker said. “Now we can worry about her going to the press, and they can descend on us right behind the detectives.”
“Here’s a news flash, mates,” Sebastian Foster chimed in. “That’s a done deal—the cops, the press. And it’s got nothing to do with the Estes woman or Lisbeth. The detectives came looking straightaway. The dead girl was at the party at Players. That’s no secret. There had to be a hundred people there to see her. Why wouldn’t the detectives come looking at us?”
“And if we don’t cooperate with them, we look guilty,” Kenner whined.
“If we do cooperate, we look guiltier,” Brody said. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m not going to prison because I got a blowjob on my birthday.”
“What are you going to tell them?” Ovada asked.
“Not a damn thing,” Walker said.
“Deny, deny, deny,” Foster chimed in. “What else is there? Tell them, oh, yes, we all had sex with her? No one would find that suspicious.”
Brody focused on Barbaro. “You’re awfully quiet, Juan. What are you thinking?”
Barbaro shrugged. “Only people who were at the after-party know what happened at the after-party. All of those people are in this room—except one. There is no reason to talk about it that I can see.”
No one said anything.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, pushing himself away from the chair. “I have a match to play tomorrow. I’m certain Mr. Brody would prefer me to be fresh for it.”
He walked out of the room and out of the house, stopping to stand on the front porch. Walker wasn’t far behind him.
“You need a ride home, friend?” Barbaro asked.
“No. I’m fine.”
“Did you kill her?”
Walker started, gave him a look that slid away too quickly. “No! I told you, no. She was dead when I found her.”
Barbaro just frowned and shook his head, looking out at the yard.
“What’s the matter with you?” Walker said. “You were at the party too. Did you kill her?
“You’re letting Elena poison you,” he said. “You’re pissing me off with that. You’re supposed to be my friend.”
“Yes.”
“You’re as bad as that stupid little twat groom. You know Elena twenty-four hours and you believe her over me? What the hell is that? What kind of friend is that?” Walker demanded, his voice getting louder and louder.
Barbaro spread his hands and gestured for Walker to keep it down. “You need to calm down… friend.”
“Calm down? Do you have any idea what happens to my life if the media gets wind of me having anything to do with a murdered girl?” he asked. “It’s a fucking nightmare. They’ll dig up everything from back then, spin it around, make me look like Ted Bundy.
“And—and—what about Nancy?” he asked as an afterthought. “None of this is fair to Nancy.”
Barbaro arched a brow. “Somehow, my friend, I don’t believe your concern is for your wife.”
“Well, fuck you too, Juan,” Walker snapped. “You want to have your name put out there as a rapist?”
“No one said the girl was raped.”
“That’s what they’ll imply, that the girl was raped and killed, and it had to be me because—”
He caught himself short of saying it.
“Because you did it before?”
Barbaro stepped out of the way as Walker took a wild swing at him, lost his balance, and tumbled down the stone steps to the lawn, landing with a thud and a groan. When he struggled back up onto his knees, his lip was split and bleeding.
Barbaro descended the steps, put a foot on his shoulder, and knocked him sprawling again.
“Look at yourself,” he said with disgust. “You’re drunk, you’re pathetic. What kind of man are you?”
Walker came up on one knee and wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. He took a couple of deep breaths and composed himself.
“My father-in-law is pushing me to run for office,” he said, getting up. “Imagine that.”
“You seem a poor choice,” Barbaro said.
“It’s America, amigo. Anything can happen. Look at Bill Clinton. The guy nailed anything in a skirt, and he was a two-term president.”
“Was he also associated with a murdered girl?”
“You know,” Walker said with an edge in his voice, “the thing about this club is that no one is innocent. You’ve needed an alibi before.”
“No,” Barbaro said. “In fact, no, I have not. I have been an alibi many times. I have been your alibi many times.”
“Then once more won’t kill you,” Walker said. “We stick to our story. We left Players, went to my place for a nightcap. We didn’t see Irina after the party.”
“And if the detectives get a warrant and go into your home and find evidence the girl was there?”
Walker looked at his watch. “They’ll never get inside my house,” he said. “That’s what lawyers are for.”
Only slightly unsteady, he walked to his car and drove away into the night.
Chapter 33
I long ago ruined my ability to sleep like a normal human being. Prior to my accident, prior to my years working the streets as a Narcotics detective. Long before any of that.
Four or five hours—rarely consecutive, rarely restful, and jammed with complex dreams—had become normal for me. Post-accident, a certain level of chronic pain had made it even more difficult. And I refused (for a host of reasons, some good and some stupid) the kind of medication that would have eased the pain and allowed me to sink below consciousness.
A doctor once told me that my brain had decided sleep stages one, two, and five were essential to life, and that stages three and four were a waste of my time. My own theory was less industrious and more human: that after the dream stage, REM sleep, all I wanted was to escape what lay in my subconscious.
Whatever the theory, the upside of not sleeping is being able to accomplish more than the average working stiff.
I sat at the small writing desk in my living room, making notes. Just a couple of lamps on, Chris Botti’s smooth, sexy trumpet on the stereo, a glass of cabernet to sip at. It would have been a pleasant scenario, if not for the fact that I was investigating the murder of someone I knew.
If Irina had left Players with Bennett or with Jim Brody, where was her car? If she had driven herself to the after-party, where was her car? Landry had made no mention of it, which made me think he hadn’t found it yet.
I made a note: Car?
Had the killer used it to transport her body, then driven himself back to town? That would have been the smart thing. No evidence of Irina in his own car. But there would have been evidence of him in hers. The smarter thing would have been to run the car into a canal.
And where had they gone for the after-party? Out of town to Star Polo? Or across a few acres of manicured lawns and golf course to Bennett’s home in the Polo Club? They had all been drinking heavily. Quicker and easier to do the latter. Cops liked to prowl right around that intersection of South Shore and Greenview Shores around closing time, looking for some easy tickets. There would have been less risk of getting a DUI if they left the club and literally turned right in at the Polo Club’s west entrance.
I made a note: Cop Stop DUI?
The officer on patrol might have seen something—Irina’s car, Irina in someone else’s car, but no one w
as going to tell me about it.
I wanted to know where in the Palm Beach Polo Club Bennett lived. The homes in the development ranged from efficiencies for grooms, to condos, to town houses, to bungalows, to out-and-out mansions. Bennett would take the big house, because he could afford it, because it was a good investment, because he was spoiled and used to having nothing but the best. Because it was private.
