“Hmm,” I said. “Yes, that is depressing. Now, do you have any idea where I might find the owner? A Mr. Burks, is it?”
“Yes, Lamar Burks. As I said, he’s not here today, and I don’t think he will be, but I could take a message for him.”
“Well, I was really hoping to find him today.”
She frowned. “I think he’s playing golf, but I don’t know which course.”
“I suppose I could call around and ask,” I said, and she smiled at me and shook her head.
“You’re in the wrong place for that. There are about one hundred golf courses within an hour of this hotel.”
“Yikes.” I drummed my fingers on the counter and thought about it. The receptionist was wearing a name tag that said REBECCA. Pretty name. Pretty face, too. Probably nice legs under that counter. What was I thinking about again? Oh, right, finding the owner.
“You said the hotel has golf packages available?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Well, maybe Burks plays those courses frequently. It seems like he’d be on pretty good terms with the management.”
“Good idea,” she said, sounding truly impressed, and I tried not to blush. Shucks. I’m full of great ideas, Rebecca. Having a few about you right now, in fact.
She crossed the room and pulled a brochure from the rack on the wall. I’d been right; she had been hiding some damn fine legs under that counter.
“It looks like we have packages with five different courses,” she said. “That would be a place to start.”
I took the brochure from her. “Mind if I use your phone?”
“I’m not supposed to let you use it, but I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“Deal.”
She put the phone on the counter, and I began calling and asking the pro shops if Lamar Burks was around. I said it casually, as if I fully expected he’d be there, trying not to make anyone uneasy with my calls. On the fourth call, I found him at the Sweetwater Bay Golf Course.
“Yeah, Lamar’s around,” the man who answered said. “Hell, he’s been here all day. We’ve been trying to throw him out for hours.” Someone laughed loudly in the background. Nothing like a little fun in the pro shop, smoking cigars and talking golf all day while everyone else is working for a living. “I don’t see him right now, but he’s got a tee time in an hour,” the man told me. “He’s probably down at the putting green, maybe out at the range.”
“Thanks,” I said, “I’ll try to catch up with him.”
I hung up and smiled. “Success, Rebecca. Thanks for your help.”
She seemed to like my using her name. “You’re welcome. Should you need anything else, I hope you won’t hesitate to ask me.”
“I’ll probably have to hesitate,” I said. “Sweet, elegant women like yourself shouldn’t be corrupted by men like me.”
She smiled and ran the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip. “A little corruption never hurt anyone.”
Oh, man. I needed to leave, or Lamar Burks and Randy Hartwick were quickly going to become forgotten goals of the afternoon.
“I’ve got to go, Rebecca,” I said. “But promise you’ll miss me.”
“I promise,” she said, and laughed. I left the hotel. I was starting to like South Carolina just fine.
The Sweetwater Bay Golf Course was only a fifteen-minute drive from the hotel. There was a map on the brochure, and I found the course without trouble. The pro shop was a small, white clapboard building surrounded by palm trees. If you’ve just spent a winter in Cleveland, palm trees rank among the most welcome sights in the world. Signs pointed down golf cart paths toward the “Championship Course” and the “Executive Course.” I parked and went inside. An overweight man in khaki shorts and a Nike polo shirt was seated behind the counter. I asked him if he’d seen Lamar Burks.
“You the guy who called earlier?” he said, not taking his eyes off the small television suspended from the ceiling. The Golf Channel was on, and someone was demonstrating the art of chipping. Fascinating stuff.
“Yeah, I called earlier. Is Lamar around?”
“Uh-huh.” He waved his head toward the front of the building without looking at me. “He’s on the range. He’ll be going out on the executive course soon.”
I looked out the window and saw the driving range at the far end of the parking lot. There were only six people there, and three of them were women. There were two young white men and a middle-aged black man.
“Can I get a bucket of balls?” I asked.
“Grab one from the rack,” he said. “It’s five dollars.”
“Okay. Got any clubs I can use?”
