The Alibi Man (21 page)

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. Brody 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 part.

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.

The panic seized her again. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God!”

Then, like a marionette, she was plucked off her feet. Her kidnapper crushed a forearm across her rib cage, trapping her against his body. The tip of a knife blade caught hold of the bag, pierced it, nicked her cheek, and split the cloth open on the right side.

The harsh glare of headlights was blinding. Then he swung her around so she could see where that light fell—on a section of paved road that ended with a striped road-block sign; on the bank of a marsh; on three alligators spread over that terrain, two on the bank and one on the road, hissing at the car. Empty ham cans littered the bank, and Lisbeth remembered the loud splashing sound she had heard while she was lying in the trunk. Bait.

Her attacker grabbed a handful of the sack and her hair and pulled her head back as he started moving toward the alligator on the road. Lisbeth began to struggle, frantic to get free of him. He pulled harder on her hair and kept advancing on the reptile.

“No! No! No! No!”
she screamed.

The alligator opened its jaws and hissed.

Her captor stopped within ten feet of it and spoke for the very first time, whispering into her ear, “This is what happens to girls who talk too much.”

chapter
36

         
“DO YOU
know why you’re in here?”

Landry didn’t bite.

Weiss smirked. “Are we getting a commendation?”

Lt. William Dugan stared at him. Tall, tan, gray-haired, he cut a figure of authority. The boss of Robbery/Homicide stood behind his desk with his hands jammed at his waist, his shoulders set.

Weiss glanced at Landry. “I guess not.”

“So far this morning,” Dugan went on, “I’ve had the sheriff and half the politicos of Palm Beach County crawling up my ass. Plus the state’s attorney and half a dozen designer-suit defense attorneys, not the least of which are Bert Shapiro and Edward Estes.”

“Estes?” Weiss cocked a brow at Landry.

“Shut up, Weiss,” Landry growled.

“What the hell are you doing out there?” Dugan asked. “Why are you messing around with these people?”

“They’re suspects,” Landry said. “What are we supposed to do? Send them engraved invitations to come down here and talk to us? Maybe we could make finger sandwiches and have tea. Maybe if we ask pretty please one of them will make a confession.”

“I’ll tell you what you can’t do,” Dugan said. “You can’t barge into a private club and demand these people give you DNA samples. What the hell were you thinking?”

“Demand?”
Landry asked. He glanced at Weiss. “Did you
demand
anything from those pricks last night?”

“Not me. Did you?”

Landry looked at his lieutenant. “Stop beating around the fucking bush. Who exactly are we talking about here? Bennett Walker?”

“Among others.”

“’Cause I’ll tell you right now, he’s a punk,” Landry said. “He’s a spoiled rich-boy prick, who thinks he can do any goddamn thing he wants to, including beating and raping women.”

“He walked on those charges,” Dugan said.

Landry rolled his eyes. “Oh, well, he must be innocent, then, ’cause Christ knows the justice system never fucks up.”

“Can the sarcasm,” Dugan snapped.

“This is bullshit,” Landry said. “You’re going to tell us to tiptoe around these assholes because they have money to buy big-prick lawyers? That’s bullshit.”

“Do you know what those big-prick lawyers can do to your case?” Dugan asked. “If Bennett Walker had given you a DNA sample last night and it matched DNA in the victim, you could kiss that evidence good-bye. Edward Estes is going to get that thrown out of court so fast it’ll give you whiplash.”

“Well, what do you want us to do?” Weiss asked. “Call central casting and ask for a fresh crop of suspects? Maybe some drug dealers?”

“Are you looking beyond these men?”

“I followed up on a lead on a guy named Brad Garland,” Weiss said. “He saw the vic that night, she rejected him, he was pissed off.”

“And?”

“And he wrapped his car around a light pole on his way from one club to another. He was in the ER for eight hours and admitted for observation with a head injury.”

“Irina Markova spent the last hours anyone admits to seeing her with Jim Brody and Bennett Walker and that pack of dogs,” Landry said. “It’s a waste of time to look elsewhere. You want to make it look like we’re going through those motions, assign someone else to do that. We’ve got real leads.”

Dugan frowned. “You’re serious about Walker?”

“Dead,” Landry said. “In private these guys call themselves the Alibi Club. They think they can get away with anything.”

“Murder is a stretch,” Dugan said.

“Why? A sociopath is a sociopath. It doesn’t matter how big his bank account is.”

“And they all cover for a killer?”

Landry shrugged. “Maybe they all had a hand in it. We know she had oral sex with multiple partners. Maybe that’s why no one rats out anyone—because they’re all guilty.”

“Jesus,” Dugan muttered. “This is going to be a media freak show. Just the idea something like that could be going on…”

He turned and looked out his window, as if expecting to see reporters and news vans crowding the parking lot.

“Nobody hears it from you,” he ordered. “One thing leaks from this office, you’re both out. You’ll be working security at Wal-Mart.”

“My dream job,” Weiss cracked.

“I’m serious. Not one word. Have you talked about this Alibi Club with anyone else? Where did you hear it?”

“Lisbeth Perkins,” Landry said, resurrecting the lie he’d told Weiss the night before. “She’s a groom at Brody’s place—and one of the sweet young things running with that crowd. She was best friends with the dead girl. I doubt she’s the only one who knows about it. Gossip is a full-contact sport with the money crowd. It’s only a matter of time before that shit hits the fan.”

“So far you can’t put the dead girl with any of these guys once they left Players?”

Landry shook his head. “I went to talk to one of the valets last night, but the kid split before I got there. Maybe he can put her in a car with somebody. Weiss is tracking him down today.”

“This is going to be one hell of a shitstorm,” Dugan said.

Weiss’s cell phone rang. Dugan waved him out of the office.

Landry turned to go.

“Tell me about Alexi Kulak being here last night.”

Landry shrugged. “There’s nothing to tell. Irina Markova was his niece, or so he says. He came to see the body, find out about making arrangements.”

“In the dead of night?”

“If you were Alexi Kulak, would you come strolling into the sheriff’s office at high noon?”

“Is he a suspect?” Dugan asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Alexi Kulak has someone clipped, he goes out for borscht or whatever the hell Russians eat,” Landry said. “He doesn’t go see them in the morgue. He doesn’t fall down on his knees, break down sobbing, and vow revenge.”

“Weiss told me Elena Estes found the girl’s body.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So you neglected to mention that to me.”

“It’s in my report.”

“Which I have yet to see.”

“I’ve been a little busy,” Landry snapped. “Besides, it’s not relevant,” he said. “She was minding her own business and she happened to find a corpse.”

“And the vic worked where she lives,” Dugan pressed.

“You want me to pin it on her?” Landry cracked. “That’d make some juicy tabloid headlines. We could make it out to be a lesbian thing. Or we could spin it that she killed the girl to frame her ex-fiancé, to make him pay for the rape he got away with back when. And then her father represents the asshole in the trial again. All we need is Bat Boy and a nine-hundred-sixteen-pound man and we’ve got a complete edition of the
Weekly World News
.”

Dugan rubbed his hands over his face and groaned. “That’s right. Elena Estes is Edward Estes’s daughter.”

“Yep.”

“I need some Advil.”

“You might as well drink,” Landry suggested, as his cell phone began to ring.

“Is she digging around in this case?” Dugan asked. “I can’t have that. Especially because of her father. There’s no way it doesn’t bite us in the ass one way or another.”

He checked the caller ID. Elena.

“I recommend vodka,” Landry said, backing out the door. “It goes with everything.”