The Alibi Man

Chapter 27

I swung into the drive-through at Burger King for sustenance to go, then continued on down Greenview Shores to South Shore. I pulled into the lower parking lot at Players and sat there for a while, trying to choke down a few bites of a chicken sandwich. I didn’t feel like eating. I felt like drinking.

It had been a long and taxing day already, and the night was young. My head spun with flashbacks of Landry, and Barbaro, and Bennett Walker. I could see Billy Quint squinting up at me from his wheelchair. I could see Bennett’s cold, flat eyes as he stared at he waitress in the 7th Chukker and the look he gave me when he said, “I’m surprised you didn’t go into sex-crimes investigation.” taunting me, and enjoying it.

In point of fact, I had gone into Sex Crimes when I got my detective’s shield. It hadn’t lasted long. My captain called me overzealous, sent me for a psych evaluation, and transferred me to Narcotics, where everyone was a little bit crazy and overzealous-less was considered a virtue.

I had secretly been relieved, afraid that if I stayed in Sex Crimes I would have ended up killing a suspect out of my own fury and hurt.

Fury and hurt. My emotions were bouncing between the two like the ball in a game of Pong. If I thought about it long enough, I would realize how exhausted I was, and I would start thinking about what a mess my life had been to date and how I didn’t see it getting any better. And things would go downhill from there.

Instead, I took the Burger King bag and set it on the hood so that my car wouldn’t have that nasty BO stench of cold, uneaten fast food when I got back into it later.

I looked around the parking lot, casually walked around, stared hard into the night, where the sodium vapor light faded to black and the parking lot gave way to grass and trees. Though I had the creepy feeling of eyes staring back at me, I couldn’t see anyone. Maybe later.

As I approached the front of the club, I pulled a snapshot of Irina and Lisbeth out of my clutch and walked up to the valet stand. The kid working was tall and gangly and looked like a goose with acne. His eyes went wide at the sight of my fat lip.

“You should see the other guy,” I said.

“Huh?”

The future of America.

“Were you working Saturday night?”

“No.”

“Do you know anyone who was working Saturday night?”

“Yeah…”

He paused so long I thought he had gone catatonic.

“… Jeff was.”

Jeff looked up as he came around the back of a white Lexus, stuffing his tip money in the pocket of his baggy black pants.

“Jeff was what?” he asked.

“Working Saturday night,” I said.

He cut his friend a look like he had just ratted him out to the homeroom teacher. This one was a foot shorter than the other one, with orange hair and a cowlick.

“Yeah,” he said reluctantly, as if he would have much preferred to lie to me. Little weasel.

“Did you see this girl?” I asked. I folded Lisbeth’s half of the photo back and showed him the other half, tapping a finger beneath Irina’s face.

He barely glanced at it. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Maybe you should look again,” I suggested. “For more than a nanosecond.”

He glanced at it again. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“You don’t know?” I said sternly. “Are you gay?”

He looked me in the eyes for the first time, shocked that I might think so, particularly in front of his cohort, who started laughing. “No!”

I held the picture up. “A girl who looks like this comes prancing n here dressed to kill, looking like more money than you’ll ever make in your lifetime, and you don’t know if you saw her.”

“We were really busy,” he said, evading my gaze. “It was some such guy’s birthday party.”

“She came out this door, late. The party was breaking up. Only the diehards were left.”

He was squirming like the kid who threw the baseball through he neighborhood witch’s window and got caught.

“Do you know why I’m asking you?” I questioned.

A black BMW 7 Series pulled in.

Jeff started leaning toward it. “I have to work.”

“It’s my turn!” the goose protested.

“It’s his turn,” I said. “You have to share, Jeffrey.”

He wanted to snap his fingers and become invisible. I tried again.

“Do you know why I’m asking you if you saw this girl Saturday light?” I didn’t wait for another stupid answer. “Because she’s dead, Jeff. She came here Saturday and had a good time. And then she left here, and someone took her somewhere and strangled her to death and threw her body in a canal to rot and be eaten by an alligator.”

The kid made a nauseous face. “Wow. That’s sick.”

“Yes, it is. Is your memory coming back to you? Did you see her leave here Saturday night?”

He stared at the photograph, then looked away, frowning. “No,” he said. “I didn’t see her.”

A Porsche pulled into the drive.

“I’ve gotta go,” he said, and bolted like a skittish horse.

I watched him, imagining him working Saturday night. A busy evening, money walking in and out the door. Big tippers. Someone slips him a little something extra to lose his memory. Just between us men-wink wink.

The goose came ambling back, oblivious of any tension around. He glanced at the picture.

“Hey, I know her,” he said. “She’s so hot!”

