Deadly Divots

by Gene Breaznell

  “But I’m not used to plastic cups for Chivas on the rocks,” she added, handing me one.

  “Good Scotch is good Scotch,” I said inanely, wondering if my little gray cells were also on the rocks.

  “Skoal,” she said, sounding like a native Swede, touching our cups.

  “Salut,” I said, reminding myself that I wasn’t French and was still on duty. Cops are always on duty and shouldn’t flirt with murder suspects.

  “I have a confession,” said Mrs. O.

  “After one sip of Scotch?” I said. This is a great interrogation method.

  “I stole my husband’s last bottle of Chivas from the house when I left. It’s the only thing I wanted, besides my clothes.”

  Now confess to killing him. I felt sick at the thought.

  “You going to arrest me?”

  “Too late. You’ve opened the bottle, tampered with the evidence.”

  She laughed, as if our little tête-à-tête had nothing to do with murder.

  “How did you meet your husband?” I said, changing the subject before my testosterone took over from the little gray cells.

  “I worked at an indoor tennis club near Roosevelt Field,” she said. “Receptionist and secretary.”

  “Your husband played there?”

  “He never played tennis.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m a pretty good player,” she said, putting down her cup, showing me the motion for her backhand. “But my husband didn’t know which end of the racquet to hold. Ugh! He built the facility. And you’ll love this. His court construction crew lined all the service boxes three feet short.”

  “Were they drunk?” I asked, wishing I could show her my golf swing.

  “I don’t know, but the players must have been. It was weeks before anyone noticed. Even the pros. My husband and his company were long gone by then, so the owners had to pay for the error.”

  “Developers can get away with murder,” I said, reminded of the problems Ricky Mendoza had with building his new house. But Ricky didn’t kill his developer, and O’Reilly didn’t kill himself.

  “It was typical of his projects,” Mrs. O added. “That building leaked like a sieve, the heating and plumbing never worked.”

  Picturing her husband’s diminutive plumbing on the autopsy table, I asked, “You knew all that before you married him?”

  “He seemed so in control,” Mrs. O told me, retrieving her cup, “despite any mistakes and shortcomings. He gambled and mostly he won. I guess he snowed me.”

  “He had the gift of gab?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

  “He could sell iceboxes to Eskimos,” she assured me. “He was also a drunk, and he chased anything in skirts.”

  “So you murdered him?” I said, cutting to the chase, and cutting my Chivas with a shot of tap water from a small sink beside the dresser.

  “You’re murdering great Scotch,” she said.

  “You put Al Jones up to it,” I said, “then murdered him to keep him quiet because you were having an affair.”

  “I’ve already told you,” said Mrs. O, “I only took golf lessons.”

  “Okay, were you having an affair with Randy Randall?”

  “Why not both of them? Surely you’ve heard of it. It’s called a club sandwich. And throw in three board members for good measure.”

  I tried not to smile as I finished my drink and tossed the remaining ice into the sink.

  “Another?” she asked, like a black widow spider enticing me into her web.

  “Gotta go,” I told her. “Forensics will have some answers for me early in the morning.”

  Don’t I wish? But maybe this will give her pause.

  “One for the road won’t hurt,” she insisted.

  “Thanks, but—”

  “Please stay,” she whispered, drawing close, initiating the first kiss.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Mrs. O was asleep when I left her at dawn the next morning. Now I can call her Mrs. O, for orgasm, unless she was faking it. Was she also faking sleep? The sleep of the innocent? At least she did not try convincing me of her innocence during our lovemaking, though she did try convincing me that I’m a good lover.

  I’m not proud of shtupping my prime suspect, but neither am I worried about the serious breach of procedure. Who cares if I’m brought up on charges, tossed off the case, summarily canned? I only hope that Carol understands I can’t sit at home alone counting flowers on the wall forever.

