Tami Hoag - The Alibi Man

Landry reached over and stroked his hand over the back of my head tenderly. “Elena,” he said softly. “I’m sorry about this morning. About Irina. About the way I treated you when we first got to the scene. I’m not the most tactful guy when I’m angry.”

“You were cruel,” I said, looking straight at him. He looked away.

“I know. I wish I hadn’t said what I did about you quitting. I didn’t mean it.”

“Then why did you say it?”

He thought about his answer for a moment, weighing the truth versus something less.

“Because I wanted you to hurt… the way I hurt.”

I shouldn’t have wanted him to touch me, but I did. If I could have gone back in time to Sunday night, knowing what was going to happen that Monday, I probably wouldn’t have broken up with him. I probably would have put it off, just to give myself the luxury of turning to him. He probably expected that I still would turn to him.

I could have leaned forward and kissed him. He had moved that close. And then he would have wrapped his arms around me and held me tight. And we would have gone into my guest cottage, and we would have ended up in bed-because we always ended up in bed. And we would exhaust each other, and maybe I would be able to sleep and not dream.

Headlights turned in at the gate just then. Sean, back from his day at the beach.

“That’s Sean?” Landry asked. “You want me to tell him?”

I shook my head as I stood up. “I’ll do it.”

“I’ll need to talk to him.”

“Can it wait until tomorrow?” I asked.

He looked at his watch. “It can wait until later. I need to grab something to eat. I’ll go and come back.”

“Thank you.”

He wanted to say something more but thought better of it. I walked away before he could change his mind.

The best thing to do in a weak moment: walk away.

I didn’t look back.

Landry watched her walk away. He followed at a distance, until he was standing in the open doorway of the stable. Sean Avadon had pulled his black Mercedes in among the official vehicles. He got out, looking puzzled. Elena went up to him. They talked. Landry recognized the expressions, the body language. The confusion, the shock, the denial, the crushing weight of the emotion that came with realization of the terrible truth.

Sean put his arms around Elena and hugged her, and Landry felt a sharp cut of jealousy slice through him. Even knowing that Sean Avadon was gay didn’t lessen it. It didn’t matter that the embrace was not romantic or sexual. He envied Avadon for being allowed to touch her.

He turned away and went back upstairs to the apartment. Weiss was digging through Irina Markova’s dresser drawers, checking out her lingerie.

“Where’ve you been?” he said, scowling at Landry, irritated.

“Why? You want me to go back out so you can have a moment of privacy to whack off with a dead girl’s underwear?”

“Fuck you, Landry.”

“Fuck yourself.”

The latent-prints person didn’t even bother to glance at them.

“You were with Estes,” Weiss said. “Was she giving you a blowjob or what?”

Landry wanted to kick him. Hard. Then maybe shove him out a window. He checked the position of the windows. One overlooked the riding arena. He wondered if Weiss had been watching.

“She was giving me information, dickhead. About our vic’s movements Saturday night.”

The telephone rang then, and everyone looked at it like it was a bomb about to go off. Landry went to the writing desk next to the bed and squinted at the caller ID. Private. No number. When the machine picked up, Irina’s voice told the caller to leave a message, no cutesy girly greeting. After the beep came a whole lot of Russian. A man’s voice.

Landry waited for a moment, then picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

The Russian went silent.

“Hello?” Landry repeated. “Who is this?”

“Who are you?” the voice demanded.

“Are you trying to reach Irina Markova?”

Another hesitation. “Who wants to know?”

“This is Detective Landry, Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office. Who is this?”

“What are you doing on this telephone?”

“I’m talking to you. Are you a relative of Ms. Markova?”

“Why?”

“Are you?”

“Yes. She is my niece.”

Landry took a deep breath and let it out. “Sir, I regret to inform you that Irina Markova is deceased.”

“What? What the fuck are you talking about?”

The confusion.

“Her body was discovered this morning in a canal outside of Wellington.”

“The fuck! No! You are lying! Who the flick are you, sick bastard!”

The shock, the denial.

“I’m sorry, sir. The body was positively identified at the scene by an acquaintance.”

The man’s breathing was shallow and fast. “She is dead? You are telling me she is dead? Irina?”

“Yes.”

“This was car accident?”

“No, sir. She appeared to have been murdered.”

“Murdered? What? Who would do this? What kind of animal would do this?”

“We don’t know. I would like to speak to you in person,” Landry said. “You might be able to help us.”

Silence. A long silence. He mumbled something in Russian that sounded like a prayer, then, “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Irina.”

The crushing weight of the emotion that came with realization of the terrible truth.

“Sir?” Landry said. “I’ll need to get your name and address. I’ll need to speak with you in person about the disposition of your niece’s body.”

The line went dead.

Landry put the phone down and used his own phone to call the watch commander at the county jail, to get a line on a Russian interpreter. Drunks, derelicts, and criminals of all nationalities routinely passed through the jail. It was essential to have people available to translate their rights to them, tell them how to manipulate the system, and teach them all the English they needed to know: I want a lawyer.

Landry wanted to know what message the caller had begun to leave. He had no way of knowing whether or not the caller was in fact Irina Markova’s uncle or if he was related by language only.

The Russian mob had put down roots in Miami in the ‘80s and, like kudzu, had spread all over the state, infiltrating every illegal and corrupted business there was. The Russians were smart and ruthless, a scary combination.

He had no reason to think Irina Markova had any connections to criminal types, but he did know she had very expensive tastes that no groom’s salary could begin to pay for. Designer clothes, designer shoes, designer bags, a boxful of diamond jewelry.

“Did he give you a name?” Weiss asked.

“No.”

“Is he a relative or what?”

“Maybe. He said so.”

Landry sat down at the desk and grabbed Irina’s phone to try the speed-dial numbers. The first number belonged to someone named Alexi.

He hit dial. The phone on the other end began to ring. No one answered. After four rings the voice mail picked up.

“I can’t take your call. Leave message. ”

“Bingo,” Landry whispered to himself. An instant winner. The voice was the same. Now he had a first name to put with it. Alexi.

The beep sounded.

“Sir, this is Detective Landry calling back. Your niece’s body has been taken to the medical examiner’s office at the Palm Beach County Criminal Justice Complex at 3126 Gun Club Road, West Palm Beach. An autopsy will be performed tomorrow. Her remains should be available for release by the end of the week. Please call me back at your convenience.”

He gave his cell-phone number and ended the call.

“Did you get his number?” Weiss asked.