William Bernhardt

by Final Round (v5)

  The first, of course, was Conner Cross being hauled off by the cops for triple homicide.

  Ace saw Fitz at the bar, saw his condition, and made his way toward him. “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “No,” Fitz said breathlessly. “Everything is definitely not okay.”

  “Conner?”

  Fitz nodded. “The police have him in custody. They’re about ready to lock him up and throw away the key.”

  Ace shook his head sympathetically. “I can’t believe it. Sure, Conner was kind of a wild man—but killing three people? Incredible.”

  “He didn’t do it,” Fitz said.

  Ace smiled. “You’re a good-hearted, loyal man, Fitz.”

  “I’m not speaking out of loyalty. I’m speaking out of fact. He didn’t do it.”

  “Is there anyway I can help?” Harley Tuttle had come to the bar. “I’m sorry—I couldn’t help but overhear. But, if there’s anything I can do, I’m ready.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Fitz said.

  “Conner has been very kind to me. More than once. Taking me under his wing. Introducing me to the boys on the tour. Like my daddy used to say, A friend in need is a friend indeed. I owe Conner.”

  “I owe him, too,” Barry said with a hiccup, on the other side of the bar. “I owe him a bloody lip.”

  Fitz scowled. “Shut up, you miserable drunk.”

  Barry was nonplussed. “I don’t know why you’ve stayed with that creep. I’m sure you could get other offers, even at your—your—“ He hiccupped again, then declined to finish his sentence.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” said a gentle voice from somewhere behind him. It was Artemus Tenniel. Spenser and Peregino were trailing in his wake. “We’ve heard the most awful rumors about Conner. If you could possibly enlighten us—”

  “The police have charged him with murder,” Fitz said, giving him the quick and dirty version. “But they’re wrong. And Conner says he can prove it.”

  “Prove it?” Tenniel seemed dubious. “How?”

  “By finding the murder weapon. The knife that was used on Jodie and Freddy.”

  “Indeed. And how exactly would Conner know where that weapon is—if he’s not the murderer?”

  “He knows where the weapon is because he knows who the murderer is.” Fitz’s voice dropped to a hush. “He’s figured it out.”

  “How?” Ace asked.

  “I don’t know, but he did. He’s certain. And he says he knows where the killer would’ve hidden the knife. Says the scum would use it to try to divert suspicion to Conner, like he’s been doing all along. So Conner figures there’s only about a half a dozen or so places it could be. And he’s had me running all over the grounds, checking them before it’s too late.”

  Peregino cleared his throat. “And have you found it?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  Peregino pulled back quickly. “Oh, I don’t—I—“ He paused. “Just curious. You know. Could affect the image of the PGA.”

  “I haven’t checked all the places yet,” Fitz said. “After I wet my whistle, I’ll get back at it. I’m not letting this killer railroad Conner.”

  “You’re a good man, Fitz,” Spenser said, patting him on the shoulder.

  “Don’t work too hard,” Ace added. “You have to take care of yourself, too.”

  Fitz nodded, then took another swallow of his drink. “I made a promise to Conner, and I intend to keep it.”

  Everyone nodded sympathetically. Gradually, the group dissipated. A few of them left the clubhouse. A few minutes later, Fitz was alone with the bartender.

  He polished off the last of his drink.

  “How about another?” Vic asked.

  “Nah,” Fitz said, casting his eyes about the now much emptier room. “I think that’ll do it.” He paused. “Yes, I think that did just fine.”

  Chapter 36

  * * *

  The door opened, and a thin stream of light spilled into the locker room. One shadowy figure quickly entered, then closed the door behind him, returning the room to darkness. He moved quietly, careful not to make a sound, and deliberately, advancing toward his goal. He had a job to perform, and the sooner he got it done and got out of there, the better off he would be. He placed a key in a small lock. Then he opened the locker door, careful not to let it squeak. He reached inside and a moment later . . .

  He removed a long, blood-stained serrated knife.

  “That’s a nasty looking thing. Couldn’t you at least have cleaned it before you stuck it in my locker?”

  The man with the knife spun around, his eyes squinting in the darkness. He didn’t have to squint for long. He heard a click, and barely a moment later, the locker room was illuminated by three overhead fluorescent bulbs.

  Conner Cross stood at one end of the locker room staring at the man at the other end—who was holding a knife.

  Harley Tuttle.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” Harley whispered, just under his breath. “What the hell are you doing out of prison?”

  “Is that something your daddy used to say? Or did you think it up on your own?”

  “I heard you were arrested. In custody.”

  “I got a temporary reprieve, Harley. Just long enough to catch the real killer.”

  “Really? Then you’ll be interested in this.” He stepped forward, holding out the knife. “I found this lying on the floor. I don’t know how it got—”

  “Harley, please. Don’t bother.”

  “Don’t bother?” He twisted up his face. “I don’t get you, Conner.”

  “Don’t bother lying, Harley.”

  “But what—“ He did a double-take. “Oh, my God. You don’t think—you’re not imagining—that I committed those crimes?”

  “Yes, Harley. As a matter of fact, I am.”

  “Conner, that’s crazy. Look, I can explain.”

