William Bernhardt

by Final Round (v5)

  And what possible reason could Ed have to lie?

  Chapter 11

  * * *

  Thursday

  Thursday was the first day of the actual Masters tournament. Conner was always amazed at the amount of rigmarole that attended the opening. From all the buzz and excitement, all the attention and interest, one might think the president was about to declare war, or aliens had just landed on the seventh green.

  As always, the press was present in force. Reporters were everywhere, looking for inside tips, news, and gossip about the players and the game. Conner spotted three different CBS minicams. The official network commentators were safely tucked away in their high-rise booth, specially constructed for tournament coverage. There were even a couple of helicopters buzzing around overhead, providing aerial photography.

  And of what? A golf tournament. Conner shook his head in amazement. If the police department could summon this much talent and energy for its investigation, John’s murder would’ve been solved yesterday.

  It was a beautiful morning; the azaleas were in bloom and the air was thick with the scent of tea olive. The greens were bright and vibrant—trimmed to perfection. Even the roughs were—well, not very rough. Just “second cut” once a year. This really was, Conner grudgingly admitted, the best-kept golf course on earth. If a leaf fell on the fairway, he suspected, an alarm sounded in the groundskeeper’s bunker and a golf cart was dispatched to remove the offending item.

  Conner showed up early for the opening ceremony; he wasn’t going to give anyone an excuse to toss him out on some obscure technicality. Before the tournament began, all the pros gathered to watch the first tee-off, which was traditionally shared by the three senior members invited to play. Since all former Masters champions are invited back, regardless of their current standing, that meant that the three oldest former champions shared the stage. Each of the three seniors knocked off one token swing, then retired to the clubhouse to watch the real contenders.

  After that ceremony was completed, an assistant tournament director assigned numbers to each of the players. Last year’s champion was always 1; Jack Nicklaus was always 86, commemorating the year he won the last and most extraordinary of his six Masters titles.

  Fitz brought Conner the news that he had been assigned number 51. “I assume that was chosen to commemorate your I.Q.”

  “Ha ha,” Conner replied.

  Conner was matched for play with Barry Bennett, who appeared somewhat soberer than he had the night before. Ace Silverstone and Freddy Granger were the twosome just behind them.

  “Glad we got to tee-off early,” Freddy said, as the group gathered. “I got a million things to do. This weddin’ is drivin’ me crazy.”

  Conner tried to be sympathetic. “Are the in-laws in town yet?”

  “Oh, yeah. They’ve been here for days. They’re not so bad. I’d rather be with them than with that nimrod my daughter’s marryin’.”

  “I thought you were happy about the marriage.”

  “I’m happy about the fact of a marriage. I think my new son-in-law is worthless. Never played a round of golf in his life—can you believe it? Doesn’t know a bogey from a booger.”

  “Fate plays cruel tricks sometimes,” Conner said sympathetically.

  Freddy continued to rattle on about the cost of the wedding, the caterers, the country club, the wedding gown. Conner grabbed Ace’s arm and tugged him toward the tee. Normally, Conner wouldn’t be able to stand anyone who played so much better than himself, but given the alternative of spending time with Barry, the man who badmouthed his late friend, or Freddy, who was babbling about crudités and tiered cakes, he chose Ace.

  “How’d the feature spot turn out?” Conner asked as they approached the tee.

  “Fabulous, fabulous. Didn’t you see it? Oh—“ He covered his hand with his mouth. “Of course not. You weren’t watching television last night. Look, I’m sorry—”

  “It’s all right. Really. Think it’ll run again?”

  “Oh, yeah. Probably all week. And they’re going to shoot some more footage as well. In fact, we’re talking about me doing my own show for ESPN. Not just a special, but a regular weekly program. Kind of a golf instruction thing.”

  “Sounds great,” Conner muttered.

  “Course, it’ll be hard to squeeze in with my usual color commentary gigs, but I think I can make it work. Especially now that I have a new plane.”

  Conner did a double take. “You have your own plane?”

  “Sure. Don’t you? I thought everyone did.”

  “Uh, no.”

  “You really should, Conner. Get yourself a little Lear, like I did. It’ll vastly improve the quality of your life.”

  “No doubt.” Conner pulled a tee and ball out of his golf bag.

  “Did I tell you about the chain stores?”

  “Uh, no.” Conner was beginning to think he’d made the wrong choice. As a conversational gambit, the wedding of the century was infinitely preferable to Ace’s grandiose career plans.

  “Oh, yeah. We’re going to go national. Ace’s Place, that’s what we’ll call them. We’ll specialize in custom-made golf equipment.”

  Conner cautiously selected his nine-iron. “Sounds like a winner.”

  “I’d like to start my own tournament.”

  Conner pounded his club against the ground. Would this never end?

  “I’ve got sponsors lined up. All I need is a weekend.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know how jam-packed the tournament schedule is. There’s no opening for another tournament, unless one of the current tournaments disappears.”

  “Well, that’s something to hope for, anyway. Whaddaya say we play some golf?”

  Conner took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the game. He still couldn’t believe he was playing golf the day after he found his best friend dead. But—Jodie was right. The killer probably was someone at the tournament, and he was more likely to figure out who that was if he remained involved.

