The Alibi Man

Chapter 10

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.

“No.”

Landry crouched down and unplugged the phone cords.

“I’m going back to the office,” he said. He grabbed the phone and its base, wrapped the cords around it, and started for the door.

“What am I supposed to do?” Weiss said, irritated he was being shut out.

“Go home. I don’t need you.”

Landry went down the spiral stairs and left the stable. Lights were on in Elena’s house but not in the main house. Sean was probably with her. They were probably having a drink. Avadon would be asking questions. Elena would give him the play-by-play. They would share their disbelief, their shock, their grief.

He knew he wasn’t invited. She would be pissed as hell if he tried to join them. He hadn’t known Irina more than in passing. He would have been a stranger intruding. Elena didn’t want him there anyway. She had made that decision. She didn’t want a relationship, didn’t need him. He was surprised she had allowed him to stroke the back of her head as they sat on the park bench. A weak moment. He wished it had lasted longer.

Pushing the thought aside, he got into his car and started the engine. He had a job to do, and the night was young.

Alexi Kulak went out the back door of the bar and began to pace. Back and forth, back and forth, the same four strides over and over, like a caged animal. He couldn’t hear the noise from the bar for the pounding inside his brain. He was unaware of his surroundings, except for knowing that it was night and the only light came from a bulb over the door to the bar.

Irina dead. That couldn’t be. That could not have happened. He wasn’t going to believe it. There had to be some kind of mistake.

He felt sick and angry and… and lost. Things like this did not happen to him. He was the one always in control. The world around him ran according to his rules, by his permission. It was inconceivable that some person had come into his world and done this terrible thing. It just couldn’t be.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket with trembling hands and pressed the number for her cell phone. It didn’t matter that he had already called that number twice and had been passed immediately to voice mail.

“This is Irina. Please leave message. ”

He waited impatiently for the beep. “Irina? Irina, answer the goddamn phone. Answer me! Answer me!”

He screamed into the phone, still pacing. Sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes. His hair was wet with it. His heart was pounding.

“Irina? Irina!”

He called her name over and over, until finally the only sound that came out of him was a wild animal cry of pain.

Alexi Kulak was well-known for his mastery over his emotions. Most people would have said he didn’t have any, but that was not true. In that moment he knew the kind of grief from which the only escape is death. In that moment he knew the kind of fury that could scorch the earth and everything on it. In that moment he knew the kind of hopelessness that crushed the spirit.

Irina was dead. He knew it now. He felt the absence of her life force. The emptiness was like an anvil pressing down on him.

His phone fell from his hand and bounced on the cracked pavement. He put his hands to his face, feeling the heat of his tears, and he dropped to his knees and slumped forward, heedless of the impeccably tailored suit he wore.

What did it matter, a suit? It meant nothing. Nothing meant anything. Irina was gone, dead, murdered, her life torn from her and crushed. Her body was cast aside like the carcass of an animal, thrown into a filthy canal.

What mattered now was that someone would have to pay for her death. He would find that person. He would find that person, and that person would suffer in every conceivable way until they begged and prayed for death.

This Alexi Kulak promised, and all knew that Alexi Kulak was a man of his word.