  “I’m sure you can. But first, let me take this.” He surged forward and, before Harley had a chance to protest, snatched the blood-stained knife. He wrapped it in a towel, then set it on a counter out of Harley’s reach. “Don’t want you to get any crazy ideas. Like maybe going for four.”

  “Conner—are you telling me you honestly believe—”

  “I believe this. You killed John. You killed Jodie. You killed your accomplice Freddy, poor schmuck. And you masterminded the extortion plot.”

  “Conner—you’re insane.”

  “I’ve been certain for some time that the killer was a golf pro. It made sense. It had to be someone who could lure him out to the eighteenth hole in the dead of night. And when the killer had me running all over the course by remote control cellular phone, his knowledge of the course, his terminology, his knowledge of the game all convinced me he had to be somebody on the tour.”

  “But even if that’s true,” Harley protested, “why would you accuse me?”

  “I didn’t at first. I thought it was Freddy. After all, it was his club that found its way into my bag, right? He’s the only other player here using Excaliburs, and his height would explain why the shaft was shorter than mine. But then you went and killed Freddy, screwing up my theory.”

  “Conner—you’re talking like a crazy man.”

  Conner ignored him. “I was certain the key to the mystery lay in understanding the meaning of Fiji. It was the last thing Jodie heard John say before he died. She thought it was important—and so did I. I tried to bait the killer into commenting on it over the cellular phone, but he didn’t go for it. So I was left wondering—what could it mean? Was it an acronym? A code word? A geographical reference?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Harley said impatiently.

  “Oh, I think you do. But I couldn’t figure it out—until this evening, when I heard a cop make a remark about a fraternity stunt. It was all I needed to jog my memory. A bit of trivia left over from my college days. John was a member of the Beta Theta Pi frat house. They’re called Betas. But there’s another fraternity house in the Greek
system called Phi Delta Gamma—right, Harley? And its members are called—Fijis.”

  “You’re mad. Stark raving mad.”

  “John was a Beta at Stanford, but I felt certain he knew some Fijis—maybe even one who didn’t want to be known. So I had a lieutenant friend of mine call the university and get faxed some pages from the Fiji frat house annual for the years John went to school there. And guess what we found?”

  Harley wasn’t smiling any more. “I’m waiting.”

  “It wasn’t easy. You were a good deal heavier then, and you’ve changed your name. But once I saw the photos enlarged, there was no doubt in my mind. That kid who used to be called Myron Caldwell is now Harley Tuttle.”

  “You’re certifiable,” Harley said. He made for the door. “I’m leaving.”

  Conner shoved him back. “Granted, you’ve done everything imaginable to change your appearance. Dyed your hair black, shaved your beard. Ditched the glasses and the earring. Just the same, I made you.”

  “This is ludicrous!” Harley protested. “Even if I could do such a thing, why would I want to?”

  “You know, I was curious about that myself. So as soon as I ID’d your picture, I got faxes of your—or Myron’s—college records. Seems you were quite a promising golfer back in college, which of course increased the likelihood that John would’ve bumped into you somewhere. But it also turns out you ran into a spot of trouble during your junior year. You got arrested and charged with several offenses—sexual offenses. Including statutory rape.”

  “You’re full of it,” Harley said. Once more, he pressed forward, trying to escape.

  And once more, Conner shoved him back. “I’ve got proof.”

  “You’ve got nothing!” Harley’s voice was rising.

  “Wanna see the police report?” Conner whipped a green sheet of paper out of his pocket. “There it is, big as life and twice as ugly. Statutory rape. My God—how can you live with yourself?”

  “You’re out of line, Conner.”

  “If it had just been petty theft or hot-wiring cars, that would be one thing. Most kids get into a little trouble before they grow up. But sex with minors?”

  Harley’s face flushed red. “You don’t know what you’re babbling about.”

  “I think I do. And it makes me sick.” He shoved Harley backward. “Come on, you disgusting son-of-a-bitch, talk.”

  Harley’s neck tensed. “I’m not—”

  Conner shoved him again. Harley slammed into the lockers. “You’re a pervert, Harley. A pervert who takes advantage of children. A child molester.” He kept pounding away at him, shoving him back again with each word. “You’re sick, Harley. You make me want to puke.”

  “It was just a frat party, for God’s sake!” The words came tumbling out, like lava spewing from a volcano. “That’s all it was!”

  Conner stopped hammering him. Finally, he had the man talking.

  “We had some fun, they had some fun. All us horny frat boys, all those equally horny sorority girls running around in their skimpy nighties. We were all drunk and turned on and—and—I don’t know. I guess things got out of control. But no one forced anyone to do anything.”

  “But someone turned you in.”

  Harley bit down on his lip. Conner could imagine his inner turmoil. A part of his brain knew he should remain silent, but another part was desperate to speak in his defense. “Someone called the cops. They showed up, and—“ Harley cast his eyes toward the floor. “I assumed everyone there was a sorority girl, meaning they were eighteen or older. But it turned out one of them—the one I was with—was somebody’s little sister. Fifteen. And the cops found out.”

  “So you were arrested.”

