William Bernhardt

by Final Round (v5)

  “You couldn’t possibly have known. It looks like the other clubs.”

  “It’s my job to know. I should’ve suspected the second your game went off. If it had happened to Arnold Palmer, I’d have realized immediately it must be the club. But when it’s you, I just assumed—”

  Conner arched an eyebrow. “Ye-es . . . ?”

  “I just assumed—“ Fitz drew in his breath. “Well, never mind what I assumed. I’m sorry, Conner. I should’ve been on top of this.” He addressed himself to Lieutenant O’Brien. “So you see what really happened, ma’am. Conner isn’t the murderer. Someone pulled a switch.”

  O’Brien frowned. “I’m not entirely convinced. His fingerprints were all over the murder weapon.”

  “Course they were. It’s his club. The killer probably used gloves.”

  “The fact that the clubs were switched doesn’t prove he didn’t commit the murder. He might’ve switched the clubs just to throw us off his trail.”

  “Could you both stop referring to me in third person?” Conner asked.

  Fitz gave O’Brien a penetrating gaze. “Do you really think this man is capable of thinking of something that smart?”

  “Now wait a minute—”

  O’Brien nodded. “Good point. I suppose I have to release him—that is, you, Cross. For the moment, anyway.” She withdrew the key from her pocket and popped open the cuffs. “Mind you, you’re still under suspicion. So don’t leave town.”

  “Can’t. Got a tournament to play.”

  “There’s no point in arresting you and initiating a preliminary hearing unless I can make the charge stick. I need to be able to answer some of these questions about the murder weapon.” She snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute. Maybe if we traced this club—“ She picked up the nine-iron resting on the changing bench and examined the metal base. “Blast. The serial number has been scraped off.”

  “What more proof do you need?” Conner said. “Obviously, that club originally belonged to the killer. He scraped off the serial number so you couldn’t trace him. Then he switched it for mine and used mine to kill John.”

  “Maybe so,” O’Brien said, deep in thought. “But if that’s so—someone was intentionally trying to frame you.”

  “She’s right,” Fitz concurred.

  “But who would want to see you in trouble?”

  Fitz answered for Conner. “Who wouldn’t?”

  Chapter 16

  * * *

  O’Brien smiled thinly. “I heard you were doing a little investigating on your own yesterday. I assumed you were just covering yourself. Diverting suspicion.”

  “You were wrong,” Conner said firmly. “I want to know who murdered John. And if you can’t figure it out—I will.”

  “Bold words from a man who makes his living knocking a little white ball around.” O’Brien clipped her cuffs to the back of her belt. “Well, if you have any sudden brainstorms, or remember anything new, I expect you to call immediately.”

  “I will,” Conner promised. “And Lieutenant—”

  “Yeah?”

  “I swear I didn’t kill John.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “You know, there’s one thing I haven’t heard yet. You say the murder weapon was a golf club. How exactly was John killed?”

  The corners of O’Brien’s mouth turned up, as if a playful thought was tossing around in her brain and she just couldn’t decide whether to go for it or not. “You really want to know?” she said finally.

  “That’s why I asked.”

  She pondered a moment. “I suppose it might be useful to have someone around who understands this silly game.” She nodded. “Okay, come with me.”

  Conner blew air through the holes in the top of his face mask. “This isn’t what I had in mind.”

  Merry crinkles outlined O’Brien’s eyes. “You said you wanted to do some investigating.”

  “Yeah, at the golf course. Not the county morgue.”

  Before he’d had a decent chance to protest, O’Brien had shoved him into her car and driven him ten minutes downtown to the coroner’s office where, Conner was delighted to learn, the autopsy of his best friend’s remains was still in progress. She’d issued him a face mask and rubbed some Mentholatum under his nose. It was supposed to kill the smell of formaldehyde and . . . whatever else might be in the air.

  It didn’t.

  “Look at it this way, Cross,” O’Brien drawled. “You’ve missed the preliminary examination. Dr. Jarrett is already well into the actual postmortem.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Well, basically, the preliminary examination involves the skillful violation of each and every bodily orifice.”

