William Bernhardt

by Final Round (v5)

  It would be different if this had happened to the Conner of a few days before. He had never taken these tournaments seriously, never allowed himself to get too attached to the idea of winning. When he lost, it was no great shakes; hell, he hadn’t even been trying hard, right?

  But somehow, somewhere in the midst of the excitement and horror, in the loss of his closest friends and the woodshedding of his caddie, he had lost that detachment. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he had allowed himself to dream of winning—and found that he liked it.

  He had been so close, damn it! So close. For all he knew, he might never play this well again. And it hadn’t been enough. He’d given the game everything he had—and come up short.

  He couldn’t fault the other players. They had been tremendously supportive. Even Ace had offered a few kind words. Conner had secretly harbored the hope that this tournament might increase his fellow players’ respect for him and his skills, and that at least appeared to have happened.

  But who was he kidding? It wasn’t the same as winning. Not by a mile.

  He lifted the margarita to his lips. Could he down this in a single shot, he wondered?

  “Conner, may I speak to you?”

  Conner peered upward. His vision was already somewhat blurry, but not so much that he couldn’t make out the figure of Lieutenant O’Brien standing just in front of him.

  What was she here for? he wondered. To offer her condolences?

  “What’s up?” he said, trying not to sound as blotto as he was. “Come here to lick my wounds? ‘Cause if you have, I could make a few alternative suggestions . . .”

  O’Brien looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I’m not here alone.”

  Conner squinted, trying to bring his long-range vision into sharper focus. He spotted at least four uniformed police officers standing behind her. “What’s up, O’Brien? Is the Augusta National hosting the policemen’s ball?”

  “Not exactly,” O’Brien said. She whipped her cuffs out from behind her jacket. “You’re under arrest.”

  This had a more profound sobering effect than a dozen cups of coffee. “What?”

  “You heard me,” she said, tugging at his shoulder. “Get up.”

  “But—but—“ He allowed himself to be hoisted. “I told you I didn’t do it.”

  “And for some stupid reason, I believed you. I guess I let my professional judgment get clouded. It won’t happen again.”

  “But I’m telling you, I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t kill my own best friend.”

  “I didn’t think so before, but—“ She stared at him for a tense moment, and Conner realized that there was something more behind this arrest. “There’s been another murder,” she said directly.

  “Another one?” Conner was stunned. “But—I didn’t have anything to do with it. I couldn’t’ve. I haven’t left the clubhouse for hours.”

  “Right. C’mon, Conner.”

  “I’m telling you, it wasn’t me. What about Freddy? Have you found him yet? He’s the one you need to talk to.”

  “That would be extremely difficult,” O’Brien said, as she snapped the cuffs over Conner’s wrists. “He’s dead. As if you didn’t already know.”

  Part Four

  * * *

  The Killing Stroke

  Dwight D. Eisenhower loved the Augusta National. Because of his friendship with cofounder Cliff Roberts, he was not only a member but a frequent visitor. After he became president, Eisenhower’s visits were so common that Roberts had a residence built for Ike on the club grounds. Because Eisenhower liked to fish, Roberts had already built him a pond nearby and stocked it with black bass and bluegill. Eisenhower spent the happiest days of his life at the Augusta National, where he could fish in the morning, then find ready partners to play golf all afternoon and contract bridge all night.

  Eisenhower’s visits to Augusta were not, of course, without controversy. In 1957, when Eisenhower ordered the federal troops into Little Rock to protect the black students integrating Central High School, he reportedly made the call from Augusta. In reaction to this move, obviously controversial in the deep South, the Augusta Chronicle blasted him for “running the country from a country club.”

  In 1955, when Eisenhower ran for reelection, opponents circulated a poster that read: Ben Hogan for President. If we’re going to have a golfer, let’s have a good one.

  Chapter 33

  * * *

  Conner protested, but to no avail. With the help of two uniformed officers, O’Brien hauled Conner out of the bar and led him down the corridor. All the pros in the vicinity stood agape, watching but not speaking, as the cops dragged him out of the building.

