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By the time Missy Banner was finished confessing in the small security office at Coldridge, the tears had come to an end. Her once beautiful blue eyes had now become swollen, puffy, and red. Mr. Humphrey was no expert at interrogating witnesses, but he had a similar situation occur a few years ago when an employee was selling the firm’s customer list to one of their competitors. He didn’t have the luxury of video cameras back then, but he still made it difficult for the person to deny the story. At this point, Missy was a broken woman, and Mr. Humphrey relished in every moment.
Flipping through his notes, he confirmed the time that Missy went to the security guard and asked for help with her car. Mr. Humphrey was the head of security and floated between the Carolina and Philadelphia offices. He was Hank’s uncle on his mother’s side and had been with the company since its infancy. He was fifty-two years old but looked a lot older with only a few specks of black in his gray hair. He worked long hours and prided himself on the security of Coldridge Group.
“This is serious, Miss Banner. Why, specifically, did you want these disks?”
She didn’t look at him. The last thing she wanted to do was give up her boss’ name. If she could only hold on for a few more moments, Mr. Humphrey may forget the whole thing. “I really needed help with my car, that’s all.”
“Poor excuse, Miss Banner. On the date in question, Miss Tiernan brought the disks down to Shawn and he was logging them into the books when you walked up to him and asked for help. When he got back to his desk, he noticed they went missing. But unfortunately he didn’t report it because the disks were back a day later. If it wasn’t for Mr. Fredericks asking about them, we never would’ve known they went missing for a day and Shawn would still have a job. So, Miss Banner, with your cute smile, you stole these disks, didn’t you? I have no choice but to send you home and decide the repercussions later.”
She quickly caved. “Craig Waltrip wanted them.”
Humphrey showed a hint of a smile. “Good. Now go get your things and be on your way.” He turned to the two security guards that stood nearby. “Stumps, escort Miss Banner to her desk to gather her things and then out the door. Brewster, you go and get me every security tape from these dates.” The two security guards that were in attendance split up and headed out the door.
“I told you who wanted them,” Missy pleaded. “Can’t you just drop it?” .
“Miss Banner, your honesty will be duly noted.”
Missy could not imagine what her coworkers were going to say behind her back. She got off the elevator and went down the aisle of cubicles to her desk and started packing. Everyone was staring at Missy and Stumps, the big security guard who was hovering over her like a hawk. She could not make eye contact with any of them. It didn’t take her long to pack up her desk, and she headed quickly for the elevator.
Humphrey was back at his desk writing up his report when Brewster came back in with a box of digital compact disks. There were four cameras in the building, but only one concerned Mr. Humphrey: the one in the main conference room. He sifted through the box and pulled out the two that were from the date in question. Brewster had gone down the hall to the conference room and wheeled in a TV with a DVD player. Humphrey put the DVD in and started to watch.
Brewster walked out the door and closed it behind him. It took a while to scan through and finally see a meeting take place. The only people on the screen were Hank Fredericks and a man he did not recognize. He watched the tape intently and turned up the volume, not believing what he was hearing.
After the meeting was adjourned, Mr. Humphrey turned off the TV and faced a huge dilemma. Important questions came to mind. Do I inform Hank that this meeting was overheard? Do I ignore everything? One thing was for certain: Whatever he decided must be done today.
WEDNESDAY
PAR 3 CONTEST
Chapter 5
Craig noticed his hand shaking as he poured the milk into his coffee but couldn’t confirm whether it was from the lack of sleep or from being nervous. His eyes were scanning the airport to see if anyone was following him. He did the same thing on the plane, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Craig couldn’t help the fact that he was worried someone knew that he saw the tape.
Although the Augusta, Georgia, airport was small, it was busy that Wednesday morning. As Craig scanned the small shops, coffee places, and restaurants, he noticed that every other person was dressed similarly to him: khaki pants, light shirt, dark vest. Typical golf attire in the South for the month of April. The windows were open in the airport, and a light breeze came through.
Craig’s traveling companion and boss, Hank Fredericks, met him at the counter of the Starbucks, and they both doctored their coffee up.
“Not a bad flight,” Hank said. “I zonked out during the takeoff. Did you sleep?”
“Nah, I usually don’t sleep on planes, just read.”
Craig couldn’t believe he had only one day until the tournament started. The Masters was the oldest and most revered of the four majors in professional golf. He was excited a few weeks ago when he had learned he was going, but now he was very apprehensive about what this tournament was going to bring. Besides the Super Bowl, this was one of the hardest sporting events to get tickets to. Being a golfer himself, Craig had dreamt of being here every April, and now he was. Unfortunately, he had a larger agenda on his mind than watching a golf tournament.
The two men had only carry-on luggage, so they went straight out the front doors of the airport and waited in the long line for a taxi. People from all over the country were milling about, trying to find a cab, hopping on hotel buses, or renting cars.
“Screw this; we’re not waiting in line.” Hank pulled the handle out of his bag and wheeled back inside to the rental car section.
