“Where’ve you been sleeping the last few nights?”
“With Flat Head.”
“Who’s that?”
“One of the old caddies,” Dwight said. “He’s got a place a few blocks from here. He caddies at the Augusta Country Club now. I called Chipmunk, Chipmunk said to call Flat Head, and that’s how I found One-eye.”
“So Flat Head will say you’ve been at his place?” Sam asked.
“Sure. Cause I was.”
“Not in Waycross?”
“That was before.”
Sam asked One-eye to write down Flat Head’s address and phone number. He’d leave it up to the police to pin down One-eye’s whereabouts Sunday through Tuesday night—if they felt like it. At least One-eye knew he was being looked at, which might be enough to keep him at home nights for the rest of the week.
“Does Flat Head know Lee Doggett?” Sam asked One-eye.
“I don’t know,” One-eye said, as Dwight’s mother arrived at the table with another round of beers.
“What about Lee Doggett?” Helen Wilson asked.
“Do you know him?” Sam asked her.
“I knew his mama,” Helen said. “Poor woman. She died while that boy was in prison.”
“How did you know her?” Sam asked.
Helen told him she and Laverne Doggett used to clean rooms and cabins at the National. She remembered when Laverne went away for a few months, and then came back with a new baby and a new husband. The husband was no good, Helen said. Died in a bar fight years ago. But the talk was that Joe Doggett wasn’t the boy’s real daddy.
“She didn’t tell me that,” Helen said. “But that boy never looked like Joe Doggett. Some folks thought his real daddy might have been a member at the National.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Friday, April 11
Sam wasn’t thinking about the second round of the tournament when he woke up Friday morning in the Crow’s Nest. He was wondering if anyone had been killed while he slept. There were no sirens wailing out on Washington Road—a good sign right there.
He got up and turned on the TV. Nothing new in The Masters Murders, according to CNN. The body count remained at three. They were still running clips of Caroline’s interview from Wednesday, and Sam wished they’d find some other tape to run. It worried him that Caroline was becoming such a visible advocate for change at the National. The killer was probably watching, too.
He thought about the employee files. Had he missed something the first time through?
He went downstairs to the dining room, poured some decaf into a Styrofoam cup, and walked down the driveway to Bill Woodley’s office.
Woodley gave him the keys to the file room, where Sam carefully went back through the “D” files. Laverne Doggett’s file was there. It said she’d died while on medical leave from the club. That squared with Helen Wilson’s recollection.
There was no file for Lee Doggett.
Sam went back to Woodley’s office and asked him if he knew who Lee Doggett was. By the blank look on Woodley’s face, it was apparent that the name meant nothing to him. Sam asked who had access to the file room. Woodley said that any club official or member who needed to consult the records could do so. All he had to do was ask for the key, which Woodley kept with him. Sam asked who had used the key recently.
“Mr. Porter sends Ida to find things in there from time to time,” Woodley said. “Jimmy Fowler and Mike Wickoff, our head professional, use the files. Any member of our board of governors can get in there if he needs to—Mr. Stanwick, Mr. Brisbane—Mr. Ashby…”
Sam went straight past Ida into Porter’s office.
“Do you remember a Lee Doggett?” Sam asked the chairman, who was cleaning his eyeglasses at his desk. The TV was tuned to ESPN’s “SportsCenter.” Porter looked surprised to hear Doggett’s name, and put his glasses back on.
“Lee Doggett,” Porter said, leaning back in his chair. “Let me think…we had a couple of Doggetts working here some years ago. One was a housekeeper. The other—her son, I believe—was…”
“A greenskeeper?” Sam said.
“Yes, that’s right. Now I remember. We caught him selling forged badges and we fired him.”
That jibed with what One-eye had said.
“I believe the police said he was also dealing drugs,” Porter said. “I haven’t heard of him in years. I assume he’s in prison.”
“How long ago was this?”
“I don’t remember exactly,” Porter said. He thought for a moment. “At least five years ago.”
“Why aren’t his employment records in your files?” Sam said.
“I have no idea,” Porter said. “They should be. We never throw those out.”
“Did the police look at them after he was arrested?”
“I’m sure they did, but they wouldn’t have taken them. It was a cut-and-dried case. He broke the law, we fired him, and he went to jail. We do have to fire employees now and then. Why are you interested in him?”
“I don’t know yet,” Sam said. “But I’ve heard he’s out, and I’d like to talk to him.”
Porter was quiet for a few moments. He looked at the TV screen, and saw they were showing highlights of Thursday’s play. The sports channels, at least, were back to golf. The Masters was enormously powerful—almost a force of nature. It had a way of overcoming almost any obstacle. But he didn’t want to find out how much more tragedy it could absorb.
The first-round scores were running in a crawl across the bottom of the screen, including Sam’s 80.
“You’re not going to make the cut,” Porter said. It was a statement of fact, rather than a question, or an insult.
“Not likely,” Sam said.
“But you will stay with us through the weekend?”
“Unless you want me to leave,” Sam said. “It’s your dime.”