He finally looked away from the screen, staring at me as if I’d asked to borrow his underwear. “You don’t have any clubs?”
“I’m from out of state. Wasn’t planning on playing.”
He shook his head as if this were stunning news. “Well, there are some beaters on the stand against the wall. Grab whatever you’d like.”
I paid him for the bucket and selected a seven-iron, pitching wedge, and driver from the stand of clubs on the wall. The “beaters” were nicer than any clubs I’d ever owned.
I went outside and walked up to the range. The white guys had left, leaving only the women and the black man. As I approached, one of the women said, “Nice shot, Lamar.”
Lamar Burks was hitting off the grass. I emptied half of my bucket beside him, and he smiled and nodded at me. He was about forty, a short, powerfully built man, with shoulders like gigantic hams. He was wearing white shorts and a white shirt, and under the shorts his thighs and butt were massive. Not fat, either, just thick. It was the kind of backside that would have made for a hell of a post game in basketball.
I found a tee lying in the grass and placed one of the balls on it, then took the driver and got into position. I’d never been much of a golfer. The game was a little too slow for me, and certainly not athletic enough to compensate for a good workout or game of pickup basketball. I played occasionally but planned on saving most of my outings for my retirement, when my aging body would no longer take the basketball games and workouts but would certainly be up to golf. It had been nearly a year since I’d even swung a club. I took a few practice cuts, trying to get the feel of the driver, and then stepped up to the tee.
My first shot went about a hundred and fifty yards, but all of them came on the ground. I’d sent the ball whistling across the grass, bouncing occasionally but never rising more than a foot in the air. I put another ball on the tee and swung again. This time I got it in the air, but it sliced horribly. So did the second shot. And the third.
Beside me, Lamar Burks chuckled softly. “Boy,” he said, “maybe I should move down a bit, keep out of the line of fire.”
“No need for sarcasm, Lamar. I’m just shaking off the rust.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Uh-oh. It knows my name.”
I offered my hand. “Lincoln Perry,” I said. “I was hoping to talk to you about one of your employees.”
“Which one?” he said as we shook.
“Randy Hartwick.”
His eyes narrowed. “And who exactly are you, Mr. Perry?”
I got out my wallet and showed him my license. He studied it carefully, then nodded. “Well, all right. We can talk. But you’d better believe I’m going to finish hitting my bucket first.”
“Fair enough.”
“Go ahead and hit your bucket, too, and I’ll try not to laugh. Won’t be easy, though. That might be the ugliest swing this county’s ever seen.”
I set down the driver and picked up the seven-iron. “Tell you what, Lamar. I’ll bet you fifty dollars I can hit this seven-iron farther than you can hit yours.”
“You gotta be kidding me, son! Oh, yes, yes, yes. If there’s anything I like more than a betting man, it’s a betting fool,” he said, and laughed loudly. “How many swings?”
“Your call.”
“Three swings, then.”
“Deal
.” I wasn’t too concerned about losing my money. I’d seen Burks take several swings now, and, while he was a hell of an accurate golfer, he wasn’t much for distance. His arms were short, and his swing was very controlled. He’d been hitting his five-wood when I arrived, and he’d hit that only about two hundred yards. He also had a driver with an enormous, oversized head, the kind that was so popular among golfers who struggled to hit a long drive. I couldn’t hit woods well, but I was pretty decent with clubs that had more loft. I didn’t have much of an aptitude for the game of golf, but my length and strength usually allowed me to hit very well for distance.
Burks took his seven-iron out of the bag and took a few practice cuts. I liked what I saw. He had a short swing.
“I’ll go first,” he said. He hit his first shot right down the middle, but only a hundred and forty yards. A pretty ball, but not a long one.
“Damn,” he said. “I hit that like my grandmother. Next ball.” He swung again, snapping the wrists through a little quicker this time, and got an extra fifteen yards out of it, although the ball tapered off to the right.
“One fifty-five,” he announced happily. It was a pretty long shot for a seven-iron; most golfers would take it. He hit the third ball, but this time he was back at one forty again.
