William Bernhardt

by Final Round (v5)

  “Nothing nearly so elaborate. Just put the money on the seat and disappear.”

  Conner stopped a few paces from the cart. “You mean—leave the money? Here?”

  “What do you know—you’re brighter than you look.”

  “But I thought I was going to give it to you.”

  “And you will, Conner. You will. Drop it on the cart.”

  Damn. What was this fiend planning? He hated to let go of the loot until he knew where the man was. “I don’t feel good about this. What if someone else gets it?”

  “Like who?”

  “I don’t know. A vagrant, maybe.”

  “At the Augusta National? Put the money on the damn seat!”

  Conner did as he was told.

  “Now scram.”

  “What—that’s it?”

  “You heard me. Clear out. Fast.”

  “But I thought—”

  “If you’re anywhere near here in one minute, the deal’s off. And Monica’s dead.” The line disconnected.

  Damn! He didn’t have any choice. Conner slipped his hand in his pocket and pushed the red button on the PDA. Then he started running.

  “We got his signal!” Liponsky shouted.

  O’Brien pressed close to the viewscreen. “Where is he?”

  “On the eighteenth hole. Just south of here.” She stared at her screen for a moment. “The signal’s moving. He probably dropped the cash and ran.” She flipped a switch and spoke into her microphone. “All right, boys and girls—move. Double time.”

  Somewhere in the darkness of the Augusta National golf course, a team of twelve FBI agents began closing in.

  “I want a cordon around the eighteenth in place in thirty seconds,” Liponsky shouted. “Start big, then close. Whatever you do, don’t let anyone escape. Got it? I don’t want any screw-ups. I want this killer caught!”

  She removed the headphones, then turned to O’Brien. “Well, Lieutenant? Shall we go see what we’ve bagged?”

  Conner was still running fast when he saw Liponsky and O’Brien approaching from the opposite direction. O’Brien stepped forward, taking Conner by the arms. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Exhausted, but unharmed. My leg muscles are aching.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Well, a shiatsu massage followed by a full-body oil rubdown might do the trick. Or if you’d like, we can skip the massage.”

  O’Brien shoved him away. “Pervert.”

  “Well, you did ask.”

  Liponsky stepped between them. “Did you see the killer?”

  “Sorry, no. Just heard him. And he was using some kind of voice disguiser.”

  Liponsky grimaced. “That’s what I thought. Doesn’t matter. We’ll grab him when he comes for the mil.”

  “Good,” Conner said. “Mind if I hang around?”

  “I suppose not.”

  Conner’s eyes turned back toward the eighteenth. “I have a message to deliver.”

  O’Brien arched an eyebrow. “With your lips? Or your fist?”

  Conner looked away. “No comment.”

  The FBI cordon remained out of sight but kept a tight lock around the golf cart sitting in the west rough off the eighteenth fairway. The team had settled into place mere seconds after Conner sent the signal. They were certain no one could have gotten in or out. Moreover, they could see that the black money bag was still resting on the seat of the cart.

  “He has to come sometime,” Liponsky said, peering through high-powered infrared binoculars. “Otherwise, what’s the point?”

  “Maybe the killer spotted your team and made himself scarce,” O’Brien suggested.

  “No way. These are some of the best-trained agents in the business. They know how to be invisible. Particularly on a nearly pitch-dark golf course in the dead of night.”

  Fifteen minutes had passed since Conner had made the drop, and the bag was still on top of the seat, just where Conner had left it. Despite all his elaborate preparations, the killer didn’t seem to be in any hurry to collect his prize.

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” Conner said. “The time to grab the bag was immediately—before I had a chance to call in the reinforcements. Why would he do this if he doesn’t want the cash? Besides, he told me he did. He said he needed the money.”

  “He’s just being cautious,” Liponsky whispered. “Making sure the coast is clear before he makes his move. As soon as he’s sure no one’s watching, he’ll go for it. That’s why we have to stay quiet—and stay out of sight.”

  “Fine,” Conner said, folding his arms. She was the professional; they’d play it her way. But for some reason, he wasn’t convinced. A glance at O’Brien told him she wasn’t particularly convinced either.

  Fifteen more slow, tedious minutes passed. Conner wondered if all stakeouts were this exciting. Sitting in the dark, doing nothing. Not exactly a thrill-packed adventure. He wasn’t even angry at the creep anymore. He just wanted this night to be over.

  On cop shows, stakeouts never lasted more than a minute or two before the culprit appeared. It seemed reality was something else again. Conner supposed it hadn’t actually been that long. In truth, he’d only been waiting a little over half an hour, but he was ready to call it a day and run to the clubhouse for a sandwich. Maybe a margarita to wash it down. From their position near the eighteenth, Conner could see the clubhouse. He could even smell the food—or so he imagined. It was just too tempting to resist.

  “Look,” he said quietly, “not that this isn’t the most exciting time I’ve ever had with my clothes on, but I think I’m going to call it a night.”

  “Shh,” Liponsky whispered. She was peering through infrared binoculars.

  “No, seriously, I can’t take it any longer.” Conner started to push up to his feet.

  Liponsky grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him back down. “I think I see someone.”

