“I don’t know why you should be disappointed,” Fitz snapped. “You should be relieved.”
“Relieved?”
“After a performance like the one you gave on the course today, you should’ve placed in the three-digit numbers.”
“There are only sixty players in the tournament.”
“Like I said.” Fitz leaned into Conner’s ear. “I don’t know where your head is, Conner, but if you don’t get it on this game, you’re not going to make the Friday night cut!” With that, Fitz stomped out of the bar.
Harsh words but, alas, true ones. Conner knew he was right, and he knew that dimpled ball didn’t care what all Conner had been through. If his performance didn’t improve, he’d never make it to Saturday—the ultimate embarrassment.
As if his thoughts weren’t gloomy enough already, Fitz spotted Derwood headed his way. Derwood planted himself in front of Conner and spoke but a single word. “Come.”
Conner looked at him wryly. “This is becoming an every night thing.” He took Derwood’s hand and squeezed it. “Aren’t you afraid people will talk?”
“You’re a sick man, Cross.”
“I love it when you’re mean to me.” Conner leaned forward and kissed Derwood on the cheek.
Derwood grimaced and bolted away, wiping his cheek. “You sick—sick—“ He turned and ran out of the bar amidst a chorus of hoots and hollers.
In the chairman’s office, Conner found the usual cast of characters in their usual places. He began to wonder if these people choreographed these meetings before he arrived.
“I’m sure you know why we’ve called you here,” Spenser said in somber tones.
“As a matter of fact, I’m clueless. I thought I’d been a good boy today.”
Spenser glanced at a piece of paper in his right hand. It was some kind of report—no doubt prepared by Derwood. “I understand you’ve been bothering people on our premises. Hounding them with questions about John McCree.”
Conner’s eyebrows knitted. Who would’ve told Derwood that?
“I also understand that you behaved in a belligerent manner to certain members of the press.” He looked up from the paper. “It seems incredible but apparently you actually assaulted a reporter.”
“He had it coming,” Conner grumbled. “And then some.”
Spenser appeared flabbergasted. “You mean you don’t deny it?”
“No, I don’t deny it. He was hassling me, making nasty insinuations. Using John’s death to boost his ratings.”
Spenser drew himself up. “Well, then. Since you make no attempt to deny these charges, let me make myself absolutely clear. We will not tolerate any improper behavior toward the journalistic community. If you have a complaint about someone, you should give it to Derwood.”
“I’d sooner die.”
“But under no circumstances should you ever behave in a hostile, unprofessional manner. Much less actually strike someone!”
“Oh, all I did was shake him around a little. And believe me, he deserved it.”
“You think you’re the first pro who ever got hassled by a reporter? We depend on the press. Those big purses only exist because television reporters are interested in what you’re doing. If the reporters go away, so does the big money.”
“This is not about money.”
“On that, we are agreed,” Spenser said firmly. “It’s about decorum, a quality you are sadly lacking!”
Conner’s eyes narrowed. “Was that John’s problem?”
Spenser took a step back. “What? I don’t know what you mean.”
“Did he lack decorum as well? Did he, for instance, have trouble keeping his mouth shut?”
Spenser looked wild-eyed at the others. “Cross is a madman. An absolute madman.”
“I know John was disturbed about something the night he was killed, and I can’t think of anyone who could disturb someone more than you.”
“You’re insane!”
“Stop playing games, Spenser. I know John headed up the finance committee.”
“But—so?” Spenser sputtered. Conner was relieved. He’d taken a wild shot, but judging by Spenser’s reaction, he wasn’t far from the target. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think John knew something. Maybe he had something on you. Something you didn’t want to get out. What was it, Spenser?”
“This is an outrage!” Spenser threw up his hands. “I want this man out of here! Now!”
Conner took a step toward the door, pleased with the knowledge that he’d definitely gotten under Spenser’s skin. More than ever, he was convinced the man was hiding something. But what?
Conner saw the others in the room glancing at one another, exchanging looks. What were they thinking? Were they marking this down as another of Conner’s gonzo behavior spasms? Or were they beginning to wonder what Spenser was hiding, too?
“I’ll go,” Conner said quietly. “But I’ll be back. And when I am, I’ll expect an answer to my question.” Conner marched toward the door and, before Spenser had a chance to sputter another word, left the office.
Friday
Friday morning, bright and early, Conner dressed and headed for the coffee shop. He had a relatively late tee time, but he still wanted to be up and around with his eyes wide open. As he rounded the corner, he saw Lieutenant O’Brien standing just outside the coffee shop. As soon as she saw him, she moved forward. She was obviously waiting for him.
“Lieutenant O’Brien,” he said, grinning. “So nice to see you.”
“And so nice to see you,” O’Brien said, with her slow Georgia drawl.
Had he really told this vision he was a horticulturist? A sudden wave of guilt overcame him. He laid his hand on her shoulder. “Look, I can’t stand keeping secrets from a beautiful woman like you. Maybe I should come clean.”
“That would be very welcome.” She took his hand and, with a smooth sudden motion, spun Conner around, pinning his arm behind his back. “You’re under arrest for the murder of John McCree.”