“You’ve got to beat one fifty-five,” he said, stepping back. “And I know that ain’t going to happen.”
“We’ll see.” I used the club head to pull a ball into position and then took my first swing. I pulled my chin up as I made contact, and the ball sliced again, going about a hundred twenty yards, and almost an equal distance to the right. Burks laughed loudly. I set another ball up and rolled my shoulders, trying to relax. The smoother the swing, the better it would work for me. This time, I kept my head down and swung through the ball smoothly. It was the closest thing to a straight shot I’d hit yet, with just a slight slice, and I put it almost to the one seventy-five marker. I turned to Burks and smiled.
“Bullshit,” he said. “You didn’t just do that! Damn, and it was on an ugly-ass swing, too. I mean an ugly-ass swing.” He shook his head.
I laughed. “The bet wasn’t about swing quality, it was about distance. You owe me fifty, but I’ll probably let it slide if you’re cooperative.”
“I’ll tell you only what I think I should tell you,” he said seriously. “I’m an honest man, but I’m not the type of man who encourages trouble. If you’re looking to cause Randy some sort of hassle, you’ll need to look elsewhere.”
“I won’t be causing him a hassle,” I said. “Nor will anyone else. Mr. Hartwick was murdered in Cleveland yesterday, Lamar.”
He’d been taking practice swings with his pitching wedge. Now he dropped the club and turned to me, surprised. “Is that the truth?”
“It is.”
He stared across the course, and I could see true sadness and compassion in his eyes. Lamar Burks had liked Randy Hartwick. Eventually, he picked his club back up and put it in the bag.
“Let’s you and I go have a drink,” he said.
We went up to the clubhouse and took seats on the patio that looked out on the driving range and practice green. Burks had a beer, and I had lemonade. All the good humor that had filled the man during our golf bet was gone. I had a way of spoiling people’s days.
“You don’t drink?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Not while I’m working. I had one bad night and lost my job because of it.”
“What was your job?”
“I was a cop.” I let it go at that, but he waited, obviously hoping for more details. I sipped some more lemonade and told him about it.
“I was engaged to a woman I cared about a lot. More than she cared about me. I found out she was sleeping with a big-shot attorney, and I went down to the police bar to drown my sorrows in booze. Somewhere between the tenth and eleventh beer, I decided it would be a good idea to find the guy and talk it over with him. His helpful secretary told me he was having dinner at his country club, so I poured my drunken ass into the car and drove out there. I found him in the parking lot, and it didn’t go so well. He kept smiling as if the situation were funny, and he called me ‘champ’ a few times too many.”
Burks was watching me with interest but not judgment. “I only hit him once,” I said, “but it was a hell of a punch. When I left he was lying on his face in the parking lot with a broken nose. I drove away, and about ten minutes later a highway patrol officer pulled me over after being dispatched to look for my car. I was arrested for drunk driving and assault. Convicted on both counts and dismissed from the force. The chief told me I was an embarrassment to the department.” I finished the lemonade and pushed it aside.
“At least you got the satisfaction of breaking the bastard’s nose,” Burks said.
“It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as you’d think.”
He nodded. “So Randy’s dead?”
“Died two nights ago, I’m afraid. I was with him when it happened. Someone took him out with a rifle from long range.”
“What was he involved with?”
I spread my hands. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. He was killed before he could tell me anything. My partner and I are trying to find a missing woman and her daughter. The woman’s husband was a shady operator; he might even have been involved with Russian organized crime. Hartwick supposedly has ties to the same folks, and he showed up in Cleveland a few days ago.”
“Randy Hartwick was involved with the Russian mob?” Burks said it as if he found this hard to believe.
“That’s what we’ve heard.”
He shook his head. “I suppose anything’s possible, but I’m awfully surprised to hear that. He was a hell of a nice guy.”
“How long had he worked for you?”
“About ten years. I bought the resort twelve years ago. I was hoping to upgrade the security, you know, to avoid liability issues and all, and I started asking around about security companies. One of the guys I talked to suggested Randy, said he was fresh out of the Marines and looking for a job. So I called him, and we worked it out. He’s done a fine job for me, too.”