  “Sounds like the sort of thing you’d enjoy.”

  “Whereas the postmortem involves the actual slivering and dismembering of bodily tissue.”

  “Delightful.”

  “With a few other tests and examinations along the way, just to keep things lively. C’mon—let’s go inside.”

  Together, they stepped into the operating theater. There was one table in the room, and one body on the table, partially draped by a sheet. Even in this deteriorated condition, Conner had no trouble making an identification.

  It was John McCree. His best friend. What was left of him.

  In life, John had always had a wonderful tan. The miracle tan, the press called it, since it seemed to stay with him even during the off-season. But today, his complexion was a sickly ochre, complementing the puke green paint on the operating-room walls.

  His face was much as it had been when Conner had last seen it. There was still a pronounced gash on the side of his skull, but now the blood had dried and coagulated. Conner suspected some of it had been removed; it had seemed much messier when he first rolled the body over in the sand trap. His jaw seemed loose, perhaps even disconnected. From the murder? Conner wondered. Or had the decomposition already begun?

  “Let me introduce you to Dr. Jarrett,” O’Brien said. “Dr. Jarrett, this is Conner Cross, the world-famous golfer.”

  Dr. Jarrett made a grunting noise that may have been a greeting but sounded more as if he were in gastric distress. He never looked up from his work.

  “Is he always this friendly?” Conner asked.

  “This is a good day for him,” O’Brien answered. “He hasn’t tried to evict you or started throwing stilettos.”

  “Stilettos?”

  “Surgical stilettos. The man is deadly with them. Could probably get work with the circus. As you’ll likely see when I start asking him questions.”

  Conner made a mental note to keep a close watch on the man’s throwing arm. What surprised him most about Dr. Jarrett was his age—or lack thereof. The good doctor appeared to be in his early thirties, maybe even younger. Conner wasn’t sure why that surprised him. Somehow he had always imagined coroners as aged, grizzled men, hunched over the autopsy table, finding perverse pleasure and strange satisfaction in filleting corpses. With his broad shoulders and long blond hair (currently tucked into a hairnet), Dr. Jarrett looked more like he should be down at the beach with Gidget and Moondoggie than in the au-topsy room.

  “Dr. Jarrett’s only been with us for two years,” O’Brien explained, as if reading Conner’s mind, which he didn’t rule out. “But he’s greatly distinguished himself in that time. He’s considered the top forensic man in the county.”

  Goody, Conner thought. That explains everything. Except why I’m here.

  “Dr. Jarrett,” O’Brien said, projecting her voice across the operating table, “have you had a chance to run any time analysis?”

  Conner found Jarrett’s grunt incomprehensible, but O’Brien obviously took it as an affirmative reply. Conner wasn’t sure if this was a sign of greater comprehension or simply greater optimism.

  “Can you estimate the time of death?”

  At last, Dr. Jarrett took a break from his slicing and dicing. He drew himself up and squinted at O’Br
ien, as if he were having a hard time focusing. “Estimates are difficult, given the time that expired before the corpse was discovered. But based on an analysis of relative body temperatures, correlated with an analysis of the stomach contents, I’d say the victim died Tuesday night. Between ten and midnight.”

  Conner nodded. “Shortly after he left his cabin. After Jodie saw him last. That explains why he never showed up at the driving range.”

  “What was the cause of death?” O’Brien asked.

  Dr. Jarrett didn’t look up. His reply was barely audible. “That is what I am endeavoring to discover.”

  “C’mon, doctor. Give me a break.”

  “Gladly,” he replied, holding up a ball-peen hammer. “Where would you like it?”

  O’Brien smiled thinly. “I know the drill. You haven’t finished all your tests and the lab work isn’t in and you haven’t filed a report. When you do, I’ll read it and I’m sure I’ll be riveted by every word. But in the meantime . . . give me something to go on, okay?”

  Dr. Jarrett’s lips pursed, considering. Conner wasn’t sure if he was considering whether to talk or whether to cause bodily injury.

  At last, Jarrett spoke. “See this?”

