William Bernhardt

by Final Round (v5)

  “Of course not,” Conner mumbled. The whole thing seemed unreal to him, like a bizarre dream from which he couldn’t wake himself.

  John was dead. This had to be a dream—a nightmare.

  “Who did this?” Conner said suddenly, not really expecting an answer.

  To his surprise, Turnbull offered one. “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Unfortunately, the perp doesn’t seem to have left many clues.”

  “Clues?”

  “Right. They’re always helpful when you’re trying to track a killer.”

  “A—“ Conner eyes widened. “Then you think it’s—”

  “Murder? Course it is. You thought maybe he beat himself to death on the side of his head? And then buried himself in a sand trap? I don’t think so.”

  “But—who—?”

  “We were hoping you might have some thoughts on that subject. Know anyone who had a grudge against McCree?”

  Conner racked his barely functioning brain. “I can’t think of anyone.”

  “We’re not finding any hair or fibers, although it would be a miracle if we could recover trace evidence from a sand trap. This fairway is cut so short it can’t hold onto anything, much less a footprint or a stray hair. No fingerprints on the body. Basically, we’re at square one. A very unpromising investigation. Glad it isn’t my problem.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “Nah. I’m just a lowly sergeant. I was just the highest rank in the office when your call came in. They’ll assign this to a lieutenant—Lieutenant O’Brien, probably. I expect you’ll get to tell your story all over again. Probably several times.”

  Great, Conner thought silently. I can hardly wait.

  “Y’know, if there’s . . . anything else you might know about this mess, I’d sure be obliged if you told me.”

  Conner cocked one eyebrow.

  “Maybe right now it seems best to clam up, but let me tell you from experience—the truth always comes out eventually, and it’ll go easier for you if you come clean.”

  “I didn’t kill him,” Conner said, almost choking on his words. “He was my best friend.”

  “Oh, I’m sure, I’m sure. But you know how these things happen. One thing leads to another. Situation gets out of control. First thing you know, someone does something they regret later. It’s no one’s fault, really. It just happens.”

  “I did not kill my friend.”

  “Now, if you were to give me the straight skivvy, I would be extremely grateful. I’d make sure you got every break in the book. It would mean a lot to me.”

  “Like maybe a promotion to lieutenant?”

  Turnbull seemed unperturbed. “God knows I put in enough time to deserve it. So whaddaya say, Cross?”

  Conner’s expression was as sheer as a cliff wall. “I say I didn’t kill my friend. Get your promotion from someone else’s misery.”

  Conner pushed his way out of the circle of investigation and, to his surprise, Turnbull allowed him to go. He supposed the cops had no reason to keep him under lock and key, no matter what they thought. He wouldn’t be hard to find when they wanted him.

  Conner paced the length of the eighteenth hole, then made a beeline for the clubhouse. He should just head back to his cabin, he thought to himself. He really wanted to be alone right now. At the same time, he also felt a serious need to partake of an adult beverage. Maybe several.

  Conner found a table in the corner by himself and ordered multi-ple martinis. Somehow, he had to get a grip on himself, to try to make some sense out of the day. How could this have happened? What was John doing out there?

  And why the hell did Conner have to be the one who found him?

  He downed the first martini in a single swallow, then bit down on the olive. He was trying to shock his system back to life, trying to shift his body back into first gear. But it didn’t work. No matter what he tried, his mind’s eye kept revolving back to the same grisly image.

  His best friend, buried in white sand. His face streaked with blood.

  John, he thought, and the word throbbed like someone was pounding a hammer against the inside of his skull. John!

  Conner was nursing his fourth martini when he saw Jodie McCree rush into the clubhouse.

  Jodie! he thought. Here he’d been swilling and feeling sorry for himself, and Jodie hadn’t even crossed his mind. He considered running after her, trying to comfort her. If he could just get his legs working again . . .

  As it turned out, the decision was made for him. As soon as Jodie entered the clubhouse, she made a quick visual sweep of the bar area, spotted Conner, then burned a path in the carpet toward him. As she neared, Conner saw her red-blotched face, streaked and wet. Her hands were trembling. She stared at him, as if willing words she could not speak.

  “How—“ she said, in a voice that sounded like rusty hinges. “How—”

  Conner could only shake his head. He certainly couldn’t respond to the unspoken question; he had no answers to give. There was only one thing he could give, and so he did. He stood up, put his arms around her, and hugged her tight.

  “I don’t know,” he whispered. He felt her tears spilling onto his shoulder. “I don’t know.”

  Nearly an hour later, Conner and Jodie were seated in a small lounge adjacent to the clubhouse bar. There had been no healing; there hadn’t been nearly sufficient time for that. But there had at least been acceptance. They had both come face-to-face with the horrible truth, and were beginning to try to figure out how they could possibly go on with their lives.

  “I—I just don’t understand it,” Jodie said. Her voice was still raw from crying. “Everyone loved John.”

  Conner agreed. It didn’t make any sense.

  “Have you heard anyone complain about John? Anyone nursing a grudge?”

  “Never,” Conner said firmly. “Not in three years on the tour.”