  Conner froze. Could it be? Finally—?

  Liponsky whispered into her mouthpiece, which transmitted to the earpieces each of the agents was wearing. “See ’im? Yeah, me too. On my signal.”

  A few moments passed. Conner began to perceive a tall silhouette weaving its way across the fairway. It was hard to be certain, but—

  Yes! The silhouette took a sudden veer to the left. It was definitely moving toward the golf cart.

  “That’s it,” Liponsky whispered breathlessly. “One . . . two . . . three . . . move!”

  All at once, a dozen figures appeared out of nowhere, surging forward, forming an increasingly tight circle around the mysterious figure.

  The man stopped suddenly. He’d spotted them. But he didn’t turn away, didn’t run. He just stood still, as if staring in disbelief.

  “Get him!” Liponsky shouted.

  The agents rushed forward, tackling the man. Without resistance, he fell to the ground like a wet sack of potatoes.

  Conner couldn’t stand the suspense. He ran forward, desperate to see who it was. He pulled away a few of the agents on top, straining to get a better view of . . .

  Barry Bennett. And he was potted. Totally.

  “Whass goin’ on?” Barry slurred. His eyes were wild and he seemed dazed, which was not all that surprising, given the circumstances.

  “Cuff him!” Liponsky shouted, just over their shoulders. One of the agents rolled Barry onto his stomach, pulled back his wrists and slid on the cuffs.

  “Look, Liponsky,” Conner said, “I think possibly you’ve—”

  “Did someone read him his rights?” Liponsky shouted. “I don’t want any procedural errors screwing up my collar. We’ve got to read him his rights.”

  The same agent who’d done the cuffs whipped a card out of his shirt pocket and began to read. “You have the right to remain silent . . .”

  “Look,” Conner said, trying again, “I think maybe you’ve made a mistake.”

  “I don’t make mistakes,” Liponsky fired back. “Criminals make mistakes.
”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. But I don’t think Barry is your man.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “I know him. He’s on the tour.”

  “That doesn’t mean he can’t be the killer.”

  “Look at him, will you? He’s smashed!”

  “What?” Liponsky’s head jerked down toward the ground.

  “He’s drunk! If you don’t want to take my word for it, smell his breath.”

  “I can smell it from here,” O’Brien said, somewhere behind them.

  “Iss thiss my cabin?” Barry said with a hiccup. “I been trying to find my cabin . . .”

  Conner rolled his eyes. “You’re a little off-track, Barry.”

  The tiniest trace of concern flickered across Liponsky’s brow. “This could be a front. An acting job to put us off.”

  “No one’s that good an actor, Liponsky. He’s wasted. Probably been drinking all day. And there’s no way the man I was talking to on the phone was drunk.”

  Liponsky bit down on her lower lip. “There must be some explanation.”

  “Yeah, there is. You screwed up.”

  A look of horror suddenly spread across her face. “Oh, my God. If he’s not—”

  “What?” Conner said. “What is it?”

  Without another word, Liponsky raced toward the parked golf cart. She ran like there was no tomorrow, probably doing twice the time Conner had out on the course. She didn’t stop running until she practically collided into the cart.

  “Oh, no!” she cried. “No, no, no!”

  Conner and O’Brien followed close behind her. “What is it?” Conner asked.

  She didn’t need to answer. One look was all it took.

  She was holding the black bag in her hands. And it was empty.

  Chapter 25

  * * *

  An hour later, Conner was back in the clubhouse listening to O’Brien try to explain what had happened.

  “But how did he get the money? You had the place surrounded.”

  “Above ground, yes,” O’Brien said. “Below ground, no.”

  “Below ground? I don’t get it.”

  “Turns out there’s a fairly extensive sewer system under part of the golf course. Including the part the eighteenth hole is on.”

  Conner nodded. “That’s true. I remember Fanboy Ed telling me about it. That’s how he got in.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind. Seems the Augusta National has heavy water demands—for watering the course and whatnot. So they built this underground sewer system. Tunnels are small—but passable.”

  “So I hear from our dear friend Agent Liponsky. She’s got agents crawling through every branch of the system. But they haven’t found the culprit. And I don’t think they’re going to, either. He probably grabbed the money seconds after you put it down, then hightailed it.”

  “But how did he grab the money without being seen?”

  O’Brien reached out across the small round table, then popped a handful of beer nuts into her mouth. “Turns out the golf cart was just a decoy. It was parked over a manhole cover—an access tunnel to the sewer system. The insides of the cart had been hollowed out so a person could crawl up through it, pull the seat cover off, cut the bottom of the bag, take the money, and disappear—without ever being seen above ground. The bag never moved—but our extortionist got the cash just the same.”

  “That’s pretty damn smart.”

  “I would have to agree with you on that point. He outfoxed us but good.”

  “A genius golfer. Who the hell would that be?”

  O’Brien gave him a sharp look. “Do you know something I don’t? What makes you so sure the killer is a golfer?”

