The Alibi Man

Chapter 29

Landry looked through the photographs Lisbeth Perkins had taken with her cell phone the night Irina Markova went missing. He had sent the photos from the girl’s phone to his computer, where he had the added advantage of making the pictures large enough to study.

It always bothered him-seeing the victims frozen in time in a happy moment. In that moment, the person had not been thinking they would be dead soon, that someone would end their life with an act of violence. And more often than not, the person who ended their life was someone the victim knew. What a feeling that had to be-to look into a familiar face and see death coming.

Gorgeous girl, he thought absently. The looks of a model, attitude to spare. A girl with a lot of life ahead of her, life she would have lived with intent.

Weiss had taken a print of the photograph showing the guy the Perkins girl said had been bothering Irina that night and headed to Clematis Street, downtown West Palm Beach, to try his luck at getting a name to put to the face.

Felt like a dead end to Landry, but they had to check it out. But he couldn’t see some guy following Irina back to Wellington, to the party at Players, to wherever she had gone after that. Way too much effort. The clubs were packed belly-to-belly on the weekends, full of hot young girls looking for trouble and guys happy to provide it. More likely Brad Something had washed the bad taste of rejection out of his mouth with alcohol and moved on to a more willing piece of ass.

The photos from Jim Brody’s party were much more interesting. There were snaps of Irina doing what appeared to be some kind of hot fertility dance with Mr. Hotshot Barbaro; of her sitting between Jim Brody and Bennett Walker; of her dancing with girlfriends. Either Irina or Lisbeth had held the phone at arm’s length and snapped one of the two of them, side by side, mugging like supermodels.

Juan Barbaro interested him. Partly because he was still pissed off at the idea of the guy touching Elena, he admitted, but mostly for legitimate reasons. Professional athletes are notorious for feeling entitled to have anything they want, including women-especially women.

He sent off a couple of e-mail queries to the FBI and to a contact he had at Interpol, requesting any information available on the Spaniard.

Bennett Walker interested him for the obvious reasons.

Jim Brody interested him. It had been Brody’s birthday. Had Irina been a gift? Had she given herself freely? Had someone paid her? According to the ME, Irina had been a busy girl giving blow-jobs before her death.

So far, it seemed she had vanished into thin air. Nobody admitted to seeing her leave Players. He didn’t know if she had left in her own vehicle or with one of the men. There had been no sighting of her car anywhere.

It would have helped to know where the after-party had been.

He was guessing it was at Brody’s house, but guesses wouldn’t get him a warrant to search the property.

Elena’s phone call earlier in the evening had sent him back to Players to interview the two valets, but one had split before he got there, and the other one hadn’t been working Saturday night. That kid had told him about seeing Irina Markova with different gentlemen in their cars, but that wasn’t worth much.

He wondered what the other kid might have had to say. If it had been a big revelation, Elena would have just said so when she called. Maybe she thought if he leaned on the valet who had been working that night he would be scared enough to spill his guts.

Landry had taken the kid’s name and phone number. Tried to call. No answer. He would try again in the morning. He was convinced one of Jim Brody’s posse knew something about the girl’s death, but until someone could put her leaving that club-or being seen later on-with one of the self-proclaimed Alibi Club, he had squat.

He had been through Irina’s e-mails, but most of them were in Russian, and he had set them aside until they could get the old priest back to interpret. He had briefly considered the idea of recruiting someone from Magda’s bar to do the job, but he had no doubt he would be lied to six ways from Sunday. If it happened that one Russian had killed another Russian, and the motive was written in Russian in one of those e-mails, no Russian was going to tell him about it.

He had checked the girl’s phone records and discovered that she liked to talk to girlfriends on the phone. Not exactly a revelation. Interestingly, she seemed to have a direct line to some of the wealthiest men in the Palm Beach area.

Popular girl for a horse groom.

Landry thought of the expensive clothes in the girl’s closet. If she hadn’t gotten the money for those clothes from her mobster pal, Kulak, where had she gotten it? Were these guys she knew just generous, or were they clients? Did she have something on one of them? Blackmail made a good motive for murder.

There was probably plenty to be had on Brody and his crowd. Men who gave one another alibis as a hobby had to be guilty of something.

He looked back through the notes he had made in the victim’s apartment, detailing everything he’d seen there. Nothing out of the ordinary. The usual junk mail. A couple of bills. No sexually explicit photographs of Jim Brody naked and trussed up like a turkey in full S amp;M regalia. A coupon for Bed Bath amp; Beyond, a bill from a clinic, and an offer to join a health club.

The bill from the clinic was written in what might as well have been Sanskrit. She was being charged seventy-five dollars for an alphanumeric code.

Landry made a note to himself to call the clinic in the morning. He pulled his reading glasses off and rubbed his hands over his face. Out of gas. Time to call it, get some sleep, come back fresh.

The last thing he wanted to do was answer his phone.

“Landry.”

“Detective Landry, there’s a man here asking to see you.”

The girl at the desk downstairs.

“Who is it?”

“A Mr. Kulak. Alexi Kulak.”