From a few yards away, Craig watched as Hank raised his voice and threw his arms up in the air at the petite Asian woman behind the counter. A few minutes after filling out paperwork, they were handed the keys to a car.
“How’d you do that?” asked Craig.
“I told her I made a reservation and they lost it. I’ve rented a car before and parking at the course is a pain in the ass so I just thought we’d get a Town Car every day to take us. She finally got her manager to call around to the other agencies and they found one at Dollar. Now you can be my driver, Craig,” Hank said, smiling at Craig.
They reached the parking lot outside, and there were hardly any cars left. Both men were pulling their luggage behind them as the sun was beating down. It felt like seventy degrees at such an early hour but a gentle wind made it seem much cooler. Craig’s thinning brown hair did not stand up to the wind; Hank’s thick blonde hair did.
Approaching the Dodge Neon, Hank looked disgusted. “You believe this crap? This was all they had?”
“It’ll do; we’ll barely be in the car.”
They jumped in the car with Hank driving and started off towards the hotel. It was the Masters, and Craig was looking forward to the next five days, even though he had stumbled onto some information he wasn’t supposed to overhear.
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The morning temperature had slowly climbed from an overnight low of fifty-five to a modest sixty-four degrees. The drops of water that clung to the grass had quickly disappeared when the large mower cut a perfect path back and forth, like an artist painting his canvas. The few clouds that hovered over the backdrop of the tall pine trees in the distance were slowly dissipating into the clear blue sky. It was the ideal time of day, not a spectator in sight. Stanley Drummond stood behind one of the world’s greatest golfers as he began to stretch his long, languid muscles on the practice range.
Stan had been Chet Walker’s caddie for the better part of four years now. Before that, he had caddied for PGA tour veteran Dallas Fettle and had done very well for himself. Stan knew that Dallas was getting up in age, and he didn’t want to caddie on the Champions tour, a fifty-plus retirement tour, so he sought out Walker
, and they had formed a great relationship that was built on trust.
“Couldn’t get a better day out here, Chet,” Stan said.
Chet was holding the shaft of his driver behind his head while bending over until his blonde hair almost touched the ground. He was tall, and unlike other PGA golfers, well-built. Chet had been instilled with the principle that it was necessary to stay fit year-round if you wanted to compete on the tour. He was wearing khaki pants, a white button down shirt, and a matching white baseball cap.
“Day like this in Florida and I’d already be sweating,” Chet responded.
“Not today. Let’s hope it stays like this all week.”
Chet took a few practice swings with two irons in his hands to loosen his muscles. He handed one to Stan and said, “I think we need to work on some short irons. The approach shots on the back nine could be huge this week, and I seemed to be pushing them yesterday during the practice round.”
“No you weren’t. You just held onto the club too long. You’re like a little kid with a lollipop that won’t let go. We’ll work that out,” Stan remarked. The player-caddie relationship was one of the most important aspects of being successful on the PGA tour. After all, a caddie’s livelihood depended on how his player performed each week. The caddie usually raked in about seven percent of the earnings of his player. Unless, of course, he won; then that figure would usually double. With the winner’s purse being around a million dollars, a caddie could make a fine living as long as he had a good player.
Chet pulled a few balls near to him and took his stance. He brought the club back only halfway and made a smooth, fluid swing towards the ball, ending his follow-through only halfway. Chet hit six balls this way, trying to ease into his full swing. Stan watched as each ball soared into the air with a little right to left draw and land towards the 150 yard flag. The ball never rose above the pine trees until Chet starting hitting full shots.
A few players started to approach the driving range, some with just their caddies. Some also had their swing coaches, fitness gurus, psychologists, and even their wives. Chet trusted no one but Stan. He did have a swing coach at home in Florida, but he rarely brought him to tournaments unless he was having trouble with his swing.
“Wonder what the payroll is for country boy over there?” Stan asked, referring to Bill Worley, PGA tour veteran. There were four people in his group, one with a laptop computer and a video camera.
“He better start making more cuts if he expects to keep that entourage,” Chet responded. “You’d think he would realize by now that all that advice is going to kill him. How can he concentrate?”
“Let’s not dwell on Worley’s problems, Chet.”
“I’m not,” Chet responded, following his caddie’s advice, as he usually did. He walked over to his bag and grabbed his driver.
“Driver?” Stan asked. “How ‘bout we hit some wedges?”
“I will. Just want to get in some extra swings with the big dog. I need to perfect my cut-shot for the eighteenth.” The eighteenth hole at Augusta National was a long 464-yard par-four that dog-legged left to right. The tournament could come down to the last hole, and Chet didn’t want to be in the bunkers or worse, hacking out his second shot from the woods. He teed up his ball and blasted a 300-plus shot that started straight on his target line and never moved.
“See! That ball should be moving thirty yards right!” Chet exclaimed.
Stan moved into a better position behind him and watched Chet hit the exact same shot, dead straight.
“Ask yourself this question,” Stan began. “Am I trying to push the ball with my hands or swing outside my swing plane?”
Chet stood there thinking. “The easier shot is to just swing from outside in.”