  “It was my conversation with him,” Conner explained. “While he was running me all over creation. He talked like a golfer—talked about divots and bogies. And stuff not just any golfer would know—like about PGA penalties. And he was familiar with my golfing performance this week—even though the TV people never got close to me before today.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “No, I’m sure of it. Our killer is a golfer. Or at the very least, someone intimately connected to this tournament.”

  “Any suspects?”

  “I already told you what I thought—you need to talk to Freddy.”

  “Funny you should say that. I was thinking pretty much the same way you are, that the time had come, even if I didn’t have anything on him and it might tip him off that he was under suspicion. So after we got back from our moonlight fiasco, I gave Freddy a call. He’s disappeared.”

  “What? As in—?”

  “As in, no one knows where the hell he is, even though he was specifically instructed to stay put.”

  “This is very curious.”

  “It’s more than that. Get this, Conner—no one knows where he was tonight.”

  “O’Brien, I think you need to pick him up.”

  “Way ahead of you. I’ve got an APB out. We’ll get him.”

  “Good. So . . . how is Liponsky taking the news?”

  “Not well. Her home office is all over her for botching the nab.” A smile spread across her face. “As a fellow law enforcement officer, of course, my hearts bleeds for her.”

  “I can see that. Mine, too.”

  O’Brien pushed herself out of her chair. “I’ve got to check in with my office. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Sure I can’t buy you a drink?”

  O’Brien hesitated. For half a second, Conner almost thought she might go for it. “Rain check,” she said. She left the clubhouse.

  Well, Conner asked himself, what next? What exactly does one do as a follow-up to acting as the bag man for a million-dollar extortion scheme?

  Fortunately, he didn’t have to think about it for long. The question was answered for him when the PGA’s main man Richard Peregino entered the bar and made a beeline for Conner’s table.

  Conner braced himself for another lecture about PGA standards. What had he done this time, he wondered? Mussed a sand trap while discovering a corpse? Worn the wrong color socks to deliver the payoff?

  Without waiting to be invited, Peregino pulled out a chair and sat at his table. “Can I talk to you, Conner?”

  Conner, Conner noted. Not Cross. “It’s a free country. Unless you’re in the PGA, of course.”

  Peregino didn’t smile. “I need your help.”

  Conner tried not to appear astonished. “You need my help?”

  Peregino nodded. “We think there’s a leak.”

  “What, in the plumbing?”

  “No, you—“ He cut himself short. “To the press.”

  “A leak about what?”

  “About the extortion scheme. The threat from the killer.”

  Conner shrugged. “Shouldn’t they know? It seems like a matter that might be of some public interest. Isn’t that what the press is for?”

  “No, it isn’t. There’s already been way too much turmoil surrounding this tournament, what with one murder on the course and another not far away. If they find out about this, it could be the end of the Masters.”

  Conner nodded. That was a distinct possibility.

  “At the least, there’ll be a call for us to terminate the tournament. They’ll accuse us of risking lives to keep the income flowing.”

  “Aren’t we?”

  “No. We’re demonstrating that we won’t be pushed around by some bully with a big knife.”

  The distinction seemed pretty thin to Conner. “Tenniel told me he couldn’t afford to cancel the tournament, regardless of how big the knife was.”

  Peregino ignored him. “This issue has ramifications that go well beyond the Masters tournament. This could affect the whole PGA.”

  “How so?”

  “The PGA has an image to maintain. We have a tradition of excellence, of athleticism pushed to—”

  “Stop, stop,” Conner said, holding up his hands. “I’ve heard this rhapsody before. What you’re saying is, you want
the PGA to be associated with middle-aged guys in knit leisurewear, not psychopaths whacking players in the head with their Pings.”

  “That would be one way of putting it, yes.”

  “So what do you expect me to do about it?”

  Peregino tapped his finger against the aromatic candle centerpiece. Conner could tell he was dreading asking him for a favor, a fact which gave him a great deal of pleasure. “Given your performance on the course today, you’re likely to have some press swarming around you tomorrow. In fact, a great deal of press. You’re now considered a contender. A strong contender.”

  Conner’s head reeled. A strong contender? Him? Talk about music to your ears . . .

  “I’m sure they’ll be firing questions at you—including questions relating to the murders. I would . . . um . . .” His fingers absently twiddled a sugar packet. “I would take it as a personal favor if you would not mention what happened tonight. You know. About the . . . the . . .”

  “The payoff?”

  “Well, yeah . . .”

  “The extortion scheme?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “The bungled FBI operation.”

  “Yes, Conner. All of those. Is there any chance you could keep your lips sealed? At least until we have a chance to get the killer behind bars?”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Why did I know it would come to this? All right, here’s the deal. You keep mum about the blackmail, and I’ll wipe your slate clean.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m talking about your lengthy record of PGA infractions and violations. I’ll erase the whole ugly mess. Like it never happened.”

  Conner gave him an indignant look. “Peregino, I’m surprised at you. You’re the PGA Ethics and Morality cop. And now you’re trying to buy me off.”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way . . .”

  “Tell me, Peregino—is this ethical?”

  A familiar look returned to Peregino’s eyes—the look of contempt. “It’s necessary. So—are you in?”

  “I don’t know. What do I care about my PGA record? It hasn’t done me any harm so far.”