I watched Randy’s face for some sign of surprise, or relief, but his expression remained even.
“How did they get in his locker?” he asked.
“I thought you might be able to help me with that,” I said, hoping to rattle him or elicit some emotion. “Mind trying them on?”
“I’m not a golfer,” he told me, without even shaking his head or opening his mouth.
“The killer didn’t have to be one either.” I raised an eyebrow.
“I’m also not a killer.” His eyes narrowed and he adjusted his necktie, which didn’t need it. Was I finally getting to him?
“Mind trying them on?” I repeated.
“They could have fungus.” He winced and shifted uneasily, as if mold spores were worse than murder.
“Believe me,” I assured him, “after the way forensics goes through them, they’re sterile.”
“I don’t like trying on someone else’s shoes,” he said.
“Try ’em on now,” I told him, “or try ’em on in court.” Holding one of the shoes at arm’s length, like a piece of litter he’d found, Randall slid it onto his foot gingerly. “See?” he said triumphantly. “I’m swimming in it.”
“So you are.” I took back the shoe and slipped it into its evidence bag with the other.
“Am I absolved, Detective?”
“What about your cousin Gregory?” I wondered if the big lout was still lying on his cot.
“He’s at least a 14, quadruple-E, depending on his diet and water retention.”
“You understand that I need to confirm that?”
“As you understand that I always cooperate with the law.”
Sure. We’re both lying through our teeth. I know that cousin Gregory’s feet are too big. I only want to show him the shoes to see if there’s some spark of recognition. Randall’s blowing smoke up my butt.
On our way to Gregory’s room, I showed Randall the group photo I had found in Al Jones’s condo.
“I remember that tournament,” Randall said. “It was last September; we drew crowds of thousands and we were cleaning up for weeks. The course was trampled beyond belief. My greenskeeper nearly quit.”
“Don’t blame me. I wasn’t here.” I had wanted to come and watch, but I was working around the clock then and Carol was dying.
“Why is Dr. Fitch in this photo?”
“He was tournament chairman, even though he’s not exactly a fan.”
“He plays enough.”
“Enough golf, but he was no fan of our former pro. He tried more than once to get Jones fired.”
“Jones make a play for Fitch’s wife?” I was scrambling for answers.
“I don’t believe so. It must have been some slight, real or imagined, to himself or a friend.” Randall adjusted his necktie again, which still didn’t need it. “But Al Jones was a good pro. Despite what you may think, Detective, I am willing to defend some of my help. Even against certain vociferous members.”
“Calling Fitch vociferous is putting it mildly,” I said.
“He does have a temper. I also defend our members.” Randy puffed up like a balloon.
“We also found a pair of panties in a sand trap, not far from O’Reilly’s body, that could have belonged to Mrs. Fitch, plus a condom that could have belonged to Jones.” Could I burst Randy’s balloon?
“You should see what we found after the tournament,” he said, merely deflating. I pictured bushel baskets of condoms and panties. “The local youths,” he added, “are always sneaking out onto the course late at night, doing the wild thing.”
“Was Jones playing more than golf with some other member’s wife?” I asked. Let’s see what he knows about Mrs. O.
“I’m always the last to know.” He went to his necktie again, misaligning it this time.
“Would you have fired him?”
“Of course.” Randy reassumed his pompous balloon stance.
“Of course, you’d have a hell of a time finding another pro in the middle of the summer.”
“Another good reason, Detective, for me not to murder him.”
“Touché,” I said, “as your aunt’s tec might say.”
Randall smiled, slyly.
“I thought you kept this door locked,” I said, as we reached Gregory’s room.
“Only when the club’s open,” Randy said. “It’s unnecessary for my cousin to meet the members.”
“Or to murder them?”
“I’ve already told you he’s harmless.”
The obese cousin had been checked out already. Except for molesting a little boy ten years earlier when he attended a school for the handicapped, as Randall earlier admitted, Gregory had no priors.
We entered the room. Gregory was snoring.
“That’s loud,” I said.
Randall said, “It’s normal for someone his size.”
“Let’s wake him up.” I readied the golf shoes.
The cot looked ready to collapse under the excess weight and snores that cannonaded off the rafters.
“Wake up!” I shouted at the supine colossus.
The snoring continued, and I poked Gregory viciously with my fist. It was like kneading a ball of dough. After several tries, I finally gave up and pulled up the sheet to expose his bare feet.
“They’re huge,” I admitted.
“You couldn’t get those shoes on his big toe,” Randall said. Did I hear a small sigh of relief?
“Who else can I try?” I asked, rhetorically.
“Our men’s locker room attendant,” Randall shrugged.
“Where’s he been?”
“Out sick.”
Just what I need. Another suspect.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I went alone to the men’s locker room to find the attendant. He found me.
“You a member?” he asked, knowing better.
“You take care of the golf shoes?” I flashed my ID.
“And anything else the members need,” the attendant said, wearily.
“You been out sick?” I asked.
“Nothin’ too serious, but I missed all the action.”
“You’re lucky.”
“How’s that?”