  He felt a tugging at his sleeve. It was Fitz.

  “You’re not really going to use that, are you?”

  “Who are you—my safe sex counselor?”

  “I’m reminding you that your nine-iron play was disastrous yesterday. And we never had a chance to figure out what was causing it.”

  “Well, I’ve slept since then. I think it’ll be all right.”

  “Don’t be nuts. Use the three-wood.”

  “The nine-iron’s my best club.”

  “Not yesterday, it wasn’t.”

  Conner frowned. “Maybe you’re right.” Reluctantly, he accepted the wood from Fitz.

  The first nine holes went reasonably well for Conner, although he was handicapped by not being able to use his nine-iron on the shorter shots, and he still had a nasty tendency to choke on his putting game. Still, he finished the first nine only two over par; not as good as Ace played, but a respectable showing.

  Unfortunately, at the Masters it’s the back nine that make all the difference. The eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth holes are traditionally referred to as “Amen Corner”—the famous holes where water can turn the tournament upside-down. Conner weathered the eleventh, over-shooting with a three-wood but still managing to make par.

  The twelfth hole was a par three with a tiny green. Conner stood at the tee and gazed out at the smooth sheer green horizon. “Perfect hole for a nine-iron,” he commented.

  “For someone else maybe,” Fitz replied. “Not for you.” He held out a club. “Here. Use this.”

  Conner hesistated.

  Fitz’s face fell. “Oh, damn.”

  “What?”

  “I can tell by the expression on your face. You’re about to do something stupid.”

  Conner put his hands on his hips. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You will. I know it.” Fitz shook his head back and forth. “You’re not going to use the wood, are you?”

  Conner gazed once again at the
fairway. “You have to admit, it’s a perfect hole for a nine-iron.”

  “Not when your ball slices every time you use it!”

  Conner pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I’m going to give it a try.”

  Fitz slapped his forehead in despair. “No, no, no! Conner—you’re playing a good game. Don’t screw it up.”

  “I can’t avoid the nine-iron forever.” He snatched the club from his bag. “Besides, when a man falls off his horse, he’s got to get right back on again.”

  “Spare me the cowboy philosophizing.”

  “Stand back, Fitz. I’m going to make this one count.” Conner took his position, carefully concentrating on his stance, his grip, his destination. He took a deep breath, held it . . . then let it fly.

  The ball soared beautifully up into the air . . . and then, as predictably as a heart attack, took a severe turn to the right. The slice cut sideways across the fairway, just short of the green, and rolled into a water trap.

  Conner cursed and threw the club back at Fitz. “I’m never using the damn thing again.”

  “That’s it,” Barry said, chuckling. “Blame the club.” Barry seemed to be a good deal merrier than he had been when they started the round. Come to notice, Conner thought, his nose seemed a bit redder, too. Did the man have some hooch hidden in his golf bag, or what?

  The thirteenth was not much of an improvement. It was a dogleg left, with dogwood, a creek running down one side of the fairway and trees running down the other. The narrow water trap in front of the green was invisible from the crook in the fairway where the players traditionally lay up for their second shot.

  Conner used the wood to hit a perfect drive into the sweet spot. He was relieved; that was supposed to be his specialty, after all. He selected his pitching wedge to pop the ball onto the green.

  As he took his stance, he felt Fitz lay a hand on his shoulder. “Envision the water trap. Locate it in your mind.”

  “How can I locate it in my mind? I can’t even see it.”

  “That’s the point, Conner. You can’t see it with your eyes, so don’t try. Close your eyes and see it with your mind’s eye. You know where it is, where it must be. Picture it, and drive the ball across it. Don’t think, do.”

  “Thanks, Yoda.” Conner closed his eyes and swung . . . and the ball plopped down into the water trap.

  “May the frigging Force be with you,” Conner grumbled.

  The rest of the course went uneventfully, but after the debacle of Amen Corner, Conner was way behind Ace. After they completed the seventeenth hole, they headed for the locker room. By agreement, the pros were playing only seventeen holes; the eighteenth was still roped off by the police.

  Before they reached the locker room, Conner and the rest encountered a group of reporters huddled under the giant oak tree just outside the entrance to the clubhouse. Conner knew that was one of only two places on the grounds where the media was allowed to talk to players—the other being Butler Cabin. It was standard procedure; they were all used to it. Today’s questioning, however, was anything but standard:

  “What can you tell us about John McCree’s murder?”

  “Is it true the eighteenth green is still smeared with blood?”

  “Do you think the killer might strike again?”

  Before Conner could get himself out of the way, one of the reporters had thrust a microphone under his nose. He saw the red light on the minicam blinking and realized that he was on. “Conner, how are you dealing with the loss of your best friend John McCree?”

  What Conner really wanted was tell these people exactly what he thought of this vulturous picking away at John’s death. But he knew it would be fruitless; they’d edit the footage so that he sounded ridiculous, then make a fool of him on the evening news.

  Conner tried to stammer out a coherent response. “I’ve known John since I was eight,” he said haltingly. “All that time, I’ve considered him my best friend. Obviously, his death has hit me . . . very hard.”