  I walked back home along Bayville Beach. The early morning sun was a tsunami of light, cresting tall trees behind the Tides, roaring across the Sound to inundate Connecticut. I wished I could have lingered with Mrs. O. Maybe we could have made love again. At least we could have had a leisurely breakfast together, as I often did with Carol. The late Mrs. K. Now the initials of my only two lovers are OK. Okay. I married early and never got around much.

  Passing back by the little graveyard where my wife is buried was definitely not okay. Somehow, I could not look in as usual to make sure that her grave was tidy, the head-stone untoppled, graffiti-free. I held my breath and hurried toward my house, like a superstitious kid caught in a misdemeanor.

  I had barely caught my breath when I lost it again. Why were two patrol cars parked in my driveway? I had no burglar alarm to go off accidentally. Not even a car alarm. Nothing to steal, anyway. Did the young couple upstairs turn their first argument into a civil dispute? Did they play their stereo too loud? Did an envious neighbor dime them out for having an orgasm equivalent to an earthquake?

  “There he is!” a uniformed cop shouted.

  “What’s wrong?” I called back, dashing up my driveway.

  “Where you been, Detective?”

  “Never mind where I’ve been! What the hell’s going on?”

  “We got another stiff.”

  “One of the kids?” I sprinted for the outside stairs to their apartment.

  “Not here.” The uniform stopped me.

  “Where?”

  “Over at Broken Oak.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Randy Randall’s cousin Gregory lay like a beached whale in the middle of the sixth fairway. An idyllic par four, with the morning sun poking through the trees and carefully planted fountain grasses swaying in the breeze, except for Moby Dick lying where I’d surely hit my tee shot. The ME was examining him, with Captains Gleason and Kowalski looking on. Randall, Vince Henry, and Slim the caddy were cordoned away from the scene with several others. My entire list of suspects, except for Dr. Fitch and Mrs. O. At least I knew the latter did not commit this one.

  “Nice of you to join us,” Kowalski smirked.

  “What happened?” I said.

  “They don’t know yet,” said Gleason.

  “No apparent marks on the body,” the ME said. “It could have been a heart attack.”

  That seemed logical, but I suspected foul play. That’s what I get paid for. The corpse was also clutching a five iron, with a line of golf balls leading away from it. Was he dropping the balls, walking or running, trying to leave a trail or some kind of sign?

  I looked closely at the five iron and said, “Looks like ashes on the blade.”

  Randall, Slim, and the greenskeeper were beyond hearing distance.

  “That could be significant,” the ever cautious ME admitted, “if they match the ashes we found in the head wounds of the others.”

  “Is that dried blood on the shaft?” I asked, squinting at a few brownish specs.

  “Most likely,” the ME said.

  “Looks like mud,” said Kowalski.

  “I know blood when I see it,” the ME said.

  “When will you know if it belongs to O’Reilly or Al Jones?” I asked.

  “That takes more time,” the ME told me, as if I didn’t know.

  “Wonder what prints are on it?” Kowalski said.

  “You think this guy murdered Jones and O’Reilly?” Gleason asked me.

  “Maybe
the five iron was planted on him,” I said.

  “Or he could have found it.”

  “While looking for golf balls?”

  “He had a hell of a collection.”

  “Come on, Kanopka. He’s your killer,” Kowalski said. “You’re lucky he had a heart attack or you’d never have caught him.”

  “What makes you so certain?” I said.

  “He’s holding the murder weapon,” Kowalski shrugged. “With those ashes on it and blood from one or both victims. Case closed.”

  “Nice and clean,” Gleason concurred. “They should all end this way. No long, drawn-out trials at the taxpayers’ expense.”

  “Where killers become media stars,” Kowalski added, “at the expense of victims and their families.”

  “Where everyone loses except the lawyers?” I said, warily.

  “And good cops like you, Karl.” Kowalski grinned, suddenly friendly.

  “Cops who get stuck between the proverbial rock and the hard place,” Gleason added, also grinning.