“You’d be a suspect.” You still are, but I’m trying to get you to let down your guard. A tactic Peter H. Couloir would term très habilé.
“You look like you should still be home in bed,” I added. He looked like death warmed over, with a pallid complexion and bags under his eyes.
“We can’t all be cops,” he said, “with great medical benefits.”
“Recognize these?” I showed him the golf shoes with the missing spike.
“Polish ’em for you,” he said. “No charge.”
“They’re not mine, and I don’t need them polished. The question is, Do you recognize them?”
He examined the shoes and said, “I’ll also replace the missing heel spike.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I only need to know if you recognize them. I got them from Al Jones’s locker.”
“They can’t be his. His feet were too big,” pronounced the attendant smartly.
“Ever work in forensics?” He had a good eye.
“They do look a little familiar.” The attendant turned the brown-and-white saddle shoe over and over, trying to remember. “But there’s so many shoes just like these.”
“I know. It’s a good brand, but they’re sold everywhere.”
“I know all the members,” the attendant continued. “After twenty years of handing out soap and towels in the men’s shower room. Get it? The male members? I’ve seen ’em all.”
“Could we stick to their shoes?”
“Well, I polish their street shoes when they go out for a round. When they come back, I polish their golf shoes and clean the spikes. I couldn’t have got these.”
“Why not?”
“I replace any spikes that are missing.”
“Was Mr. O’Reilly a good tipper?”
“That cheapska
te? I don’t mean any disrespect for the dead,” the attendant crossed himself and said, “but Mr. O’Reilly always said he was short when he picked up his shoes. He would promise to take care of me later, but he never did.”
“These aren’t his shoes?”
“No way. I remember his very well.”
“How about Dr. Fitch?”
“Average tipper, always in a hurry. God help me if I didn’t have his shoes ready.” He crossed himself again.
“What about his temper?” I asked.
“He has more fits than a tailor at Sy Syms,” the attendant said. “Get it? Fits, tailor?”
“I’d love to hear more,” I said, “but tell me about the hand towels.”
“Right over here,” the attendant said, leading me to a box of paper towels in a supply closet.
“Can I have some of these?” Forensics had found paper fibers on the golf shoes. Maybe these would match. Georgia-Pacific.
“Take as many as you want,” the attendant shrugged.
“Thanks.” I handed him a double sawbuck. Brightening, as if O’Reilly had finally tipped him, the attendant said, “Wait a minute.”
“Not another joke?”
“Those golf shoes. I know who owns them. It just hit me.”
Along with the double sawbuck? Cynicism is also one of my strong points.
“Who?”
“They belong to Dr. Fitch.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Slim was slouched in his dilapidated armchair outside the caddy shack, alone. King of the caddies on his throne, holding court over nothing. A smoldering cigarette for a scepter. A bottle of guinea red in a brown paper bag for breakfast.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” he said as I approached.
“You told me you weren’t living here,” I said.
“Just an expression I use on my yacht.” At my sour expression, he inquired,
“Where’s your sense of humor, Detective?”
“Where are the other caddies?”
“Gone to other clubs. Can’t make a livin’ when the course is closed.”
“Why don’t you go to another club?”
“I like it right here.”
Slim grinned, displaying his rotten teeth. That bottle in the brown paper bag must anesthetize them, as well as justify God’s ways to man.
“You’re living in this shack, aren’t you?” I said, wondering how much cheap wine he had imbibed.
“I ain’t breakin’ no laws,” said Slim, waving the bottle. Nothing spilled out. There wasn’t much left.
“And our beds are too soft and the food’s too good?” I added, letting him know I could lock him up.
“That ain’t funny.”
“Where’s your sense of humor?”
“It disappeared when you closed the course, along with my income.”
“Your unreported income?” Accusing a suspect of tax evasion often clears the head even quicker than the good old wham-bam.
“So lock me up.” Slim shrugged, well aware that the IRS has much bigger fish to fry.
“You’re used to it, aren’t you?” I said, hoping to hit where it hurt.
“I done some time,” he admitted, “but it was only petty theft. I needed to eat.”
“Smoke and drink?”
“We all got vices,” Slim said, stubbing his cigarette butt on the exposed chair frame, then tossing it into the traces of a small campfire at his feet.
“What have you been cooking?” I asked.
“Squirrel.” Slim grinned and picked at something between his teeth.
“That’s disgusting,” I said.
“So lock me up.”
“They don’t serve squirrel in the slam.” Thankfully. I know they’re rodents and often a nuisance, but they’re cute and Carol liked them.
“I’ll suffer.”
“Who suffered the loss of those sneakers?” I asked, looking at his feet.
“Like ’em?” Slim stretched his long legs.
“Where’d you get them?” I affected my Sam’s Club security guard expression. “They look expensive.”
“You think I took a five-finger discount?” Slim squirmed slightly.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” I said, “but caddies don’t make all that much.”
“We walk all day,” said Slim. “They’re an investment.”
“Why don’t you wear spikes?”
“We’re not allowed. The members’ spikes tear up the turf more than enough. Shows you what they know. I can still tear it up, with great golf scores.”