“We’ll make it worth your while to stay,” Porter said, turning to face Sam. “I want you to find this maniac, whoever he is, and stop him. I’ll see if I can get you some more information about this Lee Doggett.”
“Fair enough,” Sam said.
Sam left Porter’s office and returned to the Crow’s Nest, wondering if Porter’s willingness to help him find Doggett was a way to divert further attention from Stanwick.
*
He started with the Augusta telephone book. No listing for Lee Doggett. All he had to go on was One-eye’s account of seeing him at the Food Lion. That wasn’t much, but it was a place to start. The Food Lion was just a short walk from the main gate. It would give him a chance to think.
He was moving against the inward surge of pedestrians as he exited the grounds. He crossed the street where a cop was directing traffic at Azalea Drive and headed toward the Food Lion, on the north side of Washington Road.
Sam stopped near a trio of young men holding “Badges Bought and Sold” cardboard signs, and pulled out his wallet to get the card Mark Boyce had given him. One of the young men asked if he wanted to buy a badge.
“Four thousand,” the young man said. “It’s a good deal for the last three days.”
Sam waved him away and dialed the number on his cell phone. Boyce picked up on the first ring.
“Boyce.”
“It’s Sam Skarda. I’ve got two names for you. One’s a former caddie named Reggie Morton.”
He gave Boyce the address and phone number where One-eye was staying. He said the ex-caddie seemed like a stretch, but he did have a grudge against the club.
“I’m going to do some checking on the other guy,” Sam said.
“What’s the name?”
“Lee Doggett.”
“Why do we like him?”
Sam told Boyce what he knew about Doggett. He asked Sam if he knew where Dogge
tt was.
“He’s not in the phone book,” Sam said. “I’m going to the last place we know he was seen. Can you do an NCIC search on him? I’d like to know where he did his time, how long he was in, the last place he lived.”
“Sure, we’ll run him.”
“How about you? You getting anything from the members?”
“I never met a nicer bunch of fellas in my life,” Boyce said. “Wouldn’t swat a fly. Devastated by all this violence, and the damage it’s done to the tournament, and so forth. Why I’d want to talk to them is a total mystery to these fine gentlemen.”
“And you believe them.”
“Got no choice. So far, their alibis check out.”
“Stanwick’s, too?”
“Hell, yes. Seems old Lorraine hasn’t left his side since he got to town.”
“Well, that’s her version,” Sam said. He told Boyce about Peggy Francis, and where he could find her. He still wasn’t sure he believed her. She was sleeping with somebody else’s husband. No saint there.
“We’ll check her out,” Boyce said. “But I gotta tell ya, even the members who are young enough to kill someone don’t seem like the type who’d mess up a nice pair of pants to do it.”
Sam gave Boyce his cell-phone number and asked him to call when he got the dope on Doggett. Then he flipped the cell phone closed and headed toward the Food Lion.
“Thirty-five hundred,” the young man with the badge called after him.
*
“Ever hear of a guy named Lee Doggett?”
Sam was standing in a checkout lane at the Food Lion, talking to a cashier with wavy, unnaturally dark hair who was working her chewing gum hard. Behind him, a woman with a full load of groceries was unloading her cart onto the belt. She placed the dividing stick in front of her stack, even though Sam didn’t have any groceries.
“Lee Doggett? No,” the cashier said.
“White guy, tall, thin, comes in to buy beer?”
“Ummm…no,” she said again, losing what little interest she had in their conversation.
“Thanks,” Sam said, moving away from her register and looking at the four other cashiers in the store. Two of them were with customers, while the other two had empty lanes. With the traffic outside on Washington Road, Sam wasn’t surprised that business was slow this afternoon. He walked over to the next cashier, a young black woman with her hair in dreads. Her badge read “My Name is SHAREESE, and I’m Here to Help!” She was just finishing with a customer.
“I need some help, Shareese,” he said.
“That’s why I’m here,” she said, pointing at her badge with a bored expression on her face. She looked up at Sam as she handed a receipt to her customer.
“I’m looking for a man named Lee Doggett—white guy. Buys beer here.”
“Don’t know’m,” she said, leaning back against her cash register and folding her arms. “You sure he comes in here?”
“That’s what One-eye tells me,” Sam said.
“You know One-eye?” the young woman said. “From where?”
“From the National,” Sam said. “I’m playing golf over there. He caddied there.”
“Not no more,” the young woman said. “They fired his no-good ass.”
“I know,” Sam said. “But I’m looking for another guy who used to work over there—a guy named Doggett. One-eye says he saw him in here a while ago.”
“Lotsa folks shop here,” the young woman said. “I don’t know half of ’em.”
“Is there somebody here who does know a lot of the customers?”
“Lois,” the young woman said. “Last lane. She’s been here 20 years, at least. If she don’t know him, he don’t come here much.”
“Thanks,” Sam said.
Lois was a short, squat woman who wore a white headband to hold back her graying perm and used a heavy rouge brush on her cheeks. She smiled when Sam approached.
“Forget where you put your cart, hon?” she said.
“I’m not buying anything,” Sam said. “I just wanted to ask you if you know a man named Lee Doggett.”