  “My attorney said I could get off easy if I pled guilty. So I did. Two years probation. I never served a day in jail. It was no big deal.”

  “No big deal—unless you were planning on a career in the PGA. Because, as I’ve been reminded all week long, the PGA has very strict morals and ethics regulations. And there’s no way in hell they’d let a convicted sex offender on the tour.”

  “It just wasn’t fair! One stupid mistake, and it was all over. All my plans, all my prospects, all those years of practice—all down the dumper. Myron Caldwell had come to a dead end.”

  “So you became . . . someone else.”

  Harley flopped down on the nearest bench, tired and resigned. “Myron disappeared. I changed my looks, changed my name. Eventually created a body of false IDs and fake background records. Then, when I thought enough time had passed, I entered the PGA qualifier. And made it.”

  “And so this year you joined the tour.”

  “That’s right. But I’ve been careful. Damned careful. I never went anywhere near anyone I thought might be able to make me. That’s why I was so uncomfortable the other day when that crowd followed us all over the course. That’s why I didn’t socialize much. And I’ve thrown tournaments. I figured a guy who consistently places fourth or fifth can remain relatively anonymous—but a champion receives entirely too much publicity. I didn’t want a crowd watching me; I didn’t want to be on television. So I contented myself with placing. Just high enough to rake in the bucks—never high enough to attract attention.”

  “It’s also why you skipped Pebble Beach, isn’t it? Too close to Stanford.”

  Harley nodded. “I had everything planned so carefully. And then—“ He stopped short.

  “And then, Monday afternoon, I introduced you to John.”

  “That’s right.” His face twisted. “Didn’t recognize him at all. But he recognized me. I could tell it the second he laid eyes on me.”

  “John was like that,” Conner said quietly. “Never forgot a face.”

  “No, he didn’t, damn him. And I knew he’d feel honor-bound to report me, too. That’s what the PGA requires, isn’t it?”

  Conner nodded solemnly. “So you killed him. Before he had a chance.”

  “What choice did I have?” Harley spread his arms wide. “My career was on the line. I’d put too much work into this to let it slip away—again!”

  “But why the golf club switch? Why frame me?”

  “Why not? It was your damn fault I was in this mess. And it was convenient, since you were using the same brand clubs as Freddy. I thought the best way to keep the cops from looking around too much was to give them an obvious suspect. So you were elected. I did the dirty deed with your club, knowing full well it would be traced back to you.”

  “But how did you get it?”

  “Ah, that’s why I needed Freddy. I didn’t want to do anything that would attract attention to me. I needed help.”

  “Why Freddy?”

  “I knew he needed cash, bad. He hadn’t placed in a tournament in two years, and he was throwing it away hand over fist on his daughter’s wedding. He was such a weasel—it didn’t take much to get him in my back pocket. I slipped him some bucks and he agreed to separate you from your clubs.”

  “The peephole.”

  “Yup. That was the dodge he used. And you fell for it. Left your clubs on the driving range. I removed your nine-iron and replaced it with Freddy’s—after scraping off the serial number. And then I lured John out to the eighteenth green—”

  “And killed him in cold blood. Buried him in the sand trap.”

  Harley didn’t deny it.

  “And Jodie?”

  Harley took a deep breath. “I didn’t plan to kill Jodie,” he said quietly. “But I passed her at the wedding reception Friday night and she was muttering Fiji over and over under her breath. It was only a matter of time until she figured it out, or told someone else who figured it out. I couldn’t take the risk. I tried to get Freddy to help, but of course he was too much of a weakling. So I took care of her myself.”

  “One sin begets another. And Freddy?”

  “That greedy bastard couldn’t be satiated. Once he realized what I had done with your club, he thought he had me under his control. He demanded money, more than I co
uld provide. That’s why I concocted that extortion scheme—I needed the cash to pay him off. And even after I made away with the million—he wanted more! Can you believe it? I tried, but even as I sent the second fax, I knew Tenniel would never go for it. So there was only one course left to me. Freddy had to die.”

  “Which you happily arranged. Framing me in the process.”

  Harley shrugged. “Best to be consistent, don’t you think? It was the logical thing to do.”

  “I suppose it was you who took the potshots at me last night.”

  “You mentioned Fiji on the cellular phone. I realized Jodie must’ve talked to you before I killed her. I didn’t intend to kill you just to shut you up. If I’d wanted you dead, you’d be dead. I needed you alive to be my scapegoat.”

  Conner stared at him, his cold demeanor, his guiltless expression. “You’ve killed three human beings—three—and for what? So you could be a pro golfer? For the bragging rights of being on the PGA tour?”

  “Yes, damn it! Not to mention the money. I’ve made almost a quarter of a million bucks in three months. Think of that! Three months! Imagine what I stand to make in the years to come. I’ve worked all my life for this. I’ve spent my spare time practicing, day in, day out. While other kids were out screwing around, I was knocking a ball into a tin cup, mastering my stroke, perfecting my swing. I had a right to be on this tour. I deserved it. I earned it! And I wasn’t going to let them take it away from me. Not again!”

  Crackers, Conner thought to himself. Absolutely altogether crackers. And golf drove him there. “Come on, Harley. We’re going to the police.”