  These two are up to something. They’re also under extreme pressure to solve these murders because there’s enough big bucks and political clout at Broken Oak to kick serious cop butt. A long, drawn-out trial would wreck the club’s reputation and expose members to media scrutiny and abuse. The fix is obviously in, whether Randall’s obese cousin is the killer or not. The bottom line, I realized as suddenly as Kowalski had become friendly, is not to inconvenience these pillars of the community and keep creeps like Dr. Fitch off the golf course for too long.

  “What was Gregory’s motive?” I asked.

  “That’s easy,” Kowalski said, expanding his chest. “He wanted to keep O’Reilly’s development cartel from taking over this property and demolishing the mansion.”

  “There was no such animal,” I told him. “O’Reilly was flat broke.”

  “This guy didn’t know it,” Kowalski scoffed.

  “He’d never even seen O’Reilly,” I objected.

  “Maybe he saw O’Reilly’s picture in the club newsletter,” Gleason said, “or that newspaper clipping you found in Jones’s condo.”

  “That’s it.” Kowalski nodded, like a bobble-head doll.

  “What are you two doing?” I asked. You shits.

  “What do you mean?” the captains said, almost in unison. “You sound like lawyers for the prosecution,” I said. Which politico’s got you in his pocket?”

  “Why are you defending this blubber bag?” Gleason said.

  “Yeah,” said Kowalski. “It’s an open-and-shut case.”

  “I know this guy lying here,” I said.

  “Sure,” said Kowalski. “You and Richard Simmons.”

  “I’m no diet and exercise guru,” I said, “but I do know that he only cared about his golf ball collection.”

  “Not his next meal?” Kowalski queried.

  “Take it easy, you two,” Gleason scowled. “We all know there’s plenty of disturbed persons who’ll commit murder.”

  “Then why did he whack Al Jones?”

  “Easy,” Kowalski said. “Jones somehow knew he knocked off O’Reilly.”

  “How?”

  “The golf shoes.”

  “But they don’t fit him. Or Jones. Or any other suspects.”

  “They all tried them on?”

  “All except Dr. Fitch,” I admitted.

  “Forget about him,” Gleason’s eyes narrowed. Fitch must make one hell of a contribution to the PBA.

  “Yeah,” Kowalski insisted. “This guy did it. He had the motive and he’s holding the murder weapon.”

  “You really believe that this man, who couldn’t run the length of this golf ball trail without dropping dead, whacked a big guy like Jones and single-handedly dumped him into the trunk of his car?”

  The captains looked at each other and shrugged simultaneously. Kowalski said, “Why not?”

  Gleason walked away.

  “Leave it, for Christ’s sake,” Kowalski told me under his breath. “It’s neat and it’s clean.”

  “You call this clean?” The fat cousin was a mess. His face was contorted, his pants were fouled, and his shirt was un-tucked, displaying a huge belly and more stretch marks than a woman eight months pregnant with quints.

  “This case is closed, Kanopka. Forget it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Listen to me, Karl. Not like I’m your captain, but like a kumpel.”

  “When did you become my Polack pal?”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “I was home.”

  “You weren’t home this morning.” He had something on his mind and I wasn’t going to like it.

  “I was out for my morning constitutional.”

  “At the Tides Motel?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “I think you did. To put it politely, I think you slept over last night with Mrs. O’Reilly.”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  “Watch it. I got rank here. And get this through your thick Polack head,” Kowalski poked my chest with his middle finger. “If this guy’s not our killer and the case goes to trial, your conduct last night, or call it your morning constitutional, means you’re finished as a cop and facing possible felony charges.”

  I pushed his hand away, but he continued reading me the riot act.

  “If your Mrs. O’Reilly had anything to do with these murders, any defense attorney will have a field day with you on the witness stand. Even the prosecution can’t ignore your misconduct. You could even be charged as an accomplice.”

  I should never have slept with Mrs. O, and let down my guard. I deserve this rebuke, though it’s tough to take from Kowalski.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, feeling like a fool.

  “Don’t become the butt of another Polack joke,” said Kowalski, “just because you refused to close the case and got yourself convicted.”

