“Elena, you’re not saying Bennett killed her?”

“He has to be considered a suspect.”

“Why would he kill Irina?”

“Why did he rape and beat Maria Nevin?” I asked.

“That was twenty years ago.”

“What’s your point?” I said, annoyed. “He beat and raped a woman then, why not now? The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior.”

“He was what? Twenty-four? Twenty-five?” Sean asked. “He’s a grown man. He’s married. He has responsibilities.”

“Ted Bundy was a Young Republican. What’s that got to do with anything? He has a history of violent behavior toward women; he was seen with the victim the night she went missing.”

“Maybe he has an alibi.”

“Of course he has an alibi,” I snapped. “Bennett always has an alibi. He’s the Alibi Man. There’s always someone willing to lie for a rich man. Juan Barbaro claims they left the party drunk, went to Bennett’s house, and passed out. And I imagine the dog ate his homework too.”

“Did anyone see Irina leave the party with him?” Sean asked.

“Not that I’ve found. That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“And it doesn’t mean that it did.”

I got up from the bench and faced him. “Why are you being such an asshole?”

“I’m not! I just see you getting fixated-”

“Fixated? I was a cop for half my life. I know a viable suspect when I see one. He’s a known violent sexual predator-”

“He committed one crime twenty years ago-”

“I can’t believe you!” I shouted. “He nearly choked that woman to death. Violent sexual predators who commit a crime and get away with it don’t quit while they’re ahead. They get a power rush, and they do it again.”

“And in the last twenty years he’s been a serial killer and not gotten caught or even suspected of any crimes?” he said, also standing up from the bench, gaining the height advantage.

“I didn’t say he’s a serial killer,” I said. “But how difficult is it to imagine him getting away with anything? If Bennett Walker had been a poor minority kid, he would just now be getting out of prison for what he did to Maria Nevin.”

“I understand all of that, Elena. I’m only saying, just because he was at the party doesn’t mean he’s the one. I imagine there were a hundred people there.”

“You know, I don’t know why I’m having this conversation with you,” I said. “I guess I thought I might get a little support from the one person who should understand-”

“I do support you! For Christ’s sake, how can you say I don’t support you?” he demanded. “I’m supporting you now, you’re just too pigheaded to see it. I don’t want to see you get tangled up in something that’s going to upset you and hurt you and take you down a road-”

I held up a hand to stop him. “I think what happened to Irina is a little more important than me getting upset that I have to deal with an old boyfriend. But thanks for your input,” I said with a sharp edge in my voice.

Sean set his jaw and looked away from me, which was what he always did when he couldn’t reason with me. I didn’t want to be reasonable. I wanted to speculate that Bennett Walker had killed Irina, because that theory offered the possibility that he would finally have to pay for what he’d gotten away with all those years ago. And I wanted my best friend to support me in that, whether he thought it was reasonable or not.

One of us should have said something to break the tension, but neither of us did. My phone rang.

“Yes?”

I must have sounded impatient to be bothered. There was a beat of silence before the caller spoke. “Elena, it’s Juan Barbaro. Is this a bad time?”

It took me a second to register and to downshift the tension in my voice.

“Oh. Juan. No. I’m sorry if I snapped at you. I’m on edge with everything that’s happened,” I said, staring at Sean.

“Then you must take some time to escape it, yes?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Come, then, this afternoon. Watch a friendly polo match. We’ll have drinks after. Dinner if you like.”

“Ah… sure,” I said. “Who’s playing?”

“Myself, Mr. Brody, some other friends. Not Bennett Walker,” he assured me. “You have to promise not to accuse anyone of murder,” he added, but in a casual tone. Joking.

“I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Hmmmm… Now, what fun would that be?” he said, and chuckled deep in his throat. Like the purring of a panther, I thought.

We set a time to meet at the International Polo Club and ended the call.

I took a deep breath and let it go, trying to clear my head of the argument with Sean. I had been invited into a circle of suspects. I needed to be sharp.

“I have to go,” I said to Sean, and turned and walked away.

I should have apologized to him. He was the only person in my life I truly considered to be my friend, and I knew that he was. But I felt like being petty and childish, so I went with that instead.

Chapter 21

The old yellow-painted Palm Beach Polo Club stadium, located a stone’s throw from Players, had been the polo mecca of the world for many winter seasons. Everyone who was anyone had drunk champagne and stomped divots during halftime on that field, including Prince Charles and Princess Diana. But big-time high-goal polo had decamped from there several years before and moved farther out of town to the new International Polo Club Palm Beach, leaving the old stadium at the mercy of hurricanes and the zoning commission. Plans were in the works to knock down the venerable old facility and put up yet another strip mall. So much for landmarks.

The International Polo Club on 120th Avenue had become the place to see and be seen, a state-of-the-art facility with a stadium for thirteen hundred spectators and seven impeccably groomed polo fields, each spanning more ground than nine football fields.

I turned in at the main gate and went past the entrance to the stadium and club. The palm-lined drive led past tennis courts to the stadium, the pool-house pavilion, and the Grand Marquee ballroom, where brunch was served on Sundays. Beyond all that, horse trailers were parked on the shoulder of the road-big gooseneck aluminum stock trailers, with polo ponies tied along the sides. Grooms tacked horses up, cooled horses out. A farrier had his truck-mounted oven glowing red-hot as he prepared a new horseshoe to replace one lost in the heat of battle. Iron rang against iron. Conversations rose and fell, interspersed with laughter, with orders, with fits of temper in three different languages.

Several of the fields were in use, riders rushing up and down, mallets swinging, whistles blowing. Cars, trucks, and SUVs were parked down the sidelines with friends, family, and spectators tail-gating and enjoying the day. The atmosphere was casual. No high-goal tournament matches were being played. These were less important contests, practice games, amateurs having a good time.

A line of small ponies walking nose-to-tail came down the road from one of the far fields. The kids riding them were so small, their helmets seemed to swallow their heads whole. They all wore numbered polo shirts and carried mallets. Pee Wee Polo.

Despite the elitist air about the game at its highest level, polo at the grass-roots level is accessible to anyone who can afford a horse and is talented enough not to fall off at high speeds. Young, old, man, woman, everyone is welcome to play or to watch. Pack a picnic, bring the family. Drive through a Wellington neighborhood where a lot of professional players live during the season and you will see their kids on bikes, swinging mallets, playing in the cul-de-sacs and parking lots.

I found a place to park and looked for the Star Polo trailer. Lisbeth Perkins was walking out a sweating, puffing polo pony. She stared at the ground as she walked, looking lost in sad thoughts, and jumped at the sound of my voice when I said her name.