by Tami Hoag
If the party had moved to Bennett’s house, the partygoers had driven through one of the Polo Club’s two entrances, and their comings and goings would be on tape. Tape that I had no access to. But if I could find his house, I could check out his neighbors.
Maybe one of them would complain about a party Saturday night. Even money said Sean knew exactly where the house was.
I made a note: Sean—Bennett’s address?
I picked through the things I had collected from Irina’s apartment. The e-mails I had printed out from her computer were mostly in Russian. Some were order confirmations from online sources of horse equipment and veterinary supplies, things she would have ordered at Sean’s behest. A couple of them were from Lisbeth Perkins: a question as to whether or not Irina wanted to go to a karaoke bar with a couple of other girls. One about where and when they would meet Saturday night.
Those e-mails seemed so innocent in the face of what had happened that night. Young women going out on the town to have some fun, never imagining what was to come later that night.
Should be a great party. C U later. I can’t wait!! Lisbeth had signed the e-mail with a series of yellow smiley faces.
A very young twenty-something, I had thought earlier. Fresh off the farm. She was getting a hell of an education now, poor kid.
I thought about Molly Seabright, the twelve-year-old girl who had come to me a year before to find her missing sister. Molly had often seemed to me to be more of an adult than I was.
Life jades us all at different rates, in different ways.
I had been about Lisbeth’s age when my life truly turned itself on its head. The sadly funny thing was, at that time I had already believed I was cynical.
We were supposed to go out that night, Bennett and I. But I hadn’t been feeling well, and I begged off. He had been exceptionally sweet—brought me flowers, cheered me up, tucked me into bed. He had gone off to meet a couple of buddies for dinner and drinks. I had drifted off to sleep that night thinking how incredibly happy I was, how I was finally getting the one thing I had craved my whole life—someone who really loved me.
By the next day, everything had changed.
Fate delivers the ultimate sucker punch.
I took Irina’s digital camera, which I had lifted from her apartment, connected it to my computer with a USB cable, and downloaded everything on it—twenty-two images from her other life, including the snaps I had taken of the screen-saver photos on her computer monitor.
Parties, polo matches, gal pals at the beach. There were a couple of shots of hunky bartender Kayne Jackson shaking up martinis and libidos from behind the bar at Players.
Big Jim Brody in a straw hat and swim trunks, smoking a cigar as he stood on the deck of a swimming pool. I could have gone my whole life without seeing that.
Brody in the same getup with an arm around Lisbeth in a purple bikini, Lisbeth doing her best not to cringe away from him and his big hairy belly. She wore the kind of smile that could have as easily been from gas pains.
Someone had shot a photo of Irina and Lisbeth sitting together shoulder to shoulder, cheek to cheek on a poolside chaise, each with an umbrella drink in hand, toasting the photographer. They could have been sisters in their matching blond hair, matching dark glasses, matching medallion necklaces, matching smiles. So happy.
Barbaro and a couple of other players in full polo gear, joking around on the sidelines. Bennett Walker raising a glass of champagne. Bennett on a polo pony. Bennett at the swimming pool. One too many photos of Bennett, I thought.
Despite the years I had spent wishing physical deformities on him, he had aged well, I had to admit as I clicked back to the swimsuit photo. He had bulked up with maturity—with muscle, not fat. As a male animal, he had every right to be arrogant. What Female of the species wouldn’t have wanted that body in her bed?
And what husband-hunting temptress wouldn’t have added those looks to the money that backed them up and come up with a prime target? In the crowd that Bennett ran with, the fact that he was already married wouldn’t have necessarily deterred women from trying.
From what I had learned so far, from the profile of Irina that had begun to come together over the past two days, I had to think a wedding ring wouldn’t have bothered her in the least. The thing Irina wouldn’t have been able to compete with was the financial and social clout of Bennett Walker’s in-laws.
Bennett was a very wealthy man in his own right, but there is nothing wealthy men love more than more money. More money, more power. More power, more control of the world around them.
I got up from my chair and paced like a restless cat, stopping every so often to stretch out one knotted muscle and then another.
If Irina went to the after-party, she went fully aware of the nature of the party and the kinds of things that were likely to go on there. One would presume she had every intention of being a willing participant. So why did she end up dead? Was it a case of rough sex gone wrong? Or had one of those men killed her intentionally? Why? For the rush? Had she pissed one of them off? Had Jim Brody wanted to murder a girl for his birthday? Had Bennett Walker lost his temper, lost control?
I sat back down at my desk and made a note: Motive?
What had Bennett’s motive been when he beat and raped Maria Nevin? He didn’t have one. He’d never seen Maria Nevin before that night. He had no reason to attack her specifically.