Chapter 15
* * *
“Hey, watch it!” Conner shouted.
“You have the right to remain silent,” O’Brien said, shoving her knee into the small of his back. “Anything you say can and will be used against you.”
“What the hell is going on?”
O’Brien shoved him up against the wall. “You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.” She slid the cuffs over his wrists and clamped them shut.
Conner bellowed, as best he was able with his face pressed against the wall. “Would you stop with the Mirandizing and tell me what’s going on?”
“I already did. You’re under arrest for murder.”
“Murder? You think I killed John?”
“No wonder you were lurking around the sand trap yesterday. The perp always returns to the scene of the crime.” She whipped Conner around to face her, then shoved him back against the wall.
“Would you stop already? That hurts.”
At that moment, Ace Silverstone happened by, apparently on his way to the coffee shop. He took one look at Conner, then the cuffs, then rolled his eyes. “Conner, keep the kinky stuff in your room, okay? We have an image to maintain.” He shook his head, then walked on toward breakfast.
O’Brien grabbed Conner’s wrist and jerked him forward. “C’mon dirtbag. I’m taking you to the station.”
“Look, lady, you’re making a big mistake.”
“Tell it to the judge.” She jerked his wrists all the harder.
“Ow! Cool it, will you? Do you get off on this rough stuff?”
“Just shut up and walk.” She marched him toward the front doors. “In case you haven’t heard, murder is a serious charge.”
“How can you possibly think I murdered John?” Conner asked. “He was my best friend.”
“That’s no big surprise. Most murder victims are killed by someone they know.”
“But I had no reason to kill him.”
“No? Then why the masquerade? Why’d you give me that song and dance about being a horticulturist?”
Conner flushed. “Is that what this is about? I was just having some fun. Trying to make a good impression on you.”
“By lying?”
“I got the distinct impression you weren’t nuts about golf pros.”
“You got that right.”
“So I made up a harmless story. You can’t haul me down to the station for that.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what possible reason could you have?”
O’Brien paused just outside the front door. “We found the murder weapon.”
Conner’s eyes widened. “Where?”
“In the rough beside the eighteenth fairway. It’s been buried since Tuesday night, but not very deep.”
“Did you run tests?”
“Of course I ran tests. Who do you think I am, Deputy Fife? She glared at him. “And guess whose fingerprints we found.”
“No way!”
“That’s why you’re wearing those pretty silver bracelets.”
“There must be some mistake.”
O’Brien’s lip curled. “My only mistake was not locking you up the second I laid eyes on you.”
“But—“ Conner paused, trying to gather his thoughts. “I haven’t been near any weapons. What was it, a knife? A blunt instrument?”
O’Brien looked at him levelly. “A golf club.”
If Conner’s eyes were wide before, they were twin balloons now. “A golf club?”
“What are you, a parrot? Yes, a golf club. A golf club with traces of blood and hair embedded in the indentations on the metal base. Your golf club.”
“How can you be sure?”
“You play with Excalibur clubs, don’t you?”
How did she know that? “I’m not the only player in the PGA to use Excaliburs.”
“Damn near. But at any rate, we traced the serial number on the base of the club. You made the mistake of buying direct from the dealer. They have your name in their files.” She leaned close to his ear. “Word of advice. Next time you’re buying a murder weapon, go retail.”
As O’Brien continued dragging him toward her car, Conner tried to process all this new information. If the serial numbers matched, then it had to be his club. But how could that be? He hadn’t killed John. And his club hadn’t been buried since Tuesday night, either. He’d had all his clubs with him during the par three Wednesday, and yesterday, too. Unless . . .
“Lieutenant O’Brien . . .” He stopped just outside the red Tercel that appeared to be her unmarked vehicle. “What club did you find buried in the rough?”
“The boys in the office tell me it’s a nine-iron. Why?”
“Of course . . .” he murmured. Why hadn’t he figured it out himself? He hadn’t hit a decent shot with his nine-iron since Tuesday. Why?
Because it wasn’t his nine-iron.
“O’Brien,” he said slowly, “there’s been a horrible mistake.”
“Yeah. Yours.”
“No, I mean it. I think someone switched the clubs.”
“Do I look like I’ve got grits for brains?”
“I’m serious. I’ve been framed.”
“Cross, we’ve already confirmed that it’s your club.”
“The killer must’ve taken my club and planted a look-alike in my bag so I wouldn’t notice it was gone.”
O’Brien placed one hand on her hip. “And I suppose you can prove this cockamamie story?”
“Well . . .”
“Tell me this, Fantasy Man. How could this purported killer get to your clubs?”
“I don’t know,” Conner said, biting down on his lower lip. “We need to talk to Fitz.”
On their way back to the clubhouse, Conner explained that, as his caddie, Fitz was the official Keeper of the Clubs. It was his job to make sure they were always where they were supposed to be. He made sure they were polished, clean, and ready to play. Golf pros and their caddies were notoriously—and understandably—protective about the clubs. They locked them up in the locker room before going to sleep. Conner also explained that Fitz was a man of honor, a man of his word. He wouldn’t lie for anyone—least of all Conner.