  “So it’s still my case?”

  “As long as you clean it up with this.” Kowalski nodded at the corpse.

  “Or else?”

  “Or else, kumpel, I’ll teach you not to defy my authority, stick your nose where it’s not wanted and fuck your suspects.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Kowalski’s threat was compelling, but it’s tough tossing the head detective off a murder case. Even if he’s not your kumpel, it makes the brass look bad for assigning him in the first place.

  “It was bound to happen,” Randy Randall told me, as forensics loaded his cousin into the meat wagon. I hoped he didn’t hear them complaining they didn’t go to med school to get hernias. I almost felt sorry for him. His sallow pallor and the bags under his eyes made him look like he hadn’t slept in a week.

  “What do you mean?” I said, not sorry that Gleason and Kowalski had gone back to headquarters.

  “He was always raiding the refrigerators,” Randall said, resignedly. “He once ate fifty mousses au chocolat we had prepared for a wedding reception.”

  “Your dessert chef murdered him?”

  “Hardly.” Randall clenched his teeth. “But I could have killed him.”

  “When did he do this?”

  “Late at night.”

  “Aren’t the refrigerators locked?” I said.

  “He found a key or picked the locks,” said Randall. “He was very clever.”

  “Wait a minute. A few days ago, you portrayed him as being incapable of doing anything but stuffing his face and collecting lost golf balls.” Gotcha!

  “I was merely observing that he could not, or would not, have murdered anyone. I suppose I was wrong.” The normally natty Randy looked disheveled; shirt wrinkled, trousers uncreased, shoelaces untied.

  “You also told me he never saw O’Reilly or Al Jones. Not even in a photograph?”

  “I believe not.”

  “You could have given Gregory a good description of O’Reilly.”

  “You think I put him up to it?” Randall squatted and started tying his shoelaces.<
br />
  “You had reason enough,” I told him.

  “To murder O’Reilly, maybe. But why would I want my golf pro dead?” Randall thought a moment while he finished tying and then said, “The shoe should have been on the other foot. He should have wanted me dead.”

  “Why?”

  “I fired him.” He stood and faced me again.

  “When?”

  “The week before. Effective Labor Day.”

  “Now you tell me?”

  “It’s not unusual,” Randall said offhandedly. “Golf pros are used to it. They’re a peripatetic lot.”

  “And you were also pissed that he was having an affair with Mrs. O’Reilly.”

  “Of that, I’m not certain.” He actually did look dubious. His eyebrows furrowed, accentuating the bags under his eyes.

  “Then I suggest you tell me, right now, exactly what it is you are certain about.”

  “What good would it do? You’ve got your killer, holding the smoking golf club, so to speak. Let the healing process begin, Detective. Let Broken Oak get back to normal, if possible, with a modicum of dignity.” He should have been an undertaker.

  Nice try, but it won’t work. I bet you gave Gleason and Kowalski the same speech, but I’m not buying it. It’s time to get tough, with at least a verbal wham-bam.

  “Withholding evidence in a murder case is a felony,” I told him. “Your dignity, along with your sweet behind, could be sorely compromised in prison.”

  “I’ve been quite cooperative,” Randall insisted, stiffly, un-perturbed by the threat of prison intimacy. “You and your men have had the run of the place. I need to open the course and the restaurant again, or these beautiful grounds will ultimately fall prey to the bulldozers. Broken Oak needs healing and closure.”

  “Excellent choice of words. I’ll keep this place closed as long as I want. Unless you tell me who Jones was screwing.”

  I could see the wheels spinning inside Randall’s head. My threat, though a total bluff, seemed to be working.

  “If you insist,” Randall finally said. “I have reason to believe that Al Jones was seeing Mrs. Fitch.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  “You cops made a mess,” Vince Henry grumbled as he tidied up the sixth fairway, raking and disposing of coffee cups and doughnut boxes. I thought he was going to pull out a portable vacuum cleaner and give the area some serious housekeeping.