Tami Hoag - The Alibi Man

CONTENTS

For my parents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Everyone is familiar with the saying It takes a village to raise a child. Producing and publishing a book is not so different. My jobwhich is conception, gestation, and birthis only the beginning. There is a large extended family that sees me through my process, then takes over from there, and turns the daydreams and nightmares of my imagination into the book you now hold in your hands. I want to take this opportunity to acknowledge and thank all of those people who make publishing a book and making it a bestseller a reality.

To the art department, where book covers are brought from concept to dust jacket; to production, where miracles are worked ASAP every day on behalf of overdue authors (mea culpa), my thanks. To publicity and marketing, where campaigns are launched to generate excitement and to position books for maximum exposure; to the awesome Random House sales force who man (and woman) the front lines to get books into the hands of the reading public, my thanks.

To my agent and self-proclaimed monkey in the middle, Andrea Cirillo; my editor, the unflappable Danielle Perez; and my publishers, Irwyn Applebaum and Nita Taublib (my long-suffering champion lo these many years since my days writing for Loveswept), my most sincere and heartfelt thanks.

chapter

SHE FLOATED on the face of the pool like an exotic water lily. Her hair fanned out around her head, undulating, a silken lily pad to drift on. The sheer layers of fabric that made up her dress skimmed the surface, backlit by the pool lights, purple and fuchsia, the shimmering skin of a rare sea creature that came out only at night in the depths along a coral reef.

She was a vision, a mythical goddess dancing on the water, her slender arms stretched wide to beckon him.

She was a siren, tempting him closer and closer to the water. Her blue eyes stared at him, her full, sensuous lips parted slightly, inviting his kiss.

He had tasted her kiss. He had held her close, felt the heat of her skin against his.

She was a dream.

She was a nightmare.

She was dead.

He opened his cell phone and punched in a number. The phone on the other end rangand rangand rang. Then a gruff and groggy voice answered.

What the hell?

I need an alibi.

chapter

I AM NOT a cop. I am not a private investigator, despite all rumors to the contrary. I ride horses for a living but dont make a nickel doing it. I am an outcast from my chosen profession and I dont want another.

Unfortunately, our fates have little to do with what we want or dont want. I know that all too well.

That February morning I walked out of the guest cottage I had called home for the past year, just as the sun was beginning to break. The eastern horizon was color-saturated in stripes of hot orange, hot pink, and bright yellow. I like that hour before most of the world wakes. The world seems still and silent, and I feel like Im the only person in it.

The broad-leaved St. Augustine grass was heavy with dew, and thin layers of fog hovered over the fields, waiting for the Florida sun to vaporize them. The smell of green plants, dirty canal water, and horses hung in the air, a pungent organic perfume.

It was Monday, which meant I had the peace and quiet of absolute privacy. My old friend and savior Sean Avadon, who owned the small horse farm on the outskirts of Wellington, had taken his latest amour to South Beach, where they would oil themselves and roast in the sun with a few thousand other beautiful people. Irina, our groom, had the day off.

All my life I have preferred the company of horses to people. Horses are honest, straightforward creatures without guile or ulterior motive. You always know where you stand with a horse. In my experience, I cant say the same for human beings.

I went about the morning routine of feeding the eight beautiful creatures that lived in Seans barn. All of them had been imported from Europe, each costing more than the average middle-class American family home. The stable had been designed by a renowned Palm Beach architect in the Caribbean plantation style. The high ceiling was lined with teak, and huge art deco chandeliers salvaged from a Miami hotel hung above the center aisle.

That morning I didnt settle in with my usual first cup of coffee to listen to the soft sounds of the horses eating. I hadnt slept wellnot that I ever did. Worse than usual, I should say. Twenty minutes here, ten minutes there. The argument had played over and over in my mind, banging off the walls of my skull and leaving me with a dull, throbbing headache.

I was selfish. I was a coward. I was a bitch.

Some of it was true. Maybe all of it. I didnt care. I had never pretended to be anything other than what I was. I had never pretended I wanted to change.

More upsetting to me than the argument itself was the fact that it was haunting me. I didnt want that. All I wanted to do was get away from it.

I had lost time thinking about it. The horses had finished their breakfast and were on to other thingshanging their heads out their windows or over their stall doors. One had grabbed a thick cotton lead rope left hanging beside his door and was swinging it by his teeth around and around his head like a trick roper, amusing himself.

All right, Arli, I muttered. Youre it.

I pulled the big gray gelding out of his stall, saddled him, and rode off the property.

The development where Seans farm was located was called Palm Beach Pointwhich was neither a point nor anywhere near Palm Beach. All horse properties, it was common to see riders on or along the road or on the sandy trails that ran along the canals. Polo ponies were often jogged along the road three and four abreast on either side of an exercise rider. But it was Monday, the one day in seven most horse people take off.

I was alone, and the horse beneath me didnt like it. Clearly I was up to no goodor so he thought. He was a nervous sort, high-strung, and spooky on the trail. I had chosen him specifically for that reason. My attention couldnt wander on this one or I would find myself in the air, then on the ground, then walking home. Nothing could be in my head except his every step, every twitch of an ear, every tensing of a muscle.

The trail ran straight with the road on my right and a dark, dirty, narrow canal on my left. I sat, bumped the gelding with a leg, and he jumped into a canter, pulling against the reins, wanting to run. A small group of white ibis browsing along the bank startled and took wing. Arli bolted at the explosion of bright white feathers, leaped in the air, squealed, bucked, and took off, his long legs reaching for as much ground as he could cover.

A saner person would have been choking on terror, hauling back on the reins, praying to survive. I let the horse run out of control. Adrenaline rushed through my veins like a narcotic.

He ran as if hell was closing in behind us. I stuck to him like a tick, sitting low over my center of gravity. Ahead, the road made a hard turn right.

I didnt touch the reins. Arli ran straight, leaving the road, staying with the canal. Without hesitation, he bounded across a small ditch and kept running, past the dead end of another dirt road.