  “There goes my short-lived reputation,” Conner muttered, as he was escorted down the stone path that divided the clubhouse from the cabins.

  “Move!” O’Brien said curtly.

  “You can’t just haul me away like this! I don’t even have a toothbrush. Let me stop by my—“ His head jerked around. “Hey, the lights are on in there! Someone’s in my cabin!”

  O’Brien looked at him levelly. “And this surprises you?”

  “Damn straight! I even locked my door tonight! What’s going on?”

  O’Brien pondered for a moment, then shrugged. She gave one of the uniforms the signal. They led Conner back to his cabin.

  Before he was even close, Conner could see that something serious had occurred while he’d been waiting for the postings and swilling margaritas. All the lights were on in the cabin, and uniformed men and women were swarming all over it. A dozen people, maybe more. Some of them Conner recognized—because he’d seen them before, out on the eighteenth hole in the sand trap where he’d found John’s body.

  The previous crime scene.

  O’Brien took him by the cuffs and led him inside. The crime scene techs parted as she approached, making a path for her without even being told. “We received an anonymous call about an hour ago,” she explained. “Said there’d been some kind of disturbance in your cabin. Violent, from the sound of it. When we arrived, we found the front door wide open. And this is what we found.”

  She made a tiny gesture which was altogether unnecessary. Conner couldn’t possibly have missed the grisly main attraction.

  It was Freddy E. Granger, golf pro and proud father of a recently married Southern belle. Only this time, he was sprawled across Conner’s bed. His throat had been cut—like Jodie’s, only not half so neatly. He must’ve struggled, Conner surmised, because the cut was jagged and irregular, like a dull knife working its way through a particularly tough piece of meat. Blood was everywhere, on the headboard, on the bedspread, on the carpet, and the walls. It had been a week of horrors, but this was the most grotesque, most hideous spectacle Conner had ever seen in his life, bar none.

  “My God,” Conner said. He turned away, holding his stomach, feeling his gorge rising. “You can’t think—You can’t think that I—”

  “We don’t think. We know.” O’Brien pushed him away from the bed, then jerked him toward the door. “You have the right to remain silent. If you decide to waive that right, anything you say can and will be used against you . . .”

  Chapter 34

  * * *

  Back at Augusta police headquarters, Conner sat in an interrogation room surrounded by half a dozen law enforcement officers. O’Brien had apparently won the coveted right to take the lead; she sat opposite the small table from him, a look of disbelief permanently etched on her face. Two men in uniforms stood behind her, their mouths closed but molded into something like a sneer. There was an older matronly woman administering the cautions and operating the tape and video equipment. And finally there were two huge burly men guarding the door.

  “I’m tired of playing cat and mouse,” O’Brien said impatiently. “Just come clean. Tell us the truth. Then everybody can go home.”

  “Everyone except me, you mean.”

  O’Brien did not smile. “Well, Conner, I don’t see you going home for a g
ood long time, no matter what you say.”

  “You really know how to inspire a guy.”

  She leaned across the table. “You must be racked with guilt by now. Killing your oldest and best friend—and his wife?” She shook her head sadly. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through.”

  “I’ve been telling you—I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “And I have to admit—I bought it for a while. I went along with you. Played your game. But the game’s over now. You’ve been caught red-handed.”

  “There’s no red on my hands. Not a trace of blood. If I committed this murder, where’s the blood?”

  O’Brien was unimpressed. “I learned how to wash my hands back in kindergarten, Conner. It’s not a big trick.”

  “How did I manage to not get any blood on my clothes?”

  “Practice makes perfect.” She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “Give it up. No one’s buying it anymore.”

  “Look, talk to the people at the clubhouse. Talk to the bartender. Talk to Harley or some of the other pros. I’ve been in that clubhouse for the last three hours. I never left once.”

  “We’re checking your story. We know you were in the clubhouse. But no one was really keeping tabs on you—a fact you no doubt counted on. So far no one can be certain you didn’t slip away for a short while. After all, five minutes is all it would’ve taken.”