“You’ve seen her around here?” I asked.

“Yeah. She comes here a lot.”

“With anyone or alone?”

“With some other girls.”

“Have you ever seen her with a man?” Sure.

“Who?”

“I dunno.”

I wanted to reach my hand into his brain and pull the information out.

“Let’s try it this way,” I suggested. “Always the same man? Or different men?”

“Different guys.”

“Younger? Older?”

“Older. Old rich guys.”

“If I brought some photographs by, do you think you might recognize any of them?”

“I dunno…”

Even I can beat my hard head against a brick wall for just so long.

“Do you have a cell phone I can call you on?”

“Yeah.”

I dug a small notebook out of my bag. “What’s your number?”

He recited his number to me. I thanked him and went into the club, thinking I deserved a drink after that.

The gorgeous Kayne Jackson was tending bar again. Eye candy in a painted-on black T-shirt, biceps rippling as he prepared a cosmo to send away with the waitress.

“So, Kayne Jackson,” I said, taking an empty stool near him. “What are your goals in life?”

He glanced up at me and smiled. “Ketel One and tonic, big squeeze of lemon?”

I gave him the half smile. “There’s nothing more valuable or more dangerous than a bartender with a good memory.”

He chuckled as he scooped ice into a tumbler. “I’m not dangerous. Where did you get that lip?”

“They were having a sale at Wal-Mart. Lifelike, isn’t it?”

“Looks like it hurts.”

“Nothing a little vodka won’t cure,” I said.

“I’ve heard that story before.”

“Everybody confesses to their bartender. Considering this crowd, I’m sure you’ve got stories that would make the average person’s eyes pop out.”

“I’m valuable because I’m discreet,” he said, pouring the Ketel One. “Or I wouldn’t have this job.”

“Hmm…” I wondered if he drove a Maserati. Blackmail could be a profitable little side job. “I imagine some of your patrons value your discretion enough to pay you a little something extra on the side.”

“I have some generous customers,” he said, noncommittal as he squeezed the wedge of lemon.

He set the drink in front of me and went to the other end of the bar to take an order. I watched him pop the caps on a couple of beers.

“Back to my original question,” I said when he returned. “What do you want to be when you grow up, Kayne?”

He shrugged as he rinsed out some glasses in the sink. “This is it.”

“To be a bartender?”

“Do you think there’s something wrong with that?”

“No. I’m surprised, though,” I confessed. “You’re a young, extremely handsome, and charming man. You could be a model, an actor. Nothing against your profession, but I doubt your tips raise you to the same tax bracket as a Ralph Lauren model.”

“You’d have to ask Juan Barbaro about that,” he said. “I do okay.”

“You’re not secretly a wannabe polo star? A spy? A high-priced gigolo?”

He smiled, and female hearts all around the room skipped a beat. “Why do you ask?”

I laughed. “I don’t buy trouble, but you’d be worth your weight in gold in Palm Beach.”

He pretended to shudder. “I don’t need money that badly. And I prefer my ladies be under retirement age.”

And who could blame him? The median age of the Island’s residents was creeping up toward the speed limit. Plastic surgery was a growth industry.

“So draw the line at the bedroom door,” I said. “Do you have any idea what a walker can make during season?”

“Escorting old ladies to charity balls isn’t my idea of a good time,” he said. “I enjoy what I do, the people I meet. It’s fun.”

“You make a lot of friends here,” I said.

“Yeah.”

The waitress came by, gave him an order, and gave me the once-over and a dirty look. Little bitch.

“You said you knew Irina.”

“Yeah. She was something.”

“Do you know any of her friends? Girlfriends she might have confided in?”

He started to shake a martini. Muscles rippled in his chest and upper arms.

“My opinion: Irina had acquaintances and rivals, not friends. She didn’t strike me as the kind of girl who would confide in anyone.”

“Rivals?”

“The girls that run with that crowd all want the same thing, and there are only so many multimillionaires and handsome polo players to go around.”

He gave me a funny look. “You worked with her. You must know more about her than I do.”

“It’s becoming clear to me that I didn’t know her at all,” I said. “What about Lisbeth Perkins? She was a friend.”

“Girl crush.”

“Lisbeth is gay?”

“No,” he said. “It was more like hero worship. Irina was glamorous, exotic, sophisticated, self-assured.”

Everything Lisbeth was not.

“Did Irina ever come in here with a boyfriend?”

“Nope.” He poured the drink and added two olives.

“Did she ever leave here with a boyfriend?”

“Not that I noticed,” he said, “but my vision gets poorer and poorer as people move toward the door.”

“Would an infusion of cash improve that?”

He shook his head.

