Read The Alibi Man for Free Online

people of all disciplines went to shop for essentials and catch up on the latest gossip. The specialty of the store was polo, with several aisles dedicated to polo equipment and clothing.
    I was known there, stopping in from time to time to pick up the odd thing for Sean or to buy myself a pair of breeches. One of the clerks at the counter looked up and said hello as I approached.
    “What can we help you with today, Elena?”
    So much for my disguise.
    “Just a question. I need to go out to Star Polo, but I’m not exactly sure where it is.”
    “In the back,” the clerk said. “Jim Brody. He’s the owner. Your lucky day.”
    “Yeah,” I said. “Thanks.”
    I went toward the back of the store but turned down one of the aisles of polo gear. Too many years as a narc. I always want to know what I’m walking into. Conversations were going on around me. Somebody was complaining about the price of gas. A woman wanted to know if the store carried a particular brand of gloves. Three people were in a discussion about the prognosis of an injured polo pony.
    “…tore up the deep flexor tendon, right hind.” Voice number one. Strong, with the potential for bluster.
    “How long will that take?” Voice number two. Quieter. Even.
    “Too long. The season is over for her.” Voice number one again. “She may not come back at all.”
    “What a shame.” Voice number two.
    “The team is so deep, you’ll never miss her.” Voice number three. A smooth Spanish accent.
    “Barbaro scored a lot of goals off her.” Voice number two.
    “Barbaro could score off a donkey.” Voice number one.
    I moved to the end of the aisle and checked them out while I pretended to look at horse halters. A big guy with a red face and a Tommy Bahama shirt. Fifty-something, gray hair, good-looking forty pounds ago. A tall, lean man in denim with a narrow face that looked to be carved from old leather. And a neat, tanned man in pressed khakis and a pink polo shirt with the collar turned up, his black hair slicked straight back. Handsome. In his fifties. Probably Argentinian. White-white teeth.
    The tall man worked in the back, repaired equipment, fitted saddles. I had seen him back there different times when I was in the store, but I didn’t know his name. That made Tommy Bahama the owner of Star Polo: Jim Brody. I didn’t recognize him from any of the tailgating photos. The third man had been in the background of one of the shots, laughing, raising a glass of champagne, a cute twenty-something blonde at his side.
    Brody slapped the denim-shirt man on the shoulder and said he’d see him soon.
    I turned and made my way to the front of the store, careful not to be seen by the clerk I had spoken to. She was occupied with a customer. I slipped out the door and went back to my car. Brody and the other man came out. Brody got into a pearl-white Cadillac Escalade: STRAR POLO 1 . The Argentinian slid behind the wheel of a silver Mercedes convertible and followed the Cadillac out of the parking lot. I drove out behind them.

chapter 7
              THE MAIN entrance to Star Polo on South Shore Drive (which is, of course, nowhere near the shore of anything but a drainage canal) looked like the entrance to a five-star resort. Stone pillars, huge trees, banks of red geraniums, clipped grass. The Cadillac and the Mercedes turned in. I drove past and went to the stable gate farther down the road.
    A rider went past with three ponies tethered on either side, going for a jog. The farrier was banging on a hot shoe, shaping it to fit the foot of a horse being held by a barn hand. A groom was hosing the legs of a chestnut in the wash racks across the drive from the barn. Apparently there was no day of rest at Star Polo.
    I parked my car in the shade and went to the girl in the wash rack.
    Her focus was on the horse’s forelegs and the cold water that ran down and puddled on the concrete. Lost in thought, she held the hose in one hand, and with the other toyed