The Alibi Man (9 page)

“I know about it.”

“Then I don’t need to tell you these are very ruthless and violent men. They are a disgrace to our community. Not all Russians are criminals.”

“But you asked me if I thought Irina Markova might be.”

“There is a man, a very dangerous man. His name is Alexi Kulak. He is a vicious wolf. This perhaps is his voice.”

“Do you know him?” Weiss asked. “Do you know where we can find him?”

“I know of him. He is the kind of man who believes he ‘owns’ people and can do with them what he will.”

The bitterness in the old man’s voice seemed personal.

“Did he do that to your eye?” Landry asked.

The priest sniffed. “No. KGB did this to me when I was a young man. They burned my eye because I would not be a witness for them. I watched a man steal two loaves of bread to feed his family. It was just after the war. People were starving.

“In my Russia we feared only KGB. There were no criminals. Now there are many criminals and no KGB. It is not a better place.”

“Do you know someone who may be able to help us find Alexi Kulak?” Landry asked.

“I know someone,” the priest said. “But he will not speak with you.”

“If he’s afraid, we can speak over the phone,” Weiss said. “All we’re trying to do at this point is locate this Alexi person.”

The old priest got up from his chair. He stood ramrod straight, a formidable figure in his black cassock and priest’s collar.

“He will not speak with you,” he said again, “because Alexi Kulak cut out his tongue.”

chapter
14

         
IN MY IMAGINATION
I had always visualized that I would be prepared for this moment, that I would have the upper hand when this circumstance arose, that I would know exactly what to say. I pictured myself as being strong and in control, unaffected by the sight of him, and looking like a million damn dollars. And Bennett Walker would be the one taken by surprise, rattled and shaken, unable to speak. But that wasn’t what happened.

He came through the door with a sense of purpose, his attention on his friend and alibi, Juan Barbaro. Time and lifestyle had chiseled some lines into his face but in a way women would find attractive. He still had all his hair—dark, wavy, falling in his eyes. He still had the body of an athlete—tall, broad-shouldered, trim hips. He was impeccably dressed—white slacks, black jacket, black-striped shirt opened at the throat. The dashing social scion, disheveled just enough to be sexy.

He glanced at me with not one shred of recognition in his eyes.

I was a very different person from the girl he had known. Gone was the wild mane of black hair, the ready-for-trouble smile, the glint of excitement in my eyes. I had been vibrant then, flush with first love, innocent—if not in fact, in spirit.

Twenty years is a long time. A whole lot of life had gone on since I had last seen him. Still, a part of me was offended he didn’t know me on sight, that he hadn’t stopped dead in his tracks, gone pale, started to stammer. Had I been so unimportant to him that he had never imagined this moment? Out of sight, out of mind. A bad memory best left in the past.

“Juan, my man,” he said, grabbing Barbaro’s hand and pumping it like a politician. “Could I have a moment—”

“Where are your manners, friend?” Barbaro asked. “I have a lovely lady on my arm, if you haven’t noticed. Why would I leave her for an instant to be with the likes of you?”

“I’m sorry,” Walker said at me, not to me. “But I—”

Barbaro ignored him. “Elena, this is my very rude friend, Bennett Walker. Bennett, my lovely companion for the evening, Elena Estes.”

He saw me then. He looked at me for the first time and saw me. There was the stunned, guarded look I had been wishing for.

“I’ve never known you to be at a loss for words, Bennett,” I said, as if I were calm.

“Elena.”

He wanted the floor to open and swallow me. He wanted to turn and go back out the door. Do-over, without the woman who had tried to put him in prison.

“You know each other?” Barbaro said. “Why would I be surprised? Is there a beautiful woman within fifty kilometers you don’t know, my friend?”

“Oh, I knew Bennett back when,” I said, enjoying the apprehension in Bennett’s eyes. “Or so I thought.”

“Elena,” he said again. “It’s been a long time. How are you?”

“Is that the best you can do?”

“Yes, at the moment.”

“To think you used to be so quick on your feet.” I glanced at Barbaro from the corner of my eye. “Ben used to be able to talk his way out of anything. Isn’t that right, Ben?”

He said nothing.

“I’m upset, to answer your question,” I told him. “A friend of mine was found murdered this morning. Imagine my surprise to discover you were seen with her the night she went missing.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” he said. He was pissed now. I could tell by the way he tilted his head, set his jaw, avoided looking at me.

“Well, some things never change,” I remarked.

“If you could excuse us for a moment, Elena, I need to have a word with my friend.”

He put a hand on Barbaro’s shoulder, ready to draw him aside.