Lois didn’t hesitate.
“Sure, I know him,” she said.
“Used to work at the National?”
“That’s him,” she said. Then her smile faded. “Y’all the police?”
“No,” Sam said. “Why? Has he been in trouble?”
“A few years ago,” Lois said. “He got sent away. I never did know exactly for what.”
“How do you know him?”
“Just to see him, I guess,” Lois said. “I knew his mama a little bit. But she died. I think it was while Lee was locked up. Poor woman.”
“Do you know where I can find Lee?”
“Uh-uh,” Lois said. “Wanna leave your name? If I see him, I can tell him y’all wanna talk to him.”
“No, I need to find him as soon as possible,” Sam said. “Do you know if he has any friends or family in town?”
Lois held her elbow in her palm and stroked her cheek with her index finger. A man with a nearly full cart had pulled up behind Sam. Lois motioned him to the open lane next to her.
“He had a wife, and a little boy…but I think they’re divorced,” Lois said.
“Are they still around?”
“No…let me think…she left town, I believe…”
“Do you know where she went?” Sam asked.
“I heard, but it’s not coming to me now.”
“Do you remember her name?” Sam asked.
“Now, hush, I’m trying to think,” Lois said. “My first thought was Florida, but for some reason, I want to say Arizona, or New Mexico, someplace like that. Someplace with horses.”
Sam gave her some more time, but she couldn’t remember where Doggett’s wife had gone. He picked up a discarded receipt from the conveyor belt and wrote his name and cell-phone number on it.
“If you remember her name, or where she went, give me a call—anytime,” Sam said, handing his number to Lois. “Any hour of the day or night. It’s important.”
“Sam Skarda?” Lois said, looking at the back of the receipt. “The golfer?”
“You watch the tournament?” he said.
“A gal’s got to know what’s going on in her own town,” she said, giggling. “How’d y’all play yesterday?”
“Like I won’t be here tomorrow,” Sam said.
“Well, just hang in there, and I’ll watch for y’all today when I get home.”
“Thanks,” Sam said. “Keep trying to think of that name, okay?”
“Gotcha, hon.”
Sam left the supermarket and headed back to the National on Washington Road, where the sidewalks were still clogged with vendors, gawkers, and people buying and selling badges. No one recognized Sam. He hadn’t played well enough on Thursday to make any of the highlight packages. Just as well; he didn’t have time for autographs.
He returned to the National at Gate 3A and walked through the portable metal-detector columns at the main spectator entrance. His player badge didn’t grant him any special treatment, and Sam was pleased that the security was tight.
His cell phone rang as he was climbing up the stairs to the Crow’s Nest.
“Skarda,” he said.
“Boyce here,” the GBI detective said. “I got your information on Doggett. He’s had his problems.”
“What kind?” Sam said.
“Eight years ago he was convicted of grand larceny, forgery and drug possession.”
“What kind of drugs?”
“Cocaine. Cops found it when they searched his house for counterfeiting equipment. He was sent to the Georgia State Penitentiary at Reidsville. He just got out last week.”
“He did eight years?”<
br />
“Yeah, seems kind of stiff to me, too. You’d have to look into the court records to find out why the judge varied from the sentencing guidelines, and I don’t have those. But he’s out now. Last known address was 2454 Crescent Street, Augusta.”
“Where’s that?”
“He’s not there anymore. I had a couple of officers run over to talk to him. They say the place is vacant—has been since the last family moved out almost a year ago. Neighbors don’t even remember a Lee Doggett living there.”
“He was married,” Sam said. He told Boyce about Lois at the Food Lion.
“We can find her name,” Boyce said. “It would help if we knew where she went.”
“I’m working on that,” Sam said.
“Good luck. Call us.”
*
Caroline was still in bed when her phone rang at 10 a.m. She muted the sound on the TV, where ESPN was showing another clip of her interview with the reporters outside the clubhouse, and reached over to the nightstand to pick up her cell phone.
It was Sam.
“What, am I late already?” she said. “You don’t tee off for almost four hours.”
“You’re not late,” Sam said, sounding tired. “I’ve been trying to track down Lee Doggett.”
“Any luck?”
He told her about the cashier trying to remember where Doggett’s wife and kid had gone.
“She said Florida first, but then she thought it might be Arizona or New Mexico—someplace with horses.”
“I think I have it,” Caroline said. “Southwest Ranches, Florida.”
“What’s that?”
“A little town northwest of Miami. Shane played a mini-tour event near there a few years back.”
“That could be it,” Sam said. “I’ll call Lois and see if that rings a bell with her.”
Sam got the manager of the Food Lion, who told him Lois had gone home for the day. He asked for her home number, but the manager wouldn’t give it to him, or her last name. He didn’t know who Sam was; he wasn’t going to give out that kind of information to a stranger over the phone. Sam said he understood and hung up.
He tried to remember the name of the first cashier he’d talked to. It was different, a name he couldn’t remember seeing before. Sharleen, Sherice—Shareese? It was something like that. Yeah, Shareese—he was pretty certain that was it.
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