  “But it doesn’t make any sense. Why would I want to kill Freddy?”

  “I don’t know. Why did you kill John and Jodie?”

  Conner’s face screwed up with anger. “I didn’t!” He leaned forward, voice angry. “I didn’t kill anyone!”

  His shout rang through the tiny interrogation room, bouncing off the coarse plaster walls. Get a grip on yourself, Conner warned himself. This is exactly what they want. They want you to lose control, to babble.

  Conner tried to calm himself. He leaned back in his chair. “I’m not saying anything more.”

  “Do you want an attorney?”

  Conner blew air through his teeth. That really would be the last resort, wouldn’t it? He might as well stamp I’M GUILTY on his forehead in big black letters. “No, I want you to let me go and leave me alone.”

  “Yeah, that’ll happen.” O’Brien turned her head and gave a quick nod to one of the men standing behind her. Seemed it was time to change lobsters and dance.

  The other man, a dark-haired middle-aged guy with eyes as deep as a water well, introduced himself. “I’m Sergeant Hopkins,” he said. “For the record, I’m taking the lead in the interrogation as of twenty-two-oh-six P.M.” He looked at Conner and smiled pleasantly. “What was it, Mr. Cross? Professional jealousy?”

  Conner peered at him uncomprehendingly. “What are you talking about?”

  “Motive, that’s what I’m talking about. I’ve got no problem with guilt; it’s obvious you did it. Finding John McCree’s body yourself was a nice touch; that threw us off for a while. But you had clear means and opportunity. The only thing I can’t figure is motive.”

  “So I killed John because he was a better golfer? That’s really pathetic.”

  “To me, maybe. But to someone who spends his whole life knocking those balls around—who knows?” He tilted his head to one side. “Or maybe it was the woman.”

  “The woman? Which woman?”

  “Jodie McCree. She was your girl, once upon a time, wasn’t she? Don’t bother denying it. We’ve investigated this thoroughly.”

  “That was years ago!”

  “And I’ll bet it was digging into your craw every single day, wasn’t it?” His face darkened, and his eyes actually seemed to recede. “I’ll bet your hate festered like an open wound, getting worse and worse every day, until finally you just couldn’t stand it any longer. You saw them both at the tournament, maybe sitting across the table at the champions’ dinner, and you couldn’t stand it any longer. You had to do something. You had to strike back against the people who had wronged you. Isn’t that how it happened?”

  “No!”

  “You’ll feel better if you confess. Really. Just let it all go. You can’t imagine how much better you’ll feel.”

  Giving Hopkins a few shots in the face would also make him feel better, but he wasn’t going to do that, either. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Fido.”

  “So it was all a coincidence. Just a strange twist of fate that you found the body. That your golf club was the murder weapon. That you were on the scene when Mrs. McCree was killed, too. That you don’t have an alibi for either murder.”

  “I didn’t know I’d need one—since I didn’t know there were going to be any murders!”

  “Weren’t you a bit jealous of your old buddy John? When he went off to that big West Coast college? When he married your old girlfriend? When he won all those golf tournaments, and you couldn’t seem to win anything?”

  “I’ve done all right this week.”

  “Sure—’cause John McCree is out of the way.”

  “That’s the stupidest—”

  “When he was around, you were psychologically incapable of playing a good game. But once he was gone . . .”

  “What is this, Psych 101? You’re on a gigantic fishing expedition. You don’t know anything. And you don’t have anything on me.”

  “Other than a bloody mutilated corpse on your bed,” O’Brien replied. “How do you explain that?”

  Conner frowned. “I can’t. But it wasn’t me.”

  “Why would anyone else want to kill Freddy Granger?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And even if they did—why would they do it in your cabin?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the same reason they took my golf club. To frame me.”

  “And why would anyone want to do that?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Is this going to be your story at trial? Because I have to tell you—it’s pathetic. No one’s going to believe you.”

  “How could I know the answers to these questions? I wasn’t there! I didn’t do it!”

  “Gee, maybe no one did it. Maybe it was suicide. Maybe Freddy slashed his own throat.”