“Getting your stories straight?” I asked sweetly. Stupid of me, but there it was. Sometimes I can’t help myself.

Barbaro seemed bemused but content to watch the fireworks, his gaze bouncing back and forth between us as if he were watching a tennis match.

Walker took a moment to compose himself, breathing in, breathing out. He was very aware of the two couples that had just come upstairs from the restaurant and stood talking not ten feet away.

“I don’t need a story,” he said quietly, stepping a little closer. I didn’t retreat. I wouldn’t. I looked him in the eyes, knowing that would make him uncomfortable.

“You don’t think so? An unconscious alibi witness?” I shook my head. “Not good, Bennett. Although at least he can’t dispute your version of events.”

“Elena, I understand that you’re upset,” he said. “But I didn’t have anything to do with that girl’s death, and I resent you implying otherwise, especially considering other people can hear you.”

I actually laughed. “Oh, my, what would the neighbors think? Can’t have me tarnishing your sterling reputation. You are just un-fucking-believable,” I said, lowering my voice.

“Twenty years and you still hate me.”

“There is no statute of limitations for what you did, Bennett. Not with me.”

“Despite what you choose to believe, I was exonerated.”

“What an interesting reinvention of history.”

“I’m not having this conversation with you, Elena. Not here, not now.”

“Well, when you find you have room on your dance card, do pencil me in. There’s just nothing like reliving old times,” I said sarcastically.

I slid my gaze away from him to Barbaro. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me. It’s been a very bad, very long day. I’ll see myself out.”

I walked away and out the door, past the valet stand. I had parked in the lower lot. A Glock 9mm lived in a secret panel in the driver’s door of my car. I couldn’t take the risk of the gun falling into the hands of a minimum-wage sixteen-year-old bored with waiting on rich people.

“Elena!”

Barbaro. He jogged to catch up with me. But when he did, he didn’t seem to know what to say. He had the expression of someone who had come in on the middle of a conversation.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand what just happened.”

“I’m sure your good friend will fill you in,” I said. “A word to the wise, though: Don’t invest too heavily in giving him an alibi. If I find out he had something to do with Irina’s murder, I’ll make very certain that he pays for it, and I won’t care who gets in my way.”

“That’s crazy! Bennett is a good friend.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Several years. He would never have anything to do with harming a woman.”

“Really? Why not? Because he’s handsome? Because he’s charming? Because he’s rich?” I asked. “For such a worldly man, Mr. Barbaro, you are terribly naive. When you go back in there and sit down to have a drink with your pal, ask him if the name Maria Nevin means anything to him.

“And whatever he tells you, know this: Bennett Walker is a liar and a rapist. I know, because I was his alibi once too.”

He didn’t know what to say to that and wisely chose to say nothing at all.

I turned to open my car door. Barbaro put a hand on my shoulder.

“Elena, please don’t leave angry.”

He was standing too close. I didn’t turn to face him.

“I’m not angry with you.”

“You are angry with the world, I think.”

“Yes,” I whispered, feeling very beaten by the day. Physically beaten. Emotionally spent. His hand moved from my shoulder to touch the back of my head.

“Please don’t try to comfort me,” I said. “I really don’t think I can take it right now.”

“You are always the strong one?”

“I don’t have a lot of choice in the matter. If you’ll excuse me now, I really have to go.”

He moved a step to the side so I could open the car door.

“May I call you?” he asked.

I laughed without humor. “I can’t imagine why you would want to. I haven’t been the most pleasant company.”

“The death of a friend does not create pleasant circumstances. Still…This does not change the fact that you are a beautiful, complex, interesting woman, and I would like the chance to get to know you better.”

“Hmmm…You’re a brave soul,” I said, looking at him. In the film-noir black-and-white light of the parking lot, he was starkly beautiful, and I could feel the sexual energy that rolled off him in waves.

“Fortune favors the brave,” he said, and he leaned forward and kissed me gently, briefly. Just long enough to make me think I might want more.

“You’re naughty!”

The voice came from the far side of my car. A person of indeterminate gender stood in back of the car parked next to mine, staring at us. A woman, I thought from the voice. But there were no other indicators. She was covered in what looked to be a black unitard that exposed only the features of her face, features painted on like a character from Cirque du Soleil. On top of her head was a conical black hat with a pom-pom at the end.

“You’re very naughty!” she said. “Like the others. Very naughty!”

Barbaro took a couple of menacing steps in her direction. “Get away from here, Freak! Go! Go before I call the police and they arrest your crazy ass!”

The Freak curtsied and ran away awkwardly on high platform shoes. She crawled through the pipe gate that led onto the Palm Beach Polo development and was gone.

