“So did she-”
“How do you know you didn’t kill her?”
The seconds seemed to tick past in slow motion.
Finally Walker looked at him. His eyes were flat and cold, like a shark’s.
“What difference does it make?” he said. “The girl is dead. I can’t change that. And I’m not going to prison for it.”
He turned his horse and left the field, leaving Barbaro to stand alone.
Chapter 40
I slipped inside Lisbeth’s apartment and quietly closed the door behind me. “Lisbeth?”
Nothing. Which meant I was free to violate her privacy. I didn’t go looking for anything in particular. I had learned as cop that narrowing my focus too much caused me to ignore things it might prove important later on. That was especially important as a Narcotics detective-the ability to absorb every detail around me, to be aware of everything, no matter how insignificant at a glance. That skill had saved my life more than once and saved a case many times.
Lisbeth owned the usual fashion rags, plus a couple of polo magazines-Barbaro on the cover of Sidelines-and a selection of tabloids. She drank a lot of Diet Coke, had a bowlful of hard-boiled eggs, ate a lot of tuna-solid white albacore packed in spring water. There was a bottle of Stoli in the freezer. She didn’t strike me as a vodka drinker. I pictured Lisbeth drinking a pina colada, a margarita, a drink with a cutesy name that was sweet and colorful.
Irina had been her friend, though. Irina could pound down vodka like a Russian stevedore. Maybe it was for her.
Like so many people, Lisbeth kept a collection of snapshots taped to the refrigerator door. Many looked the same as what had been on Irina’s computer and in her digital camera. Photos from parties, from polo matches, from clubs. Girlfriends, polo players- several of Barbaro, social players-Brody’s crowd.
Only a few photos of Lisbeth herself. One in shorts and T-shirt, a candid of her holding on to a polo pony by a tangle of reins. One of her in a little black dress and Dior sunglasses, looking very glam.
There was the same photo of Lisbeth and Irina sitting side by side on the poolside chaise as had been in Irina’s camera. And another of the two of them at a tailgating party.
There were several of Irina only. Irina in profile, speaking to someone out of the frame. Irina sitting at a bistro table, having a glass of wine. Irina sitting on the lap of a man whose face had been overlapped by another photo. I turned the corner up. Bennett Walker. I put the corner back down.
I stood there for another moment, thinking: Just as Irina had a few too many photographs of Bennett, Lisbeth had a few too many photographs of Irina.
“Girl crush,” Kayne Jackson had said. Hero worship. Irina had been everything Lisbeth was not-sophisticated, exotic, worldly, bold, adventurous. My eyes went from the photos of Irina to a photo of Lisbeth with Paul Kenner and Sebastian Foster, a photo of Barbaro and a couple of other players, back to the photos of Irina.
I moved on from the kitchen, down a short hall. The small bathroom was littered with wet towels. A wadded wet T-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts had been shoved into the wastebasket. They smelled of swamp and vomit.
The bedroom was a comfortable size, the walls painted lavender. The bed was a tangle of sheets. The wastebasket was full of discarded crumpled tissues. From crying, I thought. Lisbeth had lost her best friend, felt lost herself. A good bet: She was scared. She knew more than she was telling anyone. That was a big load to carry for a little girl from Nowhere, Michigan.
Along the far wall of the room stood a portable clothes rack hung with a condensed version of Irina’s designer wardrobe. Her purse sat on the dresser. Inside: her wallet, her cell phone.
Where would she have gone without her wallet? What girl her age didn’t have her cell phone Velcroed to the side of her head?
A sense of unease filled me and trickled down my spine like water. I turned to face the door.
The closet door stood slightly ajar. I pulled it open to reveal more clothes hanging on the rod and piled in a heap on the floor. And staring out at me from the corner, obscured by long hanging garments and covered by a blanket, a pair of blood-red eyes.
I jumped back with an expletive, then caught myself and tried no refocus.
“Lisbeth? Oh, my God, what happened to you?”
I shoved the hanging clothes out of the way and squatted down to meet her at eye level. She looked like something from a horror movie. The whites of her eyes were filled with blood, making the cornflower blue of the irises seem to glow. Her hair was matted in an insane tangle, studded with dead grass and dried leaf fragments. Her face was so swollen, she was all but unrecognizable.
“Lisbeth,” I said again. “Can you hear me?”
I reached out toward her, wondering if she was dead. But she flinched as I pulled the blanket away.
“Come on. Get out of there.”
I offered my hand and she took it. Her fingers were like icicles. She started to cry as I pulled her from the closet. Wrapped in a long terry robe, she was trembling so hard she could hardly stand and, in fact, crumpled to the floor, curled into a ball, and started coughing-a hard, deep, rattling cough.
I knelt beside her.
“Lisbeth, have you been raped?” I asked bluntly.
She shook her head but cried harder; the sounds from her throat were raw and hoarse.
“Tell me the truth.”
She shook her head again and mouthed the word no.
I didn’t believe her. She’d been strangled. I could see the ligature mark on her neck where her hair had fallen out of the way. She’d been strangled so hard the blood vessels in her eyes had burst.
“I’m going to call an ambulance,” I said.
She grabbed hold of my arm. “No. Please,” she croaked, touching off another fit of coughing.
“Then I’m taking you myself. You need to go to the hospital.”
She squeezed my arm so hard, I imagined there would be bruises later.
I pulled the coverlet from the bed and put it around her. I didn’t know what had happened to her, but I recognized what she was feeling now-fear, shame, disbelief. She wanted to wake up and realize she’d been in the middle of a terrible nightmare.
I reached down and stroked a hand over her hair. Lisbeth tried to push herself up into a sitting position.
“… so… scared…” she whispered.
She fell against me, shaking and sobbing, and I put my arms around her and just held her for I don’t know how long, thinking how many times in my younger life I wished someone had done that for me. How nice it would have been just to have someone there, offering support and a safe place to fall.
“You’re safe,” I said quietly. “You’re safe now, Lisbeth. No one is going to hurt you again.”
As we sat there on Jim Brody’s property, I hoped to God what I said would prove true.
“Who did this to you?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“You have to tell me, Lisbeth. He can’t hurt you now.”
“… don’t know…” she said, and started coughing again.
“You didn’t see him?”
She didn’t answer me but pulled away, falling onto her hands and knees and coughing until she choked and gagged. I rested my hand on her back and waited for the fit to pass.
When she quieted, I said, “I’ll be right back, and then we’re going to the hospital.”
I grabbed her purse off the dresser, then went into the bathroom and dug her wet clothing out of the garbage in the bathroom and stuffed it into a laundry bag that hung on the back of the door. I took the stuff downstairs, went and got my car, and pulled it around the side of the barn, parking at the base of the stairs.