  Conner didn’t feel this remark merited a response.

  “Or maybe it was just an accident. Maybe he slipped in the shower.”

  Conner looked over at O’Brien. “Do I have to listen to this?”

  “Or maybe his death was staged,” Hopkins continued. “Maybe he isn’t dead at all. Maybe this was some wacky fraternity stunt.”

  “Would you just shut up!” Conner shouted. Once again, his voice echoed through the tiny room. “I’ve had it with you, understand? I did not kill my friends! I did not kill Freddy Granger! And—And—“ All at once, Conner’s shouts faded.

  “Yes?” Hopkins said expectantly.

  “And—damn.” Conner fell back into his chair. “I think I know who did.”

  O’Brien pushed her way back to the interrogation table. “What are you saying?”

  “I know who the killer is.”

  “Yeah,” Hopkins snorted. “So do we.”

  Conner’s eyes became soft and unfocused. “How stupid could I possibly be? It’s been right in front of my face the whole time.”

  Hopkins pressed his hand against his forehead. “This is ridiculous. I refuse to be distracted by this ploy. I want to—”

  O’Brien cut him off with a wave of his hand. “No. Let’s hear him out.”

  “It’s so simple,” Conner said, still lost in his own thoughts. “Why didn’t I see it before?”

  “Conner . . .” O’Brien took a step toward him.

  “This is a load of crap,” Hopkins groused.

  Conner was lost in thought. “Maybe there’s a way . . .”

  “Can’t you see what he’s doing?” Hopkins bellowed. “He’s just buying time.”

  O’Brien bit her lip. “I’m not so sure . . .”

  “It’s obvious. He’s a con man, through and through. He has no sense of right or wrong. H
e’s a golfer, for God’s sake!”

  “Oh, well then!” she exclaimed. “Snap on the shackles.”

  “I’m telling you, O’Brien, he’s playing you for a fool. Again!”

  O’Brien gave him a stony stare that shut him down in a heartbeat. “I said we’re going to hear him out. And you—Sergeant—will follow my lead. Got it?”

  Hopkins buttoned his lip, a sullen expression on his face.

  “Good.” She turned back to Conner. “Look, if you’re serious about this, we’re going to need proof. Otherwise—”

  “Maybe we could create some proof,” Conner said. His brain was racing, tying to put all the disparate pieces together. “Maybe—if I could call Fitz.”

  “Fitz? Why?”

  “I’m allowed one phone call, aren’t I?”

  “And you want to use it to call your caddie?”

  “Man’s best friend.” Conner sat up and leaned across the tiny table. “Look, everybody—I know this seems crazy. But—just go along with me, one more time. Let me play out one last round—under O’Brien’s close supervision, of course.”

  O’Brien raised an eyebrow.

  “I can’t be certain,” Conner continued. “But it’s just possible we may be able to bag a killer.”

  Chapter 35

  * * *

  About half an hour later, Fitz wandered into the clubhouse bar—but it wasn’t the Fitz to whom everyone on the tour had grown accustomed over the years. His normally dapper, immaculate appearance had disappeared; he was dirty, disheveled, smudged. His cap was on crooked and his face was stubbled. He looked exhausted. For once, all his years showed in the deep lines etched in his face.

  He leaned against the bar, looking as if he could barely hold himself upright. “Club soda,” he ordered. “Quick.”

  The bartender, Vic, popped open a bottle and poured the drink posthaste.

  Most of the pros were still hanging around the bar, swapping sto-ries or commiserating over the tournament results. Tomorrow morning their planes would take them home, but for the moment, they were free to amuse themselves. Ace sat at one table, surrounded by well-wishers and hangers-on. Harley sat at another, his fifth place trophy resting on the table just before him. Barry was back at the bar, swilling to his heart’s content. And on the other side of the room, one table was occupied by the three top men in the tournament officialdom: Tenniel, Spenser, and Peregino. A heated conversation was taking place at that table, with lots of angry, exasperated sputtering and arguing. Trying to determine what was going on at that table was the second-most popular topic of conversation in the room.