  He pulled down a goose-necked lamp and shone it directly on the side of John’s head. Conner winced. Under the harsh light, John’s face seemed scarred by a translucent blue-green spider web. Conner looked away.

  “You going to be all right?” O’Brien asked.

  “Yeah,” Conner said, barely above a whisper.

  “Close your eyes and think of Pebble Beach.” She turned back toward Jarrett. “All right, doctor. What’s the point?”

  “Death was, in all likelihood, caused by a sharp blow by a metal object.”

  “Like a golf club?”

  “That would be consistent with all the external evidence.” He paused. “There may have been two or three blows, but no more than that, I think. And if there were multiple blows, they were delivered with considerable skill and accuracy to the same region of the head to such an extent that I can’t be certain. At least not yet.”

  O’Brien arched an eyebrow. “Hear that, Cross? You got any suspects who are good with a golf club?”

  “Yeah,” Conner grunted. “All of them.”

  “The blow or blows ruptured the meningeal artery,” Dr. Jarrett continued, “and caused an immediate brain hemorrhage. After that, death would have soon followed.”

  “Would he—“ Conner drew in his breath and tried again. “Would he have felt much . . . pain?”

  For once, Dr. Jarrett’s face softened a bit. “It’s impossible to know with any certainty. Death would have come quickly. But how quickly . . . well, I just can’t say. I’m sorry.” He looked down abruptly and returned to his work.

  O’Brien tried another question. “What can you tell us about the place of death, doctor? Are we dealing with a DRT? Or was the body moved?”

  A state of extreme irritation blanketed the doctor’s face. “If you don’t mind, Lieutenant, I’m working.”

  “So am I. What about it?”

  Conner saw Jarrett’s eyes flicker toward his instruments’ table. Was this when target practice would begin? He took a step toward the door, just in case. “If the body was moved, it wasn’t moved much. Probably just pushed into the sand trap and buried.”

  “Then John was already out on the course,” Conner said, thinking aloud. “Either that, or he was lured there by the killer.”

  “Maybe he was forced out there,” O’Brien offered. “Like at gunpoint.”

  “I find that hard to believe. Too risky. John was strong and smart—he’d have figured a way out. And what if they’d been seen? No, he must’ve had a reason to go out there. Someone must’ve persuaded him to go.” Conner’s face suddenly went white.

  “What?” O’Brien said, staring at him. “What is it?”

  “Don’t you see? Security has been at its peak since before the tournament began. I know at least one person who slipped in, sure, but the fact remains—security is tight. But someone still got to John. Someone lured him onto the eighteenth green and killed him.”

  “So?”

  “So,” Conner said slowly, “all the evidence points to one conclusion. The killer must’ve been someone John knew.” He paused. “Probably someone connected to the tournament.”

  Chapter 17

  * * *

  As soon as he could escape the morgue, Conner hitched a ride back to the Augusta National, where Fitz was anxiously awaiting him at the first tee. He still couldn’t believe he was actually going to play golf, after all that had happened. It didn’t seem right, even after everything Jodie had said, and all he had promised her. On the other hand, given the most recent developments, he was lucky he wasn’t in prison. And playing golf was definitely preferable to prison.

  For once, Fitz didn’t appear to be in his attack-dog mode, perhaps because he knew where Conner had been and what he must have been through. “How was it?” he said, not quite looking Conner in the eye.

  “ ’Bout like you’d expect,” Conner replied. He preferred to avoid details that he’d rather forget.

  “Learn anything?”

  “Not really.” Conner paused. “Well, one thing. I’m pretty certain John’s killer must be someone here at the tournament.”

  Fitz nodded. “Stands to reason.” He laid a hand on Conner’s shoulder. “Think you can play golf?”

  “Think I’d better.” Conner shook himself, trying to rouse himself out of his stupor. “Don’t want to disappoint my groupies.”

  Fitz led Conner toward the first tee-off, where he already had Conner’s clubs ready to play. Once again, Conner had been paired with Barry and Ace, but today Harley Tuttle joined their little group as well.