The bartender at the last club Bennett and his pals had visited testified that Bennett had been drunk, loud, and obnoxious. In his statement to the police, the bartender said that Bennett’s buddies had been ribbing him about getting married, that his skirt-chasing days were over, to which Bennett had replied that he could have any woman he wanted, anytime he wanted.
The bartender had recanted that statement before trial and had watered down the rest of his testimony as badly as he watered down the overpriced drinks at the bar.
But even if the bartender had stuck to his story, nothing said that night could have provided a motive for what happened.
Maria Nevin had initially told the police—and had held to that version of events right up until the day before she was to take the stand—that Bennett had flirted with her. They had danced together, had a drink together. They had gone for a walk on the beach, had sat on the wet sand as the tide went out, had started making out.
A little too intoxicated, Bennett hadn’t been able to sustain an erection. He became angry. He slapped her hard several times. She struggled to get away from him, scratching him in the process. He pinned her down and choked her, achieved an erection, and raped her.
Was that what had happened to Irina?
I didn’t want any of those images in my head.
To distract my mind, I began to organize the paper strewn across my desk. Irina’s e-mails. Some notes I had made while in her apartment caught my eye. The name of a medical clinic. I typed the name of the clinic into Google. The search engine came back with a list of Web sites. I clicked on the first one, and the Web site opened on my screen:
The Lundeen Clinic:
Serving Women in the Palm Beaches Since 1987.
Obstetrics and Gynecology.
I made a note to myself: Motive.
Chapter 34
When she had come to Star Polo to interview for a groom’s position, Lisbeth had driven past the mansion Jim Brody lived in three or four months of the year (it was a second home then, a weekend place) and thought to herself that one day she would live in a house like that. An incredibly wealthy, incredibly handsome, incredibly sexy man would pluck her out of the stable yard and she would be just like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman—except that she wouldn’t have to be a prostitute first.
How wrong she had been.
She had gotten the job, been given an apartment over the stables, had her magical entree to the lifestyles of the rich and famous. All of that had happened.
The polo players had taken a shine to her because she was cute and had a great figure. Mr. B
rody had taken a shine to her, and suddenly she was invited to parties and getting attention from the kind of men she had dreamed of sweeping her away. But none of them had fallen in love with her, and she had certainly been made to feel like she was a prostitute.
She sat on her bed with her knees drawn up, looking at the rack of expensive clothes she had purchased with the generosity of her wealthy gentleman friends. She enjoyed looking pretty. She enjoyed parties.
So had Irina.
Lisbeth wrapped her arms tightly around her legs and rocked herself as the tears came. Her eyes were already nearly swollen shut from crying. She couldn’t seem to stop.
It wasn’t like she didn’t have other friends, but Irina had been so strong, so sure of herself. She had walked into the world of the wealthy as if she had been born to it. Lisbeth felt lost in her sudden absence, cut loose from her anchor. Now she felt like she was the only one who knew all the secrets, and that was a very scary place to be.
Irina wouldn’t have thought so. Irina would have laughed at her. Irina loved to play games, to angle for power. Lisbeth had both admired and resented her for that. It was all a game for Irina. Nothing meant anything. Lisbeth wished she could have been more like that.
Irina would have been the one to end up living in a house like Jim Brody’s with a husband like Bennett Walker, and she would have accepted it all as her due.
In contrast, Lisbeth believed she would never feel like anything more than a hanger-on, a hick kid from the rural Midwest. An outsider with her toe in the door.
The clock saved her from sinking even deeper into the pain. It was time for night check, and it was her night to do it.
She held a cold wet cloth to her face for a few minutes, as if that would really help. The horses were probably going to freak out at the sight of her. Her head felt like a water balloon.
The stables were dimly lit at night. The barn manager was rabid about not startling the horses when they were resting. Lisbeth went from one stall to the next, doling out flakes of hay, checking legs, adjusting blankets.
It was a peaceful job and one she normally enjoyed, but she was jumpy, and exhausted, and shivering uncontrollably. She went up and down the aisle, bent over like an old woman.
So alone, she kept thinking. She felt so alone.
She had to pull herself together, she knew. She thought about quitting Star Polo. Good grooms were always in demand during the season. But she was afraid to do it. She didn’t want to call attention to herself. She didn’t want Mr. Brody to think she was turning against him.
She tried to think what Irina would have done if the situation had been reversed.
Irina would have gone on as if nothing had happened.
Knowing that only made Lisbeth feel worse.
