gone.
I turned to Barbaro. “What the hell was that?”
“The Freak,” he said. “Have you never seen the Freak?”
“No. I don’t get off the farm much.”
“She hangs around town. I’ve seen her here before. She’s crazy.”
“I got that.”
“Never mind her,” he said. “Go home and try to get some rest.”
He reached up and touched the left side of my face, gently, I’m sure, though I couldn’t really feel it.
I slid behind the wheel of the BMW and told him my phone number, and I drove away wondering what exactly I had just let myself in for.
I thought of Barbaro’s kiss and felt guilty. I thought of Landry and the moment we had shared outside the barn, how I had wanted to turn to him but hadn’t. And I felt guiltier. Not that I needed to. I had ended my relationship with Landry. He wanted something from me I couldn’t give, wouldn’t give. I’d done him a favor, whether he wanted to see it that way or not.
Maybe a fling with a hot polo star was a way to drive that point home.
Don’t read too much into it, Elena,
I told myself. Inasmuch as I planned to use my new connection to Juan Barbaro to dig into this case, for all I knew he was planning to do the same thing. He had been there the night Irina went missing, as had Bennett Walker, and Barbaro’s
patrón,
birthday boy Jim Brody. Perhaps he planned on being the distraction that would take my attention away from his wealthy friends.
I had no doubt that Juan Barbaro could have his pick of wealthy women and gorgeous girls in Wellington. Why pick me?
The lights were out in Sean’s house. I was glad. As much as I loved Sean, I didn’t want to interact with one more person.
I walked into the cottage and didn’t even bother to turn on a light. The moon was waxing toward fullness, giving off enough illumination for me to walk down the hall to my bedroom. I went into the bathroom, turned on the light, and started the shower running. The acrid smell of tension and stale cigarettes clung to me like a film.
I bent over the sink to brush my teeth. When I finished and looked up, I wasn’t alone.
A man stood in the doorway behind me. For a stunned second, I just stared at him in the mirror, then I spun around to face him. He was disheveled but wearing a suit, and the whites of his eyes were red.
“You are Elena Estes.” His voice was accented. Russian.
“Who the fuck are you?” I demanded.
“My name is Kulak. Alexi Kulak.”
chapter 15
MAGDA’S WAS a shitty bar in a shitty industrial part of West Palm, a dingy clapboard building that looked as if it should have been condemned ten years before. Parking was in the back, a cracked concrete lot studded with weeds. A chain-link fence crowned with razor wire locked Magda’s patrons out of an auto salvage yard.
This would probably be an exercise in futility, Landry thought as he got out of the car. The old priest had named this bar as a possible spot to find Kulak. But the odds of anyone here talking to him were long. The Russian community was close-knit and tight-lipped. But he had to start somewhere.
He and Weiss had agreed to call it a day and start fresh in the morning. Landry glanced at his watch: 12:14 A.M. Morning. It would be hard enough to get these people to talk to one cop, let alone two. Particularly if one of the two was Weiss. Alexi Kulak was potentially too important a lead to screw up.
Kulak had a record of arrests but no convictions. He had been brought up on charges of assault and attempted murder, but nothing ever stuck. Witnesses developed faulty memories. Victims chose to let bygones be bygones. This was a man no one wanted to mess with.
Landry knew a guy who worked the organized-crime task force, but he hadn’t called him. He might have gleaned a scrap or two of information on Kulak, but the OC detectives were notoriously paranoid and selfish. They sat on bad guys for months, for years, trying to piece together a case that could stand up. The
I turned to Barbaro. “What the hell was that?”
“The Freak,” he said. “Have you never seen the Freak?”
“No. I don’t get off the farm much.”
“She hangs around town. I’ve seen her here before. She’s crazy.”
“I got that.”
“Never mind her,” he said. “Go home and try to get some rest.”
He reached up and touched the left side of my face, gently, I’m sure, though I couldn’t really feel it.
I slid behind the wheel of the BMW and told him my phone number, and I drove away wondering what exactly I had just let myself in for.
I thought of Barbaro’s kiss and felt guilty. I thought of Landry and the moment we had shared outside the barn, how I had wanted to turn to him but hadn’t. And I felt guiltier. Not that I needed to. I had ended my relationship with Landry. He wanted something from me I couldn’t give, wouldn’t give. I’d done him a favor, whether he wanted to see it that way or not.
Maybe a fling with a hot polo star was a way to drive that point home.
Don’t read too much into it, Elena,
I told myself. Inasmuch as I planned to use my new connection to Juan Barbaro to dig into this case, for all I knew he was planning to do the same thing. He had been there the night Irina went missing, as had Bennett Walker, and Barbaro’s
patrón,
birthday boy Jim Brody. Perhaps he planned on being the distraction that would take my attention away from his wealthy friends.
I had no doubt that Juan Barbaro could have his pick of wealthy women and gorgeous girls in Wellington. Why pick me?
The lights were out in Sean’s house. I was glad. As much as I loved Sean, I didn’t want to interact with one more person.
I walked into the cottage and didn’t even bother to turn on a light. The moon was waxing toward fullness, giving off enough illumination for me to walk down the hall to my bedroom. I went into the bathroom, turned on the light, and started the shower running. The acrid smell of tension and stale cigarettes clung to me like a film.
I bent over the sink to brush my teeth. When I finished and looked up, I wasn’t alone.
A man stood in the doorway behind me. For a stunned second, I just stared at him in the mirror, then I spun around to face him. He was disheveled but wearing a suit, and the whites of his eyes were red.
“You are Elena Estes.” His voice was accented. Russian.
“Who the fuck are you?” I demanded.
“My name is Kulak. Alexi Kulak.”
chapter 15
MAGDA’S WAS a shitty bar in a shitty industrial part of West Palm, a dingy clapboard building that looked as if it should have been condemned ten years before. Parking was in the back, a cracked concrete lot studded with weeds. A chain-link fence crowned with razor wire locked Magda’s patrons out of an auto salvage yard.
This would probably be an exercise in futility, Landry thought as he got out of the car. The old priest had named this bar as a possible spot to find Kulak. But the odds of anyone here talking to him were long. The Russian community was close-knit and tight-lipped. But he had to start somewhere.
He and Weiss had agreed to call it a day and start fresh in the morning. Landry glanced at his watch: 12:14 A.M. Morning. It would be hard enough to get these people to talk to one cop, let alone two. Particularly if one of the two was Weiss. Alexi Kulak was potentially too important a lead to screw up.
Kulak had a record of arrests but no convictions. He had been brought up on charges of assault and attempted murder, but nothing ever stuck. Witnesses developed faulty memories. Victims chose to let bygones be bygones. This was a man no one wanted to mess with.
Landry knew a guy who worked the organized-crime task force, but he hadn’t called him. He might have gleaned a scrap or two of information on Kulak, but the OC detectives were notoriously paranoid and selfish. They sat on bad guys for months, for years, trying to piece together a case that could stand up. The
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