The Alibi Man by Tami Hoag

he might be able to weasel his way into a smaller market. The Midwest, the Northwest. He could still cheat people and swindle himself a small fortune among those not quite wealthy enough or connected enough to winter in Florida. But he would always know Irina was out there, lying in wait to ruin him. Grooms change jobs, move around, network….
    “Did you notice when she left the party?” I asked. “Was she with anyone?”
    “I couldn’t say. I remember her dancing. I remember her dancing with Jim Brody. He danced with all the young girls.”
    “Party animal. Does Mr. Brody have a Mrs. Brody?”
    “Several. All in the past tense.”
    “He likes the young ladies?”
    Barbaro shrugged. Very European. “He is a man.”
    “How much did he like Irina?”
    He frowned at me. “You can’t possibly think he would do such a thing.”
    “Why can’t I?”
    “Señor Brody is a very powerful, wealthy man. He can have anything he wants.”
    “You think a wealthy man won’t commit a violent crime?”
    His dark brows knit together in what seemed more like confusion or frustration than irritation. “He doesn’t need to force himself on women, or kill women.”
    “What happened to Irina wasn’t about need, Mr. Barbaro,” I said. “What happened to Irina was about power and control. What animal knows more about power and control than a wealthy man?”
    Barbaro shook his head and held up his hands to ward off my theory. “No, no, no…Only a psycho does these kinds of things: kills a young woman, throws her body away like garbage.”
    I put an elbow on the table and propped up my chin in my hand. I watched his face, bemused by his discomfort at the idea that murderers might be hiding among the upper crust, even though I knew many people labored under the same misconception. I had never understood it, and I never would.
    “What do you think a killer looks like, Mr. Barbaro?” I asked. “Do you think a killer has matted hair and bloodshot eyes? Beard stubble? Scars? Tattoos? Do you think every killer, every rapist looks like a monster? I can assure you, that isn’t the case. Dangerous creatures can be very beautiful.”
    “Yes,” he said quietly. “This is true. They can be. Tell me, Elena, are you speaking from experience? I hate to think of that.”
    “That, my new friend, is a tale for another time. As fascinating as I’m sure you are, I’ve had a very long day.”
    “You have.” He rose with me. “Allow me to walk you out. As you said, there is a killer running loose in our town.”
    “How do I know you aren’t the one?”
    “I am guilty of many things, Elena,” he said. “But not that. I have an alibi.”
    “Do you?”
    “Yes,” he said as we walked back through the restaurant. He rested a hand against the small of my back in a gesture that was without thought or guile. “I admit to having had too much to drink that night. I went to the home of a friend here in the Polo Club to sleep my sins away.”
    “And she’ll vouch for you, I’m sure,” I said as we climbed the stairs.
    “
He
will vouch for me. Neither of us was sober enough to entertain ladies. I spent the night on his pool table, which I’m sure seemed like a good idea at the time. Not so much the following morning.”
    “And this friend has a name?”
    “Of course,” he said as we came up to the entry hall.
    A Hollywood director couldn’t have timed the moment better. The front door opened, and Barbaro laughed and said, “Speak of the devil!”
    The devil indeed.
    My body went cold and stiff as I stared at the face of Juan Barbaro’s alibi:
    Bennett Walker.

chapter 13
              THE AUTOPSY suite in the Palm Beach County Medical Examiner’s building was never a place Landry enjoyed visiting. It was a necessary part of his job. Mandatory, to his way of thinking, though he could have passed this part off on Weiss.
    Weiss was like the weird kid in science lab who wanted to dissect everybody’s frog—just because. But