a black sedan with a driver and a man sitting in the back rolled past. The license plate read: ESTES ESQ.
Edward Estes. Elena’s father.
The great man had arrived. Now the show would begin.
Landry’s phone rang.
“Landry.”
“Weiss. We’ve found Irina Markova’s car.”
The show would go on with one less in the audience, Landry thought as he turned left and headed out of the complex. He had more important things to do than watch Edward Estes shoot his mouth off-like proving Estes’s client was a killer.
“This guy’s a deputy,” Weiss explained as Landry got out of his car. “He works security here on the side. So he got the BOLO on the car, and here it is.”
“You called CSI?”
“They re on their way.”
Irina Markova’s car was a sporty little dark-blue Volkswagen Jetta. The windows were closed. It sat parked among a few hundred cars in the lot of the Wellington Green mall.
“Are there cameras out here?” Landry asked, looking up and around at light poles.
“No.”
“All right. Did you look inside the vehicle?”
“Through the windows,” Weiss said. “I didn’t touch anything. There are no visible signs of blood or anything. There’s sand and dirt on the floor mats. And a partial footprint. It’s faint, but it’s there.”
“Yeah, I see it,” Landry said. “Let’s make sure they get a photograph of it before anyone touches the mat.”
“What do you suppose the odds are the guy left us any prints?” Weiss said.
“Slim and none if it was one of Brody’s crowd. Those guys are too smart not to have wiped it down. Maybe we’ll get a couple of head hairs. Better than nothing. Damn, I wish they had cameras out here.”
Chapter 39
Hooves pounded the turf as the two horses ran. Maintaining a distance of about ten yards apart, one would advance, then the other, as the ball was struck and chased, struck and chased.
Barbaro swung his mallet with a casual ease that belied the length behind it. The forehand shot went to Bennett Walker, who calculated his angle and distance. He yanked his horse back and twisted in the saddle to make an awkward offside tail shot. Barbaro had to circle back at a lope to pick up the ball, now traveling at half speed. Just for practice, he brought his mallet across his body to the left side, reached forward and beneath his horse’s neck, let the ball roll across his line, and tapped it back across to his friend.
Again Walker’s timing was wrong. The ball crossed his line five strides ahead of him. He swore loudly, spurred his horse unnecessarily, then hauled back on the reins with such force that the animal’s front feet came off the ground as her eyes rolled back and her mouth came open.
Barbaro rode over and jabbed him hard in the side with the head of his mallet.
Walker glared at him. “What the flick?!”
“It’s not the mare’s fault you can’t play for shit!” Barbaro shouted. “Don’t punish her for your mistakes!”
He called Walker a few choice names in Spanish and jabbed at him again.
Walker took a vicious swing at him, and Barbaro blocked him with a forearm to Walker’s wrist, driving Walker’s arm up and back.
“You want to fight with me?” Barbaro shouted. “I will kick your ass! I am not some little girl you can knock around!”
They were horse to horse, the polo ponies muscling against each other, ears pinned, the men knocking knee pad to knee pad.
They had this end of the field to themselves. The morning sun was bright and hot, horses and men all sweating, breathing hard. This was supposed to have been a practice, a lesson for Walker, a chance for Barbaro to hit some balls before the afternoon match- the first round in a big-money tournament that would conclude on Sunday on the championship field in front of the grandstand with a thousand or more spectators.
Walker threw his mallet down, staring at his friend and teacher. He looked back down the field. At the far end, a bunch of little kids were milling around on their ponies, gathering for lesson time. There was no one within earshot. Still, he kept his voice low.
“Why don’t you just come out and say it, Juan? You think I killed her, no matter what I say. You think I just go around in the dead of night killing girls.”
Barbaro sat back. His horse settled but remained alert, sensing the tension. “Brody tells me this morning that I need an attorney, that he has hired one for me-Elena’s father.”
“Well, that should narrow down your chances of fucking her,” Walker said. “Too bad for you.”
“I told him no.”
“So you’ll get someone else.”
“No. I will not,” Barbaro said.
Walker digested that, looked down the field at the kids, looked back. “If the rest of us have attorneys and you don’t, that makes it look like we did something and you didn’t. The cops will think they can turn you against us.”
Barbaro said nothing.
“Can they?” Walker asked.
“I don’t want to be a part of this. It disgusts me.”
“Ha! Disgusts you? Like you haven’t done your share of partying. Jesus, you’ve screwed more women than most men ever see in their lifetime. You’ve snorted your share of blow. You never looked to me like anyone was twisting your arm.”
“No one ever died because of it,” Barbaro said.
“Look,” Walker said. “You’re a part of this. You think the cops are going to believe you’re a virgin? Take the damn lawyer. We stick together in this, everyone comes out fine.”
Barbaro rested his hands on the pommel of his saddle and sighed, looking down the field to the kids wearing helmets that seemed bigger than they were. Life was still shiny and new for them, filled with innocence and possibility.
“She was dead when I found her,” Walker said. “I don’t know what happened. I was passed out, remember?”
“You were the last man with her,” Barbaro said. “I remember that. I remember you were angry because of it. I remember Irina making fun of your pouting. I remember you didn’t take it well.”
“So that means I killed her?” Walker asked, offended but not quite able to meet Barbaro’s gaze. “She was a cunt. So what? She could suck the white off rice. That’s all I cared about. That’s all you cared about too.”
“I wasn’t with her,” Barbaro said. “You took her, and I left. Remember?”
Walker narrowed his eyes. “No. I don’t. You were there. I saw you. Everyone saw you. Do you have someone who can say you weren’t there?”
Barbaro let that one go. “Then who killed her? Everyone else had gone by then.”
“Hell if I know,” Walker said.
“Why can you not look me in the eye when you say that, friend?”
Walker didn’t answer.
“If you don’t know who killed her,” Barbaro said, “maybe it is because you don’t remember what you did. You were the last man with her, then she was dead. Maybe you don’t know you didn’t do it. Maybe you think you did. Maybe you did.”
Bennett Walker still wouldn’t look at him.
“Did you choke her during sex?” Barbaro asked. “That is a dangerous game I know you like to play. You were angry. You are always angry with women. You like to get rough-”