They found Fitz in the coffee shop enjoying a light breakfast of toast and a poached egg. At least, until they showed up.
“Hiya, Fitz,” Conner said amiably. His attempt at nonchalance was pretty feeble, considering he was being shoved forward by a police officer and had his hands cuffed behind his back. “How are the eggs this morning?”
“A bit runny, but I don’t like to complain.” His eyes lighted on the handcuffs, then on the woman close behind him. “A new paramour, Conner?”
“A new homicide detective. Lieutenant O’Brien. I’m under arrest.”
“What a novel idea. I wish I’d thought of that.” He smiled at O’Brien. “Would there be any possibility of a gag?”
Conner frowned. “I need you to explain to her about golf clubs.”
“Is the lieutenant thinking of taking up the game?”
“Hardly,” she snarled.
Conner quickly summarized what O’Brien had told him about the clubs, and what he had managed to deduce. “Fitz, I think someone must’ve taken my nine-iron and planted a ringer.”
Fitz nodded thoughtfully. “A distinct possibility. It would explain a great deal.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin and rose to his feet. “Let’s go find out.”
Fitz led them to the locker room, and the special row of lockers designed to hold the players’ golf bags. “As you can see, there’s room for an entire set of clubs.”
“And you’ve been using these lockers?” O’Brien asked.
“Absolutely. Without exception. If his clubs weren’t in play or in my possession, they were in locker 42. During the day, there’s a security guard posted outside, and at night the door is locked and bolted.”
“Then it wouldn’t be possible for someone to make a switch.”
“Unless,” Conner interjected, “Fitz did it.”
“Very astute of you,” Fitz said through thin lips.
“Fitz has been rather cranky lately. Perhaps the combination of bad temper and advanced years caused some sort of breakdown . . .”
“Very droll. But seriously—”
“Seriously,” O’Brien said. “I don’t see how any switch could have been made if the security on these clubs is so tight.” She grabbed Conner’s bracelets. “You’re coming downtown.”
“Wait,” Fitz said. “We’re forgetting something.”
“And what would that be?” O’Brien asked.
“Tuesday night.”
Conner shook his head. “Believe me, Fitz, Tuesday night is indelibly stamped on my brain.”
“You’re forgetting the driving range.”
Conner’s lips parted. “Oh, my—”
“The driving range?” O’Brien said.
“Tuesday night Conner took out his clubs so he could hit a few balls on the driving range,” Fitz explained. “It’s something he and John do—did—before the first day of every tournament.”
“John never showed up,” Conner continued.
“And I guess now we know why,” Fitz added.
“So I started hitting the balls myself. Then Freddy lured me to the locker room so I could peep through his—“ He shot a quick glance at O’Brien.
“You were saying?” she inquired.
“—his . . . stock portfolio.”
She looked at him levelly. “He wanted you to peep through his stock portfolio?”
“Right. Had some new company he was promoting that’s invented a better . . . um . . . better battery.”
“A better battery?”
“For video cameras and stuff. A battery that doesn’t have a memory so you don’t have to worry about draining it completely before recharging.”
“But why—”
“Anyway,” Conner said hurriedly, “I left the driving range with Freddy. Afterwards, I met someone in the bar and we got to talking and—”
O’Brien took out her notebook. “Who did you meet?”
Conner stopped. “A . . . an old friend.”
“And your friend’s name?”
Conner glanced at Fitz, who shook his head, then back at O’Brien. What was that student’s name? “I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember your old friend’s name?”
Fitz cut in. “It’s the brain seizures, ma’am. They strike without warning. Some mornings he can’t even remember where he is.”
“Brain seizures?”
“It’s a tragedy. Especially with a man so young.”
“Brain seizures?”
“Well, of course.” Fitz leaned close to her ear and whispered. “How else could you explain the way he dresses?”
“Good point.”
“Anyway,” Fitz said, forging ahead, “the gist of it is, this maroon left his clubs on the driving range. I found them, maybe an hour or so after he left, and I locked them up for the night. But before that anyone could’ve gotten to his clubs.” Fitz put the key in the lock, opened the door, and pulled out Conner’s bag.
O’Brien peered over his shoulder. “Which one of these is the nine-iron?”
“This one,” Fitz said, pulling the club out of the bag. “And if I’m not mistaken . . .” He pulled one of the other irons out and held the two next to one another. “See for yourself. The nine-iron is shorter than the other.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means it’s not Conner’s club.” Fitz laid the suspect nine-iron on the changing bench. “See that? It’s bent, too. Just a bit, in the middle.”
O’Brien crouched down beside him. “Sure enough.”
“That explains why your game went to hell in a handbasket whenever you used the nine,” Fitz said. “The shaft’s too short for you and it’s bent to boot. Small wonder your drives sliced.”
“Damn,” Conner said. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Why didn’t I think of it, is the question.” Fitz folded his arms angrily across his chest. “It’s my job.”
William Bernhardt Page 11