Sure. And I’m Tiger Woods. “Recognize these?” I showed him the shoes with the missing spike.
Slim shook his head, took a swig from the brown paper bag, and offered it to me.
“Own any golf shoes?” I asked, declining his offer.
“I’ve played a time or two,” he said. “I got a sweet swing.”
“So you’ve told me.” Was he really a good golfer or was the wine talking? “When do you play?”
“Used to play here on Mondays, when the club’s closed. Can’t no more. They claim the course needs a day of rest, like God created it.”
“Who decided?”
“The gods of the greens committee, but I can beat every one of ’em.”
“They know you’re lighting fires out here?” I did not want to sound like Smokey the Bear, but I needed to keep Slim’s feet to the fire.
“I could freeze my friggin’ nuts off at night.”
“You’re not supposed to be here at night.”
“Sometimes I hang around a little too late and fall asleep. I got permission.” Slim was looking belligerent.
“You got a problem.”
“I need a kerosene heater?” he asked. I could smell that dago red on his breath.
“You were here when O’Reilly was murdered. I also know you were here when Al Jones was murdered.” I didn’t know, but even Peter H. Couloir would have admired my effrontery.
“So what?” Slim sat up straight.
“You’d better tell me all you know.” I stepped closer.
“Well . . .”
“Lay it on me.” I stepped even closer.
“Okay.” He shifted uneasily. “I seen someone out here, real late, night before last.”
“The night Al Jones was murdered.”
“Can’t I get somethin’ for telling you this?”
I ignored his shifty plea for coop money. “Who was it?” “The greenskeeper, Vince Henry.”
“What’s unusual about that?”
“He’s never here at night,” Slim explained, suddenly as expansive as the locker room attendant after I tipped him. “He was also in a big friggin’ hurry.”
“You sure it was him?”
“He ain’t that black and it wasn’t that dark. He passed right by me in this chair. Thought I was, you know.”
“Asleep?”
“Takin’ a nap,” Slim said indignantly. “I don’t live here, don’t forget.”
Of course you don’t. “Was your campfire going?”
“I was freezin’ my friggin’ nuts.”
I can believe that. A golf course can get chilly at night.
“Tell me about Vince Henry,” I told him. “Where was he coming from, where was he going?”
“From the parking lot.”
“How did you know?”
“I could see his headlights from here.”
“You sure they were his?” What were you drinking? How many fingers am I holding up?
“There were no other cars,” Slim insisted. “I was in the parking lot a few minutes earlier.”
“Stealing hubcaps? You don’t have a car.”
“Walkin’ around, tryin’ to keep warm.”
“The greenskeeper was running?”
“Toward his shed. In the middle of the night. But don’t ask me what time. I ain’t got no watch. It’s broke. So am I. Can’t I get nothin’?”
“How long was Vince in the shed before he went ba
ck to the parking lot?”
“He didn’t go back. He always parks his car down by the shed.”
So the car with the headlights on in the parking lot belonged to somebody else.
“After Vince passed me on his way to the shed,” Slim continued, “I seen him leaving in his own car, a black Maxima. There’s a friggin’ work road just beyond those trees.”
Hmm. The greenskeeper could have been driving Al Jones’s car, with his body in the trunk, parked it in the parking lot, then run to his own car, parked behind the shed.
“They were friends, weren’t they—Vince Henry and Al Jones?”
“You kiddin’?” Slim scowled and lit another cigarette. “Al was always complainin’ about the condition of the course.”
“What about Vince?”
“Called Al a racist,” Slim exhaled. “More than once.”
“Did you hear any loud or bitter arguments between them?”
“You play golf, Detective? Then you know you’re not allowed to yell. No one yells at this club. It’s one of the biggest friggin’ rules.”
“You caddied for Al Jones?” I showed him the tournament photo from Jones’s condo.
“I also clubbed him,” Slim said, then grinned at his mis-speak. “I don’t mean upside his head. He wouldn’ta won without me. He was tied for the lead on the last hole. Gonna use a seven iron to bring it home, but I told him he needed every bit of a friggin’ five. I coulda made it with a pitchin’ wedge. I can hit the ball a country mile.”
My five iron takes me about 175 yards. My seven’s sharper blade angle and higher loft takes me 150. I only use my pitching wedge, with the sharpest angle and highest loft, when I’m much closer to the pin. I don’t know about Al Jones, but Slim’s dreaming if he thinks he can hit a pitching wedge a country mile.
“How did you know Jones needed a longer club?”
“He was gettin’ tired from stayin’ up too late the night before.”
“Nerves?”
“A lady.”
“How do you know?”
“Everyone knows. He coulda made the tour, but he always had one eye on the ball and the other on the gals in the gallery.”
“This one maybe?” I indicated Mrs. O’Reilly in the photo.
“She took enough lessons—” Slim didn’t just play good golf and caddy; he kept his eyes open.
A backdoor to the mansion behind us suddenly opened. The locker room attendant emerged with an armload of trash and tossed it into the garbage compactor. Slim and I turned to watch. If I had another question, I forgot it.
Deadly Divots Page 13