I turned to Barbaro. “What the hell was that?”

“The Freak,” he said. “Have you never seen the Freak?”

“No. I don’t get off the farm much.”

“She hangs around town. I’ve seen her here before. She’s crazy.”

“I got that.”

“Never mind her,” he said. “Go home and try to get some rest.”

He reached up and touched the left side of my face, gently, I’m sure, though I couldn’t really feel it.

I slid behind the wheel of the BMW and told him my phone number, and I drove away wondering what exactly I had just let myself in for.

I thought of Barbaro’s kiss and felt guilty. I thought of Landry and the moment we had shared outside the barn, how I had wanted to turn to him but hadn’t. And I felt guiltier. Not that I needed to. I had ended my relationship with Landry. He wanted something from me I couldn’t give, wouldn’t give. I’d done him a favor, whether he wanted to see it that way or not.

Maybe a fling with a hot polo star was a way to drive that point home.

Don’t read too much into it, Elena,
I told myself. Inasmuch as I planned to use my new connection to Juan Barbaro to dig into this case, for all I knew he was planning to do the same thing. He had been there the night Irina went missing, as had Bennett Walker, and Barbaro’s
patrón,
birthday boy Jim Brody. Perhaps he planned on being the distraction that would take my attention away from his wealthy friends.

I had no doubt that Juan Barbaro could have his pick of wealthy women and gorgeous girls in Wellington. Why pick me?

The lights were out in Sean’s house. I was glad. As much as I loved Sean, I didn’t want to interact with one more person.

I walked into the cottage and didn’t even bother to turn on a light. The moon was waxing toward fullness, giving off enough illumination for me to walk down the hall to my bedroom. I went into the bathroom, turned on the light, and started the shower running. The acrid smell of tension and stale cigarettes clung to me like a film.

I bent over the sink to brush my teeth. When I finished and looked up, I wasn’t alone.

A man stood in the doorway behind me. For a stunned second, I just stared at him in the mirror, then I spun around to face him. He was disheveled but wearing a suit, and the whites of his eyes were red.

“You are Elena Estes.” His voice was accented. Russian.

“Who the fuck are you?” I demanded.

“My name is Kulak. Alexi Kulak.”

chapter
15

         
MAGDA’S WAS
a shitty bar in a shitty industrial part of West Palm, a dingy clapboard building that looked as if it should have been condemned ten years before. Parking was in the back, a cracked concrete lot studded with weeds. A chain-link fence crowned with razor wire locked Magda’s patrons out of an auto salvage yard.

This would probably be an exercise in futility, Landry thought as he got out of the car. The old priest had named this bar as a possible spot to find Kulak. But the odds of anyone here talking to him were long. The Russian community was close-knit and tight-lipped. But he had to start somewhere.

He and Weiss had agreed to call it a day and start fresh in the morning. Landry glanced at his watch: 12:14
A.M.
Morning. It would be hard enough to get these people to talk to one cop, let alone two. Particularly if one of the two was Weiss. Alexi Kulak was potentially too important a lead to screw up.

Kulak had a record of arrests but no convictions. He had been brought up on charges of assault and attempted murder, but nothing ever stuck. Witnesses developed faulty memories. Victims chose to let bygones be bygones. This was a man no one wanted to mess with.

Landry knew a guy who worked the organized-crime task force, but he hadn’t called him. He might have gleaned a scrap or two of information on Kulak, but the OC detectives were notoriously paranoid and selfish. They sat on bad guys for months, for years, trying to piece together a case that could stand up. The last thing they wanted was some Homicide dick walking into the middle of something and screwing up their work.

He had learned the basics about Kulak—what he looked like, his record, etc. Father Chernoff had supplied the information that the auto salvage yard behind Magda’s was Kulak’s legitimate business. But his last-known address, according to the DMV, was smack in the middle of the Baby Gap store downtown, and Landry had found no other notations of an actual address, nor had there been any mention of relatives.

But relative or not, Kulak had been close to Irina Markova. He had offered her a job, a well-paying job. Criminal enterprise paid a hell of a lot better than shoveling horseshit. That explained the pricey wardrobe. It also probably gave someone motive to do her harm. Maybe because she crossed somebody up. Maybe to get at Kulak. Maybe Kulak had killed her himself and the phone message had been an act to throw the scent off.

Landry went in the back door of the bar and down a narrow, dimly lit hall with an uneven floor. The place smelled of beer and boiled cabbage, and the smoke was so thick it stung his eyes and jammed in his throat like a fist. Conversations died as he walked in and took a seat at the bar. People stared at him openly, then glanced at one another and muttered in Russian.

