He'd had his fill of Florida. He was ready to go back to Belgium. He had a flight already lined up. A cargo plane traveling to Brussels with a load of horses. Going as a groom, he never had to pay. One more day he would do business here, showing everyone he had nothing to hide, no reason to worry about the police. Then he would return to Europe for a time, and come back when people had better things to gossip about than him.
He slowed the car as he looked for the sign. He had suggested meeting at the back of the show grounds, but the girl had refused, insisting on a public place. This was the place she had chosen: Magda's-a shitty bar in an industrial part of West Palm Beach. A clapboard building that even in the dark looked as if it needed paint and had termites.
Van Zandt pulled in the drive alongside the bar and drove around back to find a parking place.
He would find the girl in the bar, buy her a drink. When she wasn't looking, he would slip her the drug. It was a simple thing. They would talk, he would try to assure her there had been a misunderstanding about Sasha. The drug would start to take effect. When the moment was right and she was incapable of protest, he would assist her outside.
She would appear to be drunk. He would put her in the car and drive away to a place where he could kill her and dispose of her body.
He found a spot to park, backing in along a chain-link fence that separated the bar's property from an auto salvage yard. The perfect place. Out of sight. This problem would be dealt with quickly and neatly, and then he would go to The Players to have a drink with Elena Estes.
I went into The Players alone. If Van Zandt showed with Lorinda Carlton, I would make Sean's excuses, but I wouldn't drag Sean any further into the drama than I already had.
The club was busy. Celebrants from the showring and losers drowning their sorrows. Most stables are closed on Mondays so everyone can recuperate from the weekend's competition. No reason to go to bed early on Sunday.
The place was a stage with a hundred players. Women showing off the latest in Palm Beach fashions and the newest plastic surgery. Swarthy polo players from South America hitting on every rich thing in a skirt. Minor celebs in town for a long weekend. Saudi Arabian royalty. Every pair of eyes in the place sliding to the next most promising conversation partner in the room.
I found a small table in the corner of the bar and settled in with my back to the wall and a view of the room. I ordered tonic and lime and fended off an ex-baseball star who wanted to know if he knew me.
"No," I said, amused he had singled me out. "And you don't want to."
"Why is that?"
"Because I'm nothing but trouble."
He slid into the other chair and leaned across the table. His smile had lit up many an ad for cheap long distance service and colorful underwear. "Wrong thing to say. Now I'm intrigued."
"And I'm waiting for someone."
"Lucky guy. What's he got that I haven't?"
"I don't know," I said with a half smile. "I haven't seen him in his underwear yet."
He spread his hands and grinned. "I have no secrets."
"You have no shame."
"No. But I always get the girl."
I shook my head. "Not this time, Ace."
"Is this character giving you a hard time, Elle?"
I looked up to find Don Jade standing beside me with a martini in hand.
"No, I'm afraid I'm giving him a hard time," I said.
"Or something," Mr. Baseball said, bobbing his eyebrows. "You're not waiting for this guy, are you?"
"As a matter of fact, yes."
"Even after you've seen me in my underwear?"
"I like surprises. What can I say?"
"Say you'll ditch him later," he said, rising. "I'll be at the end of the bar."
I watched him walk away, surprised at myself for enjoying the flirtation.
"Don't look so impressed," Jade said, taking the empty seat. "He's all hat and no cattle, as they say in Texas."
"And how would you know that?"
He gave me a steady look that belied the drink in his hand. He was sober as a judge. "You'd be surprised at the things I know, Elle."
I sipped my tonic, wondering if he knew about me; wondering if Van Zandt had told him, or Trey, or if he had been left out of that loop on purpose.
"No, I don't think I would," I said. "I'm sure there isn't much that gets past you."
"Not much."
"Is that why you were with the detectives so long yesterday?" I asked. "Because you had so much to tell them?"
"No, I'm afraid Jill's murder is a subject I don't know anything about at all. Do you?"
"Me? Not a thing. Should we ask someone else? Van Zandt is coming later. Shall we ask him? I have a feeling he could tell us some stories to make our hair stand on end."
"It's not difficult to get someone to tell you a story, Elle," Jade said.
"No. The hard part is getting them to tell the truth."
"And that's what you're looking for? The truth?"
"You know what they say: the truth shall set you free."
He sipped his martini and looked away at nothing. "That all depends on who you are, doesn't it?"
T he girl was waiting under the back-door light. Her hair stood out around her head like a lion's mane. She wore black tights that clung to her long legs, and a denim jacket, and her mouth was painted dark. She was smoking a cigarette.
At least Van Zandt thought it was Avadon's girl. They never looked the same, these girls, away from the stables.
Van Zandt opened the car door and got out, wondering if he should simply lure her away from the building, shove her in the car, and go. But the threat of a possible witness coming out the back door of the bar was too big a risk. Even as he thought of it, the door opened and a large man stepped out under the light. He took a position there, feet apart, hands clasped in front of him. The girl glanced up at him, smiled bewitchingly, and said something in Russian.
Halfway between the car and the building, a sense of apprehension crawled over Van Zandt's skin. His step slowed. The big Russian had something in his hand. A gun perhaps.
Behind him, car doors opened and shoe soles scuffed the cracked concrete.
He'd made a terrible mistake, he thought. The girl was near enough that he could see she was looking at him and smiling wickedly. He turned to try to go back to the car. Three men stood in front of him, two built like plow horses standing on either side of a smaller man in a fine dark suit.
"Are you thinking you should not have come, Mr. Van Zandt?" the small man said.
Van Zandt looked down his nose. "Do I know you?"
"No," he said as his associates moved to take hold of Van Zandt, one on each arm. "But perhaps you know my name. Kulak. Alexi Kulak.
D o you believe in karma, Elle?" Jade asked.
"God, no."
Jade was still nursing his martini. I was on my second tonic and lime. A couple of cheap dates. We'd been sitting there fifteen minutes with no sign of Van Zandt.
"Why would I want to believe in that?" I asked.
"What goes around comes around."
"For everyone? For me? No, thank you."
"And what have you ever done that you'd have to pay for?"
"I killed a man once," I confessed calmly, just to see the look on his face. It was probably the first time in a decade he'd been surprised. "I'd rather not have that come back around on me."
"You killed a man?" he asked, trying not to look astonished. "Did he have it coming?"
"No. It was an accident-if you believe in accidents. How about you? Are you waiting for your past deeds to ambush you? Or are you hoping someone else will have their markers called in?"