  Jodie’s hands clenched. “Then who could have done it? And why?”

  “I don’t know,” Conner replied, trying to be comforting. “But the police are working on it . . .”

  Jodie frowned. “I talked to Sergeant Turnbull. I gather you did, too?”

  Conner nodded.

  “So, Mr. Oddsmaker, what would you say is the likelihood that he’ll be able to find John’s killer?”

  Conner shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t want to distress her unnecessarily, but . . .

  “That’s what I thought,” Jodie said firmly. For the first time, Conner realized that she was not simply devastated—she was angry. “About zip. The golf world is so insular, so closed-door. Unless the murderer has an attack of conscience and confesses, we’re never gonna know.”

  Conner wanted to argue with her, to give her some comfort. But the truth was, he agreed with her conclusion.

  All at once, Jodie reached over and grabbed Conner’s hand. “Conner, I want you to try to find out who killed John.”

  “Me? Are you kidding?”

  “I wouldn’t kid about this, Conner. This is serious.”

  “I agree. Which is why I shouldn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “We have to know—”

  “Look, Jodie, if you don’t trust the cops, fine. Hire a private investigator.”

  “A private investigator wouldn’t be allowed through the front gates at the Augusta National.”

  “Still—”

  “You, on the other hand, are already on the grounds. You have access to all the players and staff. You’re an invited guest. Everyone will expect you to hobnob with the players and participate in all the activities.”

  “Surely you don’t think I’m going to continue the tournament after this!”

  “You have to,” Jodie implored. “It’s the only way.” She squeezed his hand. “You’re John’s oldest and best friend. You knew him better than anyone.”

  “Maybe so, but—”

  “You know you owe him.”

  “I’m well aware of that, Jodie. I owe John for almost everything of any va
lue in my whole life. But what you’re talking about—”

  “He would’ve done it for you.”

  Conner stopped short.

  “If the situation were reversed, I mean. John wouldn’t have slept till he found out who killed you. That’s how much he loved you, Conner.”

  Conner didn’t reply.

  “Conner,” she said softly, “I realize I haven’t seen as much of you as I once did, since John and I moved to Georgia. But I remember a time . . .”

  She didn’t say anything more. She didn’t have to. They both knew what she was talking about. She was forcing his mind to turn back the calendar pages to a time past—a time when Conner and Jodie had been sweethearts. He had been crazy for her—his first love. In fact, he had introduced her to John—a gesture he later regretted. It all seemed a million years ago now. Still, when he peered into her sea-blue eyes, it was hard to forget how much he had once loved her. Impossible, really, because a few of those sparks still lingered.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Please.”

  “All right,” Conner said. “I think this is a big mistake. But I’ll do what I can.”

  “Thank you.” Her lips turned up in the first smile he had seen on her face all day. “Thank you so much.”

  Conner brushed a tear from her cheek. “How could I say no to a beautiful face like that?” He sat up straight. “Fitz told me John didn’t come back last night?”

  “It’s true. That’s so unlike him. I was worried sick. Still, I thought he would turn up, and I didn’t want to generate a lot of bad publicity for no reason. I couldn’t figure out—“ She drew in her breath. “Of course, now I understand. He must have been killed last night.”

  “Seems likely,” Conner agreed. “When did you see him last?”

  “Around nine or so, I’d guess. Just after dark. He left our cabin.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “No, and I didn’t ask. I assumed he was going out to the driving range to knock the balls around. Like you guys usually did.”

  “Did he do anything . . . unusual? Say anything out of the ordinary?”

  Jodie’s eyebrows knitted together. “Now that you mention it, he did say something. Something strange. I didn’t recall it until you said that.” Her eyes focused on a spot on the floor.

  “What was it?”

  “I can’t remember. But it was something odd. Odd enough to capture my attention, at least for a moment.” She clenched her fist. “My short-term memory is going to hell.”

  Conner placed a hand gently on her shoulder. “It’ll come to you later. When you’re not trying to think about it. When it does, tell me, okay?”

  “Of course.” She took his hand in both of hers. “Thank you, Conner. I really appreciate this.”

  “No need. It’s the least I can do—”

  He stopped short, but they both knew what he was going to say, and once again, Conner saw unbidden tears crease the flushed mounds of her cheeks.

  It was the least he could do, they both thought. For John.

  Chapter 9

  * * *

  The Wednesday press conference in Butler Cabin was a distinguished Masters tournament tradition, but this year, it was nothing short of bizarre. As tournament director, Andrew Spenser led the proceedings, ably assisted by his lapdog Derwood Scott. The first deviation from tradition came in the timing; instead of being held in the morning, the conference was delayed until late evening. The second deviation was the subject matter. Spenser dutifully tried to drum up excitement about the par-three and the main tournament yet to come, offering up trivia and tidbits about the players’ lives, statistics about the players’ standings, their performance to date on the tour, their scores in previous Masters tournaments.

  No one cared.

  “Can you give us more information about what happened to John McCree?”

  “Have you got any leads?”

  “Is it true the police suspect one of the other pros?”

  “What if the killer strikes again?”

