Free The Alibi Man by Tami Hoag Page B

there won’t be witnesses.”
    He led me out into the hall and down the stairs to the restaurant, where at ten-thirty there were still several tables of diners. Everyone recognized Barbaro. I had no doubt that one of the many framed caricatures of famed polo stars on the walls was of him.
    We went out onto the terrace. He whispered something to a waiter, and the waiter scurried away.
    “This is better, yes?” he said, holding a chair for me. “All that noise seems suddenly very inappropriate.”
    “Yes. It’s surreal: watching other people having a good time. My tragedy hasn’t touched their lives.”
    “No,” he said. “They cannot help their ignorance. A happy place isn’t meant for mourners.”
    The waiter returned with a bottle of Spanish red and two glasses.
    “Not Argentine?” I asked.
    “No. And neither am I. I am a Spaniard through and through.”
    “That’s interesting in a sport dominated by South Americans.”
    He smiled. “The Argentines do not find it so interesting. Pompous bastards.”
    “As I’m sure they would say of all Spaniards.”
    He grinned. “I have no doubt.”
    I sipped the wine. Very good. Warm, smoky, smooth, with a long, soft finish. “Where in Spain? The south? Andalusia?”
    “The north. Pedraza. Castilla.”
    “Beautiful country. Not exactly a hotbed of polo.”
    “You know España?”
    “I was sent there for a semester when I was sixteen and had scandalized my family in some way or another. Somehow it never occurred to my parents I could be just as scandalous abroad.”
    “And were you?”
    I shrugged. “If you count dancing naked with a diplomat’s son in the fountain on the Plaza de Cánovas del Castillo.”
    Barbaro laughed. “I’m sure you were the toast of Madrid!”
    “My misspent youth.”
    “You are so different now?”
    I looked out across a moonlit polo field, thinking that all that seemed more than two lifetimes ago, and I could barely remember even a ghost of how it felt to be that devotedly, joyfully rebellious.
    “Forgive me,” he said quietly, reaching across the table to rest his hand on mine. “This is not the night….”
    “I was just thinking Irina was not so different from me when I was her age. Headstrong, opinionated—”
    “Passionate, determined,” he said. He raised a brow. “I suspect she was not so different from how you are now.”
    “That’s true.”
    “This is why you came here tonight. No matter you had the shock of finding her, no matter the weight of grief. You are here to find answers, to fight for her somehow. Yes?”
    “Yes.” I took another sip of the wine. “Saturday night—did you happen to notice a tall man, mid-fifties, dark hair, silver temples? Belgian.”
    Barbaro shook his head. “No. Does this man have a name?”
    “I’m sure he has several. I doubt he would be so stupid as to use the one people would recognize: Tomas Van Zandt.”
    “I’ve never heard of him. Should I?”
    “No. He’s someone Irina had a grudge against.”
    The horse dealer she had tried to bludgeon with a horseshoe in Sean’s barn a year past. Van Zandt, who had been a suspect in the murder of the girl at the show grounds, had simply vanished two days after the killing. Neither Van Zandt nor the rental car he had been driving was ever seen again. I had always suspected he’d ditched the car and gotten himself out of the country on a cargo plane with a load of horses—a shockingly easy thing to do, despite the media hype on Homeland Security.
    What if he had come back? Irina knew too much about him. She had accused him of keeping a girl she knew as his sex slave in a camper trailer in Belgium. To Van Zandt’s twisted way of thinking, the worst part of her charges had been the potential damage to his reputation.
    Maybe he had decided to reinvent himself. He would never be able to show his face in Wellington without getting arrested, but if he was clever and very careful, and arrogant enough to believe he could pull it off,