  “Big crowd, isn’t it?” Harley said, gazing at the large collection of fans gathered behind the ropes beside the first tee.

  “Yeah,” Conner agreed. “Biggest I’ve seen in a long while.” He would’ve liked to have believed the legions were gathered to see him play, but a quick reality check told him they were more likely assembled to observe Ace. “That bother you?”

  Harley shrugged. “I don’t much like the razzmatazz. I usually try to stay away from the superstars. All this attention blows things out of proportion. You know what my daddy used to say?”

  “I have a hunch I’m about to.”

  “You can’t hang pumpkins on a morning glory.”

  Conner nodded thoughtfully. “Harley, what the hell does that mean?”

  “Beats me. Guess I should’ve asked daddy.”

  Conner gave him a slap on the shoulder. “You’ll get used to the crowds.” He tried to be reassuring, although in truth, he sympathized with Harley. Normally he loved attention, but this morning, he wasn’t in the mood. For someone who tended to be reserved and reclusive like Harley, and who was new on the tour, he could see how having an entourage could ruin his game. “Block them out of your mind. Pretend they’re not there.”

  “Easy to say.” Harley wandered off toward his golf bag and took a few practice swings.

  Ace emerged from the clubhouse, and the instant the crowd saw him, a tremendous cheer went up. Hats flew into the air, people pumped their fists, and a group in the rear began chanting: “Ace! Ace! Ace!”

  “Is he running for something?” Conner inquired.

  “As opposed to you,” Fitz replied, “who are usually running from something.”

  Ace waved to the gallery, bowing his head in feigned humility. The crowd cheered again. Ace flashed a perfect dentally-enhanced smile, then strolled over to Conner. “Did you see that? Did you hear it?”

  “We saw it,” Conner replied. “We heard it.”

  “Man, those people love me. They just . . . love me!”

  Conner nodded. “But will they respect you in the morning?”

  “I’ve got to get myself a tournament,” Ace said, pounding a fist against his open hand. “Can you imagine? With this following
? It’d be the biggest event of the season! There’s got to be some way to open up a weekend on the schedule.”

  “Maybe if the Augusta National was buried by a volcano,” Conner suggested.

  Ace nodded grimly. If he perceived that Conner was making a joke, he didn’t let it show. “That’s something to hope for, anyway.”

  Conner brushed past Barry on his way to the first tee. Barry didn’t look at him, and he didn’t look at Barry. Didn’t speak, either. Conner supposed he should feel slightly less hostile toward the man now that he knew what his grudge was all about—but he didn’t. Besides, Barry looked as if he’d been drinking already, and a pungent whiff of alcoholic afterbreath was probably all Conner needed to send him to the vomitorium.

  Fitz tugged at his sleeve. “Look, before you start, let’s go over a few things.”

  “Nah,” Conner said. “Let’s just do it.”

  “Do it? Do what? Do what you did yesterday?” Ah, now this was more like the Fitz Conner had grown to know and . . . tolerate. “I realize you’re playing under adverse circumstances. But the fact remains—you are playing. Your reputation is at stake, as well as your record. If you play another game like yesterday’s, you won’t make the cut tonight. You won’t even get to finish the tournament.”

  “Fitz, you know I don’t take well to scoldings. Let’s just play.”

  “If you play like you did yesterday—”

  “Yesterday I was playing with a nine-iron that wasn’t mine. Today I’m not. That should make a difference, don’t you think?” Conner drew a wood from his bag. “Besides, for some reason, I feel good about my game right at the moment. I’m ready. So clear out of the way and let me play.”

  Fitz screwed his lips together and, after transmitting a few stony glares, stomped away. Apparently even he knew when persistence was futile.

  True to Conner’s prediction, he did play better. In fact, the first nine holes went like a dream. Now that he had expunged all the too-short clubs with dents in the side, he was back on track. His putting was still the weakest part of his game, but he compensated for it with consistent power drives. He managed to finish the first nine four under par. And he traversed Amen Corner without picking up too many strokes. But on the fifteenth, he ran into trouble.