“Did an infusion of cash cause that problem?”

“I have other customers,” he said, and started to turn away. His left hand was braced against the bar. I reached out and caught his wrist.

“She’s dead, Kayne. If you know something, it’s worth a hell of a lot more than a big tip off the books. It’s one thing to turn a blind eye to an affair. Irina was murdered. If you know something about that but you tell the police that you don’t, you’re committing a crime. You could be charged as an accessory after the fact.”

He pulled away from my touch, frowning. “I don’t know who killed Irina. If I did, I would tell the detectives. Do you want another drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“Then that’ll be six-fifty.”

He walked away. I finished my drink, left a ten on the bar, and went back to the lobby. I was frustrated. There were people around who had information, but there was no getting it out of them. Selfish, conscienceless bastards. Maybe I should have given Alexi Kulak a list of their names.

I went downstairs to the restaurant on my way to the ladies’ room and spied Sean sitting by himself, eating a pork chop and reading POLO magazine. He didn’t look up as I approached his table. He didn’t look up as I took the seat across from him.

“You look lonely back here,” I said.

“I didn’t feel up to having company,” he said. The guilt trip. I guess I deserved it.

I sighed and leaned my forearms on the tabletop. My mother would have been mortified to see it.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” I said. “I shouldn’t have implied you weren’t supportive. My God, you’ve been the only support I’ve had for most of my life. You know what that means to me.”

My eyes started to burn. I would have had tears in them if not for the damage caused by “the Incident,” as my attorney liked to call it.

Sean’s expression softened, and he reached across the table and put his hand over mine. “I love you, honey,” he said sincerely. “I don’t want to see you have to open the door on all that misery.

“I hate Bennett Walker at least half as much as you do. If he was involved in Irina’s murder, I want to see him in prison. But I don’t want this to tear you up, El. I remember what it was like during Bennett’s trial, what it did to you. It broke my heart.”

There was a lump in my throat the size of a crab cake. I had to look away from him to compose myself. My eyes went to the magazine he was reading, but I didn’t really take it in.

“Yeah,” I tried to joke. “Made me the neurotic mess I am today.”

He took my chin in his hand and turned my face sideways, scrutinizing my lip. “If that scars, I have the perfect doctor to fix it.”

“Yeah?” I said. “And where do you have him? In one of your closets?”

“New York, of course. He did my eyes.”

“What?”

“Blepharoplasty,” he specified. “They take-”

“I know what it means.”

“Five years ago,” he said. “You never would have guessed, would you?”

“No. I’ve just always thought you were a wonder of nature.”

“Honey, even wonders of nature can use a little tweak now and again.”

I laughed, looking down at the table. His magazine caught my eye again.

“What are you reading?”

“I’m not reading. I’m just looking at the pictures,” he confessed. “I want to have some of these Argentinian polo players stripped naked, dipped in chocolate, and delivered to my house.”

“May I?” I asked, reaching for the magazine. Sean pushed it toward me.

“You need to lasso one of these young stallions for yourself, El,” Sean said. “Forget Landry. He’s cute, but he’s too cranky. Grab one of these guys and ride ‘im, cowgirl.”

I didn’t respond. I barely heard him. As I picked up the magazine, I fixed on the cover. The banner read: Fun in the Sun: Top Amateur Players in Florida. The cover featured a photo of Sebastian Foster, Jim Brody, Paul Kenner, and Bennett Walker.

“Can I borrow this?” I asked.

Sean frowned. “What for?”

I was already out of my chair. I went around the table, kissed him on the cheek, and left the restaurant.

The goose was at the valet stand, staring out at nothing, with his mouth hanging open. He jumped when I spoke.

“Hey, kid, look at this picture,” I said, holding the magazine up in front of his face. “Do you recognize any of these men?”

“I dunno.”

“It’s not a trick question. You either recognize them or you don’t.”

He looked at me like he thought I might do something to him.

“Well, do you? Know them?” I added, heading off an I-dunno at the pass.

“Yeah.” He pointed a finger at Jim Brody. “He drives an Escalade most of the time. But he’s got like three other cars. They’re so hot.”

I pointed at Sebastian Foster.

“Jaguar, like in Austin Powers. Shag-a-delic!” He laughed at himself.

Paul Kenner. Ferrari.

Bennett Walker.

“Porsche Carrera.”

I pulled Irina’s picture out and held it up next to the magazine cover. “Did you ever see this girl leave here with any of these men?”

“Yeah.” ‘

“Which one?”

He shrugged. “That one.”

I held my breath as he raised his hand, reached out, and touched the magazine cover with his finger.

“Porsche Carrera.”

Bennett Walker.