Finished with her chore, she stepped outside the barn and looked out at the night. She rubbed her medallion between her thumb and forefinger, wishing the habit would calm her. Moonlight shone on the pond that spread out like quicksilver between the stables and the canal running perpendicular to the road. A heron waded in the shallows on long stilt legs. It paid no attention to her.
So alone…
The bag went over her head so quickly, Lisbeth couldn’t even react. One second she was looking at the heron, and the next she couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. Some kind of cord tightened around her throat, choking off her air supply.
Lisbeth grabbed at it, tried to get her fingers under it to pull it loose. She wanted to scream but couldn’t. She tried kicking at the person behind her, but he yanked her off her feet and shook her like a rag doll until Lisbeth didn’t know which way was up.
Dizzy, disoriented, terrified, she vomited inside the bag the second the cord loosened around her throat. The man dragged her backward, Lisbeth kicking and twisting and flailing like a wild animal caught in a trap.
The cord went tight again. Tighter. Tighter. Colors burst before her eyes. I’m going to die, she thought, astonished.
It was the last thought she had.
Chapter 35
What is death? Where does the soul go?
People brought back from the dead by resuscitation always talked about a bright white light, about friends and relatives who had gone before them beckoning with smiles and open arms.
Lisbeth saw nothing. Blackness. She reached out with her hands and hit something solid. She pushed at it, but it didn’t budge. Coffin, she thought, and she began to panic. She wasn’t dead, she’d been buried alive.
She hit her fists against the lid again and again, crying. When she tried to scream, she couldn’t. Her throat felt raw and swollen, and her mouth was parched to the point that it felt as if her tongue had doubled in size and was made of cotton. She tried to pull the bag off her head but couldn’t.
Then it began to dawn on her that she felt motion. And when the sound of her own pulse pounding in her ears receded, she could hear the hum of tires on pavement.
She was in the trunk of a car.
As she realized it, a new wave of panic rolled over her.
Who had taken her? Where were they taking her? For what purpose?
There were no good answers to those questions.
The car began to slow, then stopped. A car door opened, then closed. She waited for the trunk to open, but it didn’t.
Her heart was racing. She was shaking. The smell of her own vomit burned her nostrils. She strained to hear voices, but there were none.
What would happen to her now?
Would she wish she had already died?
SPLASH! SPLASH! SPLASH!
Someone was throwing heavy objects into water.
Then silence.
The trunk popped open then, and Lisbeth was grabbed roughly, hauled out of the car, and put on her feet. Her legs felt like they were made of string. Her knees buckled beneath her, but her captor held her up on her feet by the rope around her throat, as if she were a dog on a leash. She scrambled to get her feet under her, but he still half-dragged her off the pavement and into grass. The ground was soft and wet.
“No,” she said, barely croaking out the word. “No. No!”
She stepped in water, tried to turn around and run. He shoved her ahead of him.
Now the water was ankle deep, shin deep…
He was going to drown her.
“No! No!”
A wild squealing sound rang in her ears. She didn’t even realize it was coming from her. It didn’t matter how she struggled and splashed, the water was at her knees, her thighs… Mud sucked at her feet.
“No! Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!”
Her captor said nothing.
“Please don’t kill me!”
… her crotch, her belly…
She was sobbing.
He said nothing, just drove her farther into the water.
It came up over her breasts.
He put his hand on her head, shoved her under, and held her there.
Choking on water, she fought wildly, in a blind panic.
Her captor yanked her up to the surface. Lisbeth had to tip her head back to escape the water trapped inside the cloth bag. She had swallowed water, inhaled water, couldn’t get a breath to cough it out. She clawed at the bag clinging like wet plaster to her face.
He shoved her under a second time. When he pulled her back to the surface, he dragged her ashore and dropped her on the ground like a sack of garbage.
Lisbeth coughed and choked and retched, trying to expel the water from her lungs and replace it with air. The taste and smell of it was horrible, like it had come from a sewer. She managed to push herself onto her hands and knees, although a part of her just wanted to lie down and give up. All the while her mind swirled with fear and panic, and questions. Who was doing this to her? Would he rape her? Would he kill her? Would he torture her first?
And during all this time, her assailant never said a word, which was in some way more frightening than if he had been screaming at her. It was as if there was no emotion involved on his par
t.
Lungs aching, Lisbeth lowered herself to the ground, feeling too weak to remain on her hands and knees, let alone get up and try to escape. She was totally at his mercy.
Off to her left, something groaned. Not a person, she thought. It groaned again. An animal. Then a loud hissing sound.
Oh, my God.
Alligator.
Lisbeth pushed herself onto her hands and knees again and started scrambling, but she couldn’t see, couldn’t know which way was safe or if she would be running into worse danger.