  Standing in the back of the cabin, Conner watched Spenser wipe his brow. That prim, proper gentleman wasn’t accustomed to fielding questions from a pack of vultures like the one assembled in Butler Cabin today. He could almost sympathize with the man, if he hadn’t been such a jerk to Conner the day before.

  Spenser gripped the podium and stared out into the sea of reporters. “Please. This is not police headquarters. This is the Augusta National Golf Club, home of the Masters tournament, the most important—”

  “Is the corpse at the coroner’s office?”

  “How many times was he hit?”

  “Was there a lot of blood? Will you have to replace the sand bunker?”

  Conner could feel Spenser’s tension clear across the room. It was a relief when Spenser excused himself and Derwood stepped up to the podium—probably the first time in history anyone was glad to see Derwood arrive, Conner mused.

  “Please,” Derwood began, “we’ve told you everything we know about John McCree’s death. Let’s discuss the tournament—”

  “Can you confirm that McCree is dead?” one of the reporters shouted from the rear.

  Derwood sighed. “Yes. I’m afraid we’re certain about that.”

  “And that he was murdered?”

  Derwood began to hedge. “I have no information regarding the cause of death. There are many possibilities. I find it very difficult to believe that anyone at the Augusta National could be capable of—”

  “Someone hit him, right?” This voice came from a female reporter near the front. “I heard he was hit on the head. Possibly several times.”

  “Again, I have no information regarding the cause—”

  “You’re not suggesting he did that to himself, are you?”

  “Well . . . no. Perhaps an unfortunate accident . . .”

  “In a sand trap?”

  Derwood tugged at his collar. “As I’ve already said, we are unaware of the details—”

  “How can you proceed with the tournament when one of the most prominent players has been murdered? Isn’t that more than a bit callous?”

  Derwood drew in his breath. He was prepared for this one. “This is of course a difficult question with ramifications that go far beyond the competition itself. We called an emergency meeting of the board of directors and our chairman, Artemus Tenniel, to determine the proper course of action. We also consulted with John McCree’s widow, Jodie McCree. After giving the matter close and careful attention, all parties involved agreed that the best course of action was to proceed with the tournament as scheduled. Now, however, the tournament will be held in John’s McCree’s honor. This endeavor is dedicated to his memory.”

  Conner tried to stifle his sneer. Given how jam-packed the tournament schedule was these days, it would probably be impossible to reschedule the Masters for a later date. It was now or never. Proceeding with the tournament but dedicating it to John’s memory probably appeared to the board to be the best way of preserving their cash cow without seeming incredibly insensitive. Conner wondered how this cover-your-ass smokescreen fit in with “the exemplar of excellence.”

  Still, he thought, it was just as well. He knew Jodie wanted the tournament to proceed. She wanted to keep all the suspects on the premises as long as possible. Once the tournament ended, and all the players and staff departed, any investigation would be greatly complicated. Realistically, if he was going to have any hope of determining who killed John, he would have to do it before everyone left Sunday night.

  Up at the podium, Derwood was still fending off questions about the murder.

  “Why was the body buried in a sand trap?”

  “Really,” Derwood insisted, “I have no way of knowing.” All at once, his eyes lit upon Conner in the back of the room. Conner felt a chill race through his body.

  “If you must inquire about these unsavory matters,” Derwood continued, “why don’t you ask Conner Cross? He’s the one who found the body.�
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  That was a tidbit they hadn’t heard before. As one, the sea of reporters whipped around to face Conner. They began to press in his direction.

  Conner felt like a fox who’d been treed by the circling hounds. He broke for the front doors, but two men bearing minicams blocked his path. Before he could take off in a different direction, he was surrounded by reporters, many of them shoving microphones under his nose.

  “So,” Conner said, clearing his throat, “I guess you folks want to ask me about my spiffy new haircut, huh?”

  It took Conner more than an hour to extricate himself from the reporters. It was amazing—especially since he’d told them everything he knew in the first minute and a half. Normally, a few minutes of Conner’s trademark obnoxiousness would be sufficient to drive anyone away. But the reporters weren’t even fazed; if anything, they seemed to like it.

  The whole experience was ironic, Conner thought, as he trudged back to the clubhouse. Most of the pros on the tour spent half their spare time trying to rustle up some publicity. Conner had just gotten a ton—and he didn’t want it. Not under these circumstances.

  Conner passed through the clubhouse doors, wove his way to the bar, ordered a martini, and found a seat at an empty table in the corner. Most of the other pros were there, too, but the mood had altered radically. There was none of the madcap revelry—no betting, no joking, no carousing. John’s death had hit everyone hard. The room was permeated by somber, sullen depression. Conner realized he should probably circulate, try to find out what if anything the others knew, but he just wasn’t in the proper frame of mind.

  About ten minutes later, Freddy Granger ambled over. “Hi there, Conner.”

  Conner didn’t even look up, but Freddy’s deep Southern accent was a dead giveaway. “If you’ve found another peephole, I’m not interested.”

  Freddy looked embarrassed. “Nah, I—“ He pointed to the empty chair on the opposite end of Conner’s table. “Mind if I sit?”

  Conner shrugged. “Suit yourself.”