with a red face and a Tommy Bahama shirt. Fifty-something, gray hair, good-looking forty pounds ago. A tall, lean man in denim with a narrow face that looked to be carved from old leather. And a neat, tanned man in pressed khakis and a pink polo shirt with the collar turned up, his black hair slicked straight back. Handsome. In his fifties. Probably Argentinian. White-white teeth.
The tall man worked in the back, repaired equipment, fitted saddles. I had seen him back there different times when I was in the store, but I didn’t know his name. That made Tommy Bahama the owner of Star Polo: Jim Brody. I didn’t recognize him from any of the tailgating photos. The third man had been in the background of one of the shots, laughing, raising a glass of champagne, a cute twenty-something blonde at his side.
Brody slapped the denim-shirt man on the shoulder and said he’d see him soon.
I turned and made my way to the front of the store, careful not to be seen by the clerk I had spoken to. She was occupied with a customer. I slipped out the door and went back to my car. Brody and the other man came out. Brody got into a pearl-white Cadillac Escalade: STAR POLO 1. The Argentinian slid behind the wheel of a silver Mercedes convertible and followed the Cadillac out of the parking lot. I drove out behind them.
Chapter 7
The main entrance to Star Polo on South Shore Drive (which is, of course, nowhere near the shore of anything but a drainage canal) looked like the entrance to a five-star resort. Stone pillars, huge trees, banks of red geraniums, clipped grass. The Cadillac and the Mercedes turned in. I drove past and went to the stable gate farther down the road.
A rider went past with three ponies tethered on either side, going for a jog. The farrier was banging on a hot shoe, shaping it to fit the foot of a horse being held by a barn hand. A groom was hosing the legs of a chestnut in the wash racks across the drive from the barn. Apparently there was no day of rest at Star Polo.
I parked my car in the shade and went to the girl in the wash rack.
Her focus was on the horse’s forelegs and the cold water that ran down and puddled on the concrete. Lost in thought, she held the hose in one hand, and with the other toyed compulsively with a medallion she wore around her neck on a thin black cord. She looked sad, I thought; then again, maybe it was just the way I felt and I wanted to project that onto everyone around me. It seemed wrong that people should be going on in a normal way. But their reality was not mine.
“Boring job,” I said.
She looked up at me and blinked. Twenty-ish, I figured. Her curly streaked blond hair was up in a messy clip. She looked different in a faded tank top and baggy cargo shorts, but I recognized her from one of the tailgating photos. She stared at me with big cornflower-blue eyes.
“Hose duty,” I said. “It’s boring.”
“Yeah. Can I help you?” she asked. “Are you looking for the barn manager?”
“No, actually, I’m looking for you.”
Her brows knit. “Do I know you?”
“No, but I think we have a mutual acquaintance. Irina Markova.”
“Sure, I know Irina.”
“I recognize you from a photograph she has. From a tailgating party at the polo grounds. I’m Elena, by the way,” I said, offering her my hand. “Elena Estes.”
She shook it tentatively, still not sure what to make of me. “Lisbeth Perkins.”
The friend from the caller ID.
“Have you seen Irina around?” I asked.
“She doesn’t work here.”
“I know. I mean, just around.”
“We went out Saturday night. Why?”
“I work at the same barn as her. We haven’t seen her for a couple of days.”
The girl shrugged. “It’s her day off.”
“Do you know where she would go? What does she usually do on her day off?” I asked, fishing for whatever information I could get about Irina’s life away from the barn.
“I don’t know. Sometimes we go to the beach when we’re both off. Or shopping.”
“Where did you go Saturday night?”
“Are you a cop or something?”
“No. I’m just concerned. The world is a scary place, Lisbeth. Bad things happen.”
She gave a little involuntary laugh. “Not to Irina. She can take care of herself.”
How I wished that had been true in the moment it had become clear that she could not.
“She was in a big hurry to leave work Saturday,” I said. “Did you guys have plans?”
“Just to go out. No place special. We went to a couple of clubs on Clematis Street.”
“Which clubs?”
Looking annoyed, she turned to the faucets and shut off the water.
“I don’t know,” she said impatiently. She was nervous with my questions. Whether she had reason to be or whether she was simply sensing something was wrong, I didn’t know. “What’s the difference? We hit some clubs. We had a few drinks.”
“With anyone in particular?”
“I don’t like all these questions,” she said. “It’s none of your business what we did.”
She unsnapped the horse from the ties and started toward the barn with him. I followed.
“I’m making it my business, Lisbeth,” I said.
She put the horse in a stall and busied herself with the door latch.
“Have you seen or heard from her since Saturday night either?” I asked.
“No. You’re scaring me.”
“I sometimes have that effect on people.”
“I wish you would leave.”
She knew something bad was coming. She wanted me to go away before I set the bad thing loose. Then maybe it didn’t really exist and it couldn’t touch her life. Oh, to be twenty and still believe in innocence.
“Lisbeth,” I said.
She didn’t look at me. She seemed to brace herself. I half-expected her to plug her ears with her fingers.
“Irina is dead. Her body was found this morning in a canal.”
The big cornflower eyes went glassy with tears. “You’re lying! What kind of sick person are you?”
From the corner of my eye I could see one of the stable hands looking over at us, frowning. He started toward us with a pitchfork in hand.
I turned to him and told him in Spanish that everything was fine but that I had given Lisbeth some very sad news. The death of a friend.
The aggression went out of him and he expressed his apologies and went back to his business.
“I’m sorry, Lisbeth,” I said. “It’s true. And there is no good or gentle way to say it.”
The girl put her hands over her face and slid down to the ground, her back against the stall door. She drew in a shuddering breath and said, “No,” the word weak and muffled. “No, you’re wrong.”
“I’m not. I wish I were, but I’m not.”
“Oh, my God!”
I squatted down beside her and put my hand on her shoulder. “I’m very sorry. You two were close?”
She nodded and sobbed into her hands until she gagged.
“Can we go sit somewhere?” I asked quietly.
She nodded, pulled a dirty rag out of the cargo pocket of her shorts, wiped her face, and blew her nose. She held on to my arm as we rose. She felt as weak and shaky as an elderly person in poor health.
“What happened?” she asked, hiccuping air between syllables. “Did she drive off the road? She’s a terrible driver.”
“No,” I said, and said nothing more until we were seated on a bench at the far end of the barn.