“A guy in Cleveland suggested Hartwick was using the security job as a front while he ran weapons in and out of the country,” I said. “Was he around much?”
“He took vacations now and then, but, yeah, he was around for the most part. I never had any complaints about him. We’d meet every few weeks to talk things over. He always seemed serious about the job.”
“Who’s this man who recommended Hartwick to you?”
“A guy named John Brewster. He manages another one of the hotels, and he’s an ex-Marine like Randy. You know how those Marines are about helping each other out with jobs? It’s almost like a fraternity thing, except the Marines aren’t a bunch of rich, pansy white boys.”
“You think he could tell me more about Hartwick?”
“More than I can, that’s for sure.”
We kept at it for another half hour. Burks couldn’t tell me much about Hartwick’s personal affairs; he knew him only as a reliable and trusted employee. He did offer to pull Hartwick’s personnel file and let me have a look at it. That might give me some new resources, if nothing else. He also gave me a phone number for John Brewster.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more, son. And I’m sorry about what happened to Randy, too.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “You’ve helped as much as you can, and I appreciate that. Besides, it was fun taking your money.”
He laughed and shook his head. “Shit, son, it was worth a few dollars to see that ugly swing of yours in action.”
I left the golf course and drove back toward the Golden Breakers. I called John Brewster from the room and received no answer. Burks had promised to get me the personnel file by the next morning, but I didn’t have it now. I left the room and found two of the resort’s security guards, but neither of them could tell me anything about Hartwick. Apparently, he was the sort of guy who kept to h
imself. At five, I gave up and went for dinner.
I ate at a calabash seafood restaurant that offered an all-you-could-eat buffet for a reasonable cost. I hadn’t eaten any lunch, so I definitely took my money’s worth. When I was full, I returned to the hotel and went for a walk along the strip, my stomach still too heavy for a run. The people on the sidewalks were mostly older couples—middle-aged women clutching bulging shopping bags while their husbands trailed behind, reliving the day’s golf game in their minds. In the summer there would be families with young children, and college students looking to party, but now, in early March, the town was quiet. I had a feeling I’d like it less if I came in the summer.
I walked a few miles south before I turned and went back. This time I left the sidewalk, cut behind the hotels, and walked across the sand, staying just a few feet ahead of where the waves washed up. The tide was rising, and in the morning this stretch of the beach would be submerged. It was dark now, and a full moon had risen, casting a pale glow on the black water and giving the waves a golden shimmer as they crested.
Back in the hotel room, I flipped through the television channels just long enough to determine there was nothing worthwhile on and then tried calling Joe. I didn’t get an answer at the office, and his cell phone went right to voice mail, which meant it was turned off. Perfect. I sat on the balcony and watched the water some more, then tried calling Joe again and had the same result.
At ten I changed into an old pair of gym shorts and went downstairs. I hadn’t packed swim trunks, as I’d been planning for business and not pleasure, but as long as I was here I might as well enjoy the whirlpool.
It was a beautiful night. The air was warm and smelled of saltwater and hyacinths. I turned on the jets in the whirlpool and settled into the steaming water. A cool breeze was coming in off the ocean, and the contrast of its feel across my face and the hot water on my body was a strange and invigorating sensation. I tilted my head back and looked at the moon, then closed my eyes and listened to the gentle thumps of the waves hitting the beach. I wondered what Joe was doing back in Cleveland and whether he and Kinkaid had been able to make any progress with the Russians or Hubbard. I wondered if they’d be disappointed in the utter lack of progress I’d had so far today. Probably. I thought about John Weston, and Randy Hartwick, and then flashes of Betsy Weston’s smiling face and her beautiful mother slipped through my mind. It was easy to forget about them as I sat in the whirlpool with a refreshing night breeze bathing my face and the sound of waves in my ears. I didn’t want to think about them. It was too nice a night.
Tonight I Said Goodbye Page 15