“You never used to be this big an asshole,” Weiss said. “You been taking lessons from Estes?”

“Don’t try to be clever, Weiss,” Landry said. “It just magnifies your inadequacies.”

Weiss leaned out the window and jabbed the button on the intercom for the gate. The person who answered had to go see if Mr. Brody was available to receive them.

Weiss huffed, “Fat bastard’s probably watching us over closed-circuit television. This guy’s so fucking rich, he shits money. He reps Milton Marbray, NBA rookie of the year. He reps half the all-stars in baseball. Money for nothing.”

The ornate iron gates opened, inviting them in. A guy in black slacks and a white jacket greeted them as they pulled up in front of what looked like a Caribbean plantation house. The cars parked on the curved drive in front of the house looked like they had just come out of the exotic-car-dealership showroom-a Jaguar, a Ferrari, a Mercedes, a Porsche.

Landry got out of the car and introduced himself to the servant, showing his badge.

“Mr. Brody is on the rear terrace entertaining friends. Follow me, please.”

As they walked through the center of the mansion, Landry’s attention wasn’t on the dark teak floors or the white walls hung with art that was probably worth more than he made in ten years. His attention was already through the open doors to the terrace, where half a dozen men sat lounging around a table under the shade of an arbor covered in striped fabric.

He immediately recognized Paul Kenner, the ex-baseball player. Elena had told him Kenner was at the birthday party the night Irina went missing. Another guy sitting at the table did beer commercials-some Aussie tennis player from the last decade. The rest he didn’t know.

A big man with an aggressive smile and a loud shirt got up from the head of the table and came across the flagstone, sticking out his hand.

“Detective. Jim Brody,” he said. His grip was like a can crusher.

“Mr. Brody, I’m Detective Landry. This is Detective Weiss,” he said, nodding in Weiss’s general direction. “We’re looking into the death of Irina Markova, and we’re speaking with everyone who may have seen her the night she went missing.”

“Terrible tragedy,” Brody said in a booming voice. “Of course I saw it on the news yesterday. We were all just talking about it. Everyone here was at the party that night, at one point in time or another.”

“Really? Hey, one-stop shopping for us, Detective Weiss,” Landry said. “Great coincidence, huh?”

Weiss looked at Brody like he was a piece of dog crap. The tough guy. “And you were all just talking about it?” he said flatly. “Then it’s fresh in your heads.”

Landry looked around the table. A couple of them looked cool. A couple of them didn’t.

Kenner stood up with a stupid grin on his face. “Hey, I think I met you once.”

Landry gave him the cop eyes. “Yeah? Did I arrest you?”

“No.”

“My mistake.”

“Detective.” A distinguished-looking man, probably in his early fifties, grass-green Lacoste shirt, khakis with knife-sharp creases, rose from his chair and handed Weiss a business card. “I’m afraid I have to leave. I have a tee time with my father-in-law. But I’m happy to speak with you later, although I don’t have much to contribute. I didn’t see the girl. I was in and out of the party early in the evening. After that I was with my family.”

Another one pushed his chair back. Mid-forties. Dark hair, wet, slicked back. Black wraparounds. Ralph Lauren shirt: collar open, sleeves rolled up neatly to mid-muscular forearm. He slid out of his chair and stepped to the side, like he thought he might be able to slip away unnoticed.

“And you are…?” Landry said.

He was hungover, that was what he was, Landry thought. He had that look. Landry recognized it because he’d seen it staring back at him out of the bathroom mirror that morning.

Even slouching, the guy was tall. Good-looking, like a Kennedy. He turned his head to the side, as if he didn’t realize he was being spoken to.

“Having a memory problem?” Landry prodded.

“Bennett Walker,” he said, and wiped a hand down the lower part of his face. “I’m afraid I’m not feeling well, Detective. One too many last night.”

Landry shrugged. Be a buddy. “Hey, me too. I’ve got a head like a medicine ball. If I can just ask you a couple of questions on your way out…”

Walker gave the smallest of nods and started toward the house. Landry walked beside him.

“Russian vodka,” Landry said. “From real Russians. I think they made the shit in a bathtub. Nasty.”

Walker was breathing very carefully through his mouth. “Me too,” he said. “Vodka. But I don’t know any Russians.”

“Sure you do,” Landry said as they went into the house. “You knew Irina Markova.”

Walker’s step faltered. “Not really.”

“I looked at some photographs from the party that night,” he bluffed. “You looked pretty friendly to me.”

“It was a party. I had a lot to drink.”

“Is that a habit of yours, Mr. Walker? Drinking too much?”

“No more than anyone else.”

“The party was Saturday night. Last night was Monday. I don’t know too many people who tie one on every other night of the week,” Landry said. “Do you?”

Walker stopped and held his head in his hands for a moment, a man in pain.

“It was a party,” he said again.

“And last night?”

“Drinks with a friend after a long day. Look, Detective,” he said, his patience fraying around the edges. “I appreciate your concern, but my drinking habits are none of your business.”

Landry spread his hands. “Hey, you’re right. I don’t know anything about you. Maybe you’re under a lot of stress. Maybe you’ve got problems with your finances or your wife or your girlfriend, boyfriend, whatever. What do I know? I only know what you tell me… and what other people tell me-friends, enemies, observers. Wouldn’t you rather tell me yourself?”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Walker said. “I left the party… I don’t know… maybe two-thirty. Went home. Passed out.”

“Can someone vouch for that?”

“Yes. Juan Barbaro.”

“And where can I find Mr. Barbaro?”

Walker motioned back from where they’d come. “He’s at the table. If you’d excuse me now, Detective. I would really rather go home and be sick in private. If you have other questions, I can try to answer them later.”

Landry ignored him. “Did you see Irina Markova leave the party?”

“No.”

“Did you see her with anyone in particular during the evening?”

“No. It was a party. Everyone was with everyone.”

“One big happy family.”

“There had to be a hundred people there,” Walker said, frustrated, “probably more. I didn’t have any reason to keep tabs on anyone. I can’t help you.”

“Excuse me, Detective, but I have a quick question for my friend.”

Walker looked relieved. “Detective, this is Juan Barbaro. My alibi, not that I need one.”

Barbaro held a hand out. Landry shook it. Strong, but not out to prove anything. The man looked him in the eye when he spoke, something Bennett Walker hadn’t yet managed to do. Still, he seemed too slick to trust, too good-looking, too sure of his own charm. In breeches and brown riding boots, he looked like a male model in an ad for some cologne with a sporty name-Rider, Player, Jock.

“Too much partying that night,” Barbaro said, smiling, at ease. He sat down on the arm of a fat upholstered chair. “It’s a wonder we managed to find his house.”

“You both went there and crashed,” Landry said.

“Yes.”

“Just the two of you.”

“Yes,” Barbaro said. “I am afraid we were both beyond entertaining.”

“You live together?” Landry asked.

“No, no,” Barbaro said. “Ben’s home was closer. I knew I could not drive.”

“Wise choice, then.” And convenient, Landry thought. He watched Walker, who was a very unhealthy shade of ash. Sweat began to bead across his forehead.