He looked at the bartender, a massive bald man with blue tattoos inked all over his skull. “Vodka. Straight up.”

“What you want here, Copper?” the bartender asked.

Landry repeated himself. “Vodka. Straight up. You have vodka, don’t you?”

“Do bears shit in woods?”

“You tell me.”

The bartender laughed loudly, poured him a shot, and set it on the bar in front of him. Landry tossed it back and fought the need to grimace and gag. The bartender poured him another and he repeated the process, on a mostly empty stomach.

The bartender laughed again. “You Russian, Copper? You drink like a Russian.”

“What makes you think I’m a copper?”

“You’re all the same. Big attitude, shiny shoes. We don’t got nothing to tell you here, Copper.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”

“It don’t matter.”

“You’re not going to tell me where I can find Alexi Kulak?”

“No.”

“That’s too bad. A relative of his was found dead today, and we need to know what to do with the body.”

The bartender made a sour face and shrugged. “This person is dead. There is no reason to rush. They will be just as dead tomorrow and the next day.”

“So, I should come back tomorrow and wait until Alexi Kulak shows up?” Landry said. “You know, I’m a busy man. I can’t hang around like that. Maybe I should send a couple of squad cars over, put some uniformed officers in here. Is that what you want me to do?”

The bartender frowned, making his skull tats undulate.

A voice behind him laughed. “Is joke! American police, you can’t do nothing to make people talk.”

Landry glanced over his shoulder. The one behind him was nearly as large as the one behind the bar. Good. If he had to prove himself, this was the guy to do it with.

“You say please and thank you and let criminals get off with slap on wrist like naughty children,” the man went on. “Is not like Russia.”

There were many murmurs of agreement.

Landry turned around on his bar stool. “If Russia is so fucking great, what are you doing here, Boris? Did you get tired of standing in line all day for a roll of toilet paper? Do you even use toilet paper? Do they have indoor plumbing in that ass-backward country of yours?”

The Russian scowled darkly. His hair was thick and bristly, like the pelt of a bear, and came to a V just above his brows. A vein stood out in the side of his neck. “You watch your mouth here, little policeman. There are more of us than you.”

“Did you just threaten me?” Landry asked. “Did you just threaten a law-enforcement officer?” He turned back to the bartender. “Did he just threaten me?”

“What you gonna do about it?” the bartender asked. “Scold him? Take away his supper?”

“I have the right to defend myself,” Landry said. “I might have to do this.”

As he said it, he came around with his left elbow and drove it into the solar plexus of the man standing behind him. At the same time, he pulled his weapon from his shoulder holster and ran the gasping Russian backward into a wall.

He pointed the gun in the big man’s face and shouted, “I might have to do that! How do you like that, asshole? Am I making my point clear? I might have to blow your fucking brains out! Is this like Russia now, cocksucker?”

There was shock and fear in the man’s eyes as he tried to see the end of the gun barrel.

Just as quickly as he had turned on the guy, Landry let him go and backed away. The Russian slid halfway down the wall, bent over, his mouth working like a fish’s as he tried to get air.

“Don’t fuck with me, Boris!” Landry shouted, jabbing a finger at him. “Don’t fuck with me!”

Landry went back to the bar and ordered another vodka. He looked around at the crowd. “What the fuck are you looking at?”

They seemed grudgingly impressed with him now. Still wary, still uncooperative, no doubt, but there was a little respect where there hadn’t been. That was the only way he was going to get anywhere with this crowd.

He took his vodka and tossed it back, hoping he wouldn’t just puke it up there and then. From inside his sport coat he pulled out a photograph printed from Irina Markova’s computer and held it up.

“This is Irina Markova,” he said loudly. “She was found murdered today. She was Russian. Some of you might have known her. And I’m gonna work my ass off to find and apprehend her killer and make sure he never sees the light of day again.

“If anyone here has anything to tell me, I’m leaving my card on the bar. And if anyone can tell me where to find Alexi Kulak, I need to know. If he doesn’t come to claim the body in three days, she gets buried in a pine box in potter’s field.”

That was a lie, but Landry didn’t care. He needed to know what he needed to know. He turned back to the bartender and put the picture of Irina down on the bar. She was sitting in a horseshoe booth, sandwiched between two well-dressed, wealthy men who had probably never set foot in a place like this. Her smile was dazzling. There seemed to be no connection between this girl and the corpse he had left lying on a slab in the autopsy suite.

The bartender was looking at the picture too, his expression pensive.