  The man holding the microphone smirked. “But not so hard you couldn’t play the tournament, right?”

  Conner’s head felt as if it were about to boil. He grabbed the man’s shirt and jerked him forward. “Look, you sorry son-of-a—”

  Conner froze. The red light was still blinking. This was all being recorded. The man had baited him, and now Conner was giving him exactly what he wanted.

  Conner released the reporter. “John McCree’s dream was that one of us Oklahoma boys might one day make good at the Masters tournament. I can’t very well make that dream come true by quitting, can I?”

  Conner turned before the reporter could respond and quickly moved out of camera-shot. Behind him, he heard the mob surround Ace, looking for fresh meat.

  As always, the mediagenic Ace rose to the occasion. “Although I didn’t know John long or well, I sensed that in his chest beat a heart of purest gold . . .”

  Conner had to stifle his gagging reflex.

  “. . . but now, there’s an empty place in the locker room where John McCree’s blue-and-white bag used to be.” Ace looked as if he might burst out in tears at any moment. “One thing is certain—from this day forward, pro golf will never be the same. He will be missed.”

  Conner turned, shaking his head, and made his way down to the locker room. He found Barry was already there, changing out of his golf clothes. Somehow, the man had managed to elude the fourth estate wolf pack altogether. That must’ve been tricky. And totally unlike a PGA golf pro.

  A thought occurred to Conner. He strode over to Barry, who was lacing up his street shoes. “Barry, I want a word with you.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

  No doubt about it; there was something strong and alcoholic on the man’s breath. Perhaps one reason he didn’t care to be interviewed. “You had plenty enough to say last night when you were in your cups.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t bother denying it. I’m not the only one who was in the bar last night. You made your feelings known to everyone within earshot.”

  Barry glared at him. “You’d be better off just leaving me alone, Cross.”

  “Why have you got such a chip on your shoulder about John?”

  “That’s between him and me.”

  “The police might feel differently.”

  Barry’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, if you had some kind of grudge against John, I want to hear about it.”

  Barry finished tying his shoes, grabbed his gym bag, and stood up. “Maybe you should ask Jodie.” And on that note, he pivoted quickly and stomped out of the locker room.

  Chapter 12

  * * *

  Once he’d changed, Conner made his way to the eighteenth green. A hundred-yard area surrounding the sand trap was roped off. Homicide technicians were still combing the crime scene, some of them crawling on hands and knees, searching for clues. Some of them were using tweezers, and they were all wearing yellow coveralls. What they could possibly find this long after the fact Conner couldn’t imagine, but he was gratified that they were trying.

  An idea sparked in Conner’s brain. Wouldn’t Derwood be impressed if Conner showed up at the first tee tomorrow in one of those snappy yellow coveralls? He wondered if they came in his size.

  He approached a few of the technicians, but they either refused to talk or claimed they didn’t know anything. No one would tell him anything of value, like whether the police had a suspect, or even a good lead for that matter. Their blank faces reinforced in his mind the fear Jodie had expressed—that John’s murder would never be solved.

  How had he let her talk him into this? As if he knew anything about conducting a crime investigation. They were just kidding themselves, imagining that he might discover something the cops couldn’t. He needed to find Jodie and tell her this was a mistake. She was probably in the clubhouse. Maybe he should just wander over there . . .
/>
  Conner glanced toward the clubhouse, but his eyes lit upon a much closer scenic wonder. A tall red-haired woman made him do a double-take. She was standing at a distance, staring in his direction.

  He grinned. Probably another golf groupie, one of those women who follow the tour around the country and will do anything imaginable to get close to a real live golf pro.

  Conner sauntered a few steps in her direction. “Hi,” he said, flashing his best smile. “I’m Conner Cross.”

  The woman barely turned her head. “I’m glad for you.”

  Conner laughed. “No, seriously. I’m Conner Cross.”

  “You’re not going to ask me for money, are you?”

  Conner frowned. “Uh . . . aren’t you here to watch the tournament?”

  “Get real.” She had a lilting accent, slow and deliberate. Definitely a local. “You think I have nothing better to do than watch a bunch of clowns in pastel Polos knock a little ball around?”

  Conner’s grin faded fast. This wasn’t going to be quite as easy as he had imagined. “Well, then . . . why are you here?”

  She whipped out a leather wallet and revealed a shiny silver badge. “Lieutenant Nikki O’Brien, Augusta PD.”

  Conner’s face flattened. “You—you’re investigating the murder?”

  “You are a quick study, aren’t you?”

  Well, as long as he was here, maybe he could get a little information. “So, uh . . . how’s the investigation going?”

  “We’re just getting started.”

  “Got any leads? Suspects?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss it right now.”

  “Oh, of course, of course.” Okay, then back to Plan A. The pick-up. “You’re really truly a cop?”

  Her lips turned down at the edges. “Who did you say you were?”

  “Conner Cross.”

  “That sounds familiar. What do you do?”

  “Me?” Conner pressed a hand against his chest. “I . . . well . . .”

  “Is this a hard question?”