The Alibi Man

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. “Dos vidaniya.”

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-clacking 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?”

Landry handed her one of his business cards and a pen from the inside pocket of his coat. She put the card on the hood of his car, scribbled across it, and handed it back to him. He squinted at it.

“This had better be legit,” Landry said.

“I swear. And it’s a big secret. Hardly anybody knows. Not even cops. Not even feds.”

“And this is his phone number?” he asked.

“No,” she said, looking up at him, moving a little too close. “Is my phone number. Call me. I’ll show you how to have fun.”

Landry stuck the card in his breast pocket, got in the car, and drove out of the lot, leaving his informant standing there hot and bothered. Some mope coming out of that bar was going to be a lucky man tonight.