“The guy choked her, then strangled her with a garrote. Raped her, tortured her,” Landry went on, embellishing for maximum effect. Gitan hadn’t been able to say for certain whether the girl had been sexually assaulted. There were no obvious signs of torture. “Sick bastard even did her after she was dead. And then he dumped her in a canal so the fish could eat her eyes out.”

The bartender’s mouth trembled as he stared at the picture.

“You don’t want to rat out the piece of crap who did this?” Landry said. “Me, I’d give the cops my own brother’s head on a platter if I knew he did something like this. But then, I’m not a Russian.”

He tossed half a dozen business cards and a twenty-dollar bill on the bar and gave the bartender a little salute.
“Do svidaniya.”

The vodka was starting to kick in as the adrenaline ebbed. He walked out the back door, turned, and puked. There was no one back there to see him. He leaned against the building and took a couple of deep breaths. He just needed a moment, a little air.

One of three things could happen now. No one would come out. Someone would come out, maybe talk to him, maybe not. Boris would come out and beat the shit out of him.

He rubbed his hands over his face, lit a cigarette to get the taste of vomit out of his mouth, wondered if Elena was sleeping. Then he cursed himself for wondering. There was no getting close to her. She just wouldn’t allow it. He should be glad she’d cut him loose. It pissed him off that he wasn’t.

He wasn’t exactly Mr. Share My Feelings himself. It was a wonder they’d lasted as long as they had. They were like a pair of porcupines, the two of them.

Still, he felt like a bastard for what he’d said to her at the scene. If there was anything Elena wasn’t, it was a quitter.

The door opened and a woman came out. Stacked, teased hair, too much makeup, skirt up to her ass. She stopped, posed with her profile to him, lit a cigarette, and blew a stream of smoke up at the moon.

Landry waited.

“Damn,” she said, looking at him. “My cigarette went out. Do you have a light?”

He walked over, flicked his lighter. She looked up at him from under her brows as she took a deep drag.

“That’s something,” she said on the exhale. “You kicked Gregor’s ass. About time someone did.”

“It wasn’t that hard,” Landry said.

She gave a coquettish laugh and batted her lashes. “You sure you’re a cop?”

“That’s what it says on my ID.”

“My name is Svetlana. Svetlana Petrova. You’re looking for Alexi?”

“You know where to find him?”

She made a pouty frown and shrugged a shoulder. “In hell, I hope.”

“You’re not a fan?”

“He’s a pig.” She turned her head and spat on the ground. Class.

“What’d he do?” Landry asked. “Fuck you and dump you?”

The fire in her eyes told him yes. “Hey!” she snapped, hitting him in the chest with the heel of her hand. “No guy dumps me! I tell him take a hike. He’s cheap, and he fucks around with whores.”

Landry bit his tongue and looked at the door. It was only a matter of time before someone else came out.

“Was one of those whores Irina Markova?”

She made a sour face. “She led him around by his dick. He made a fool of himself.”

“You think maybe he got sick and tired of that? Maybe he decided to teach her a lesson?”

The thought had not occurred to her. “Alexi? Kill her?” She warmed to the idea quickly. “Maybe…He could have. He has terrible temper.”

“Did he ever knock you around?”

She hesitated and glanced down, then back. Whatever she was about to say was probably going to be a lie. “Yes. Many times. But I hit him back.”

“So maybe you just want to make trouble for him.”

She tried to look innocent, something he was sure she hadn’t been in about two decades. “What trouble? I don’t tell you nothing.”

“No? Then I might as well go.”

She reached out and caught hold of his lapel as he started to turn away. “You give up too easy.”

“I’ve got a murder to solve,” he said. “I can’t stand here and play grab-ass with you, honey. If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

She frowned and pouted again. “You’re no fun.”

“Yeah, people tell me that. Was Kulak here tonight?”

“Earlier, for a couple of hours.”

“What was his mood?”

“Pissed off. He’s always pissed off.”

“When was the last time you saw Irina Markova?”

The sour face again. “I don’t know. I don’t look for her.”

“Was she here Saturday night?”

He could see the sudden turning of the wheels in Svetlana’s brain. She narrowed her eyes and fought the start of a smile. “Yes,” she said. “Saturday night.”

“Around midnight? One o’clock?”

“Yes. Yes. I looked at my watch. I saw them arguing.”

Landry turned and started for his car. Svetlana hustled after him, the high heels of her shoes
clack-clack-clack
ing on the concrete.

“What?” she said.

“You’re a liar. Irina Markova wasn’t here Saturday night. I don’t want you if you’re going to lie to me. You’re wasting my time. You haven’t given me one damn thing I can use.”

“Okay, okay. I tell you where he lives. You have paper? Pen?”