“Then why aren’t you doing that?”
Chet teed up a few more balls and finally nailed it on the third shot. The ball started just left of his target and then rose high into the air, curving about thirty yards to the right.
“That’ll be a hundred dollars,” Stan said, smiling.
“I knew I paid you for something,” Chet said, teeing up another ball.
Chapter 6
Augusta National actually has thirty-six holes, one set used for tournament play, the other a small par-three course that the members liked to practice on. Traditionally, the Wednesday before the tournament started, the players invited to play in the Masters also competed in the Par 3 Contest. Over the years, this had been the chosen contest over others like the alternate shot competition, an approach and putt contest, an iron contest, and a driving contest. Craig and Hank arrived at the course and were directed to the grounds that held the contest.
Most of the time before a tournament was to begin, players could be seen at the driving range or the putting green, honing their skills before their first tee time. Today was different and entertaining for the players. Some even had friends, family members, or even their young children caddy for them. The only thing not fun about the Par 3 Contest could have possibly been winning the exhibition. Since the Par 3 Contest began in the 1940s, no player who won the contest had gone on to win the actual Masters tournament.
Hank and Craig walked together through the grounds, taking in the colorful sights. Tall pine trees surrounded them, and the grass was greener than Craig had ever imagined. For a brief moment, Craig thought he was walking through a National Park. Not a speck of trash could be seen anywhere. It was hard for Craig to concentrate on why he was actually at this tournament. He was brought here for fun and sun, a reward for all of his hard work the past year. Knowing what Craig knew, this proved to be very difficult.
“Something to drink?” asked Hank.
It was barely ten o’clock in the morning, and Craig knew that “a drink” didn’t mean a Coke or a cup of coffee. “No thanks,” he replied.
“Suit yourself. Starting tomorrow, the firm is invited to a hospitality tent. We’ll have free drinks and food all week long.” Hank walked over to a small concession stand and ordered a beer.
Craig had grabbed a program at the front gate and flipped through it to see what time everyone was teeing off. Usually the contest started early so that the players had time to practice afterwards if they wanted to. He found who he was looking for, Chet Walker, and saw that his tee time was 9:22. He was not only Craig’s favorite player, but probably everyone in the golfing world’s favorite player. Walker had dominated the golfing world since he first became a PGA member six years ago, but still chased his first major.
Chet Walker was walking down the fourth hole of the par-three course when Craig spotted him smiling and entertaining the crowd. He normally didn’t switch into tournament mode until the morning before his opening round tee time.
Hank insisted on stopping at the concession stand once more and grabbing another beer. Craig complied, and he lost Walker in the melee. There must’ve been over ten thousand people at the day’s event, and that number would surely more than double over the next couple of days.
“So, how’s the firm treating you?” Hank asked.
“It’s great. I love the people there and the work I do.”
“Don’t lie to me, son. It’s a job. It pays the bills. You think I love my job or love the people that work for me? Don’t get me wrong, I brought you here because you deserved it, but I also took a liking to you, and I see great things for your career. But the other people at Coldridge? Did you know that of the two hundred people we have working for us, maybe only half will be here in two years?”
“I didn’t think of it that way.”
“Be careful when choosing personal work relationships, Craig. Everyone is looking to climb the corporate ladder sooner or later. Don’t trust anyone.”
Craig let these words sink in as they were waiting in line at the concession stand. His father had told him the exact same thing. It was strange hearing them again from a man he certainly didn’t trust anymore.
Hank changed the subject, “Are you going to join me for a beer or
what?”
“Yeah, might as well.” Craig needed Hank to trust him if he was ever going to accomplish the impossible.
“What time is it anyway?” Hank asked.
“Ten forty-five.”
“Picture all of those suckers at work, and here we are in eighty degree weather drinking cold beer and watching the greatest golf tournament in the world.”
“I am a lucky man, Hank. I can’t thank you enough for bringing me down here. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for so long, and I’m so glad I got the chance.”
“No sweat, kid. I knew how much you loved golf after playing with you last summer. Archie and I have been going to this tournament for years. Most of our top people are at the golf expo in Orlando. Lucky for me, I didn’t have to attend. It’s just a way of thanking you for the job well done. Keep it up.”
“I will.”
They grabbed their beers and headed back out to the course. Chet Walker always had the largest gallery of people following him, so it was difficult to get close. It took close to an hour to find a good position and get right up against the ropes on the tenth hole.
“This kid sure is good, huh?” asked Hank.
“Yeah, he is. Unbelievable the shots he can pull off.”
Walker was on the tee of a 180-yard hole. The tee was slightly elevated, and there was small pond fronting the green with the pin dead center in the middle. If this green was used for a tournament, the pin would be on the front edge, but the members liked to see the players hit holes-in-one, so they made it easy for them. Walker took out a club and approached his ball. His caddy turned to the reporters behind him and flashed eight fingers, indicating that Chet was using an eight iron.
The stare from Walker was one of the best in the game. He would take his stance and take one last look at the hole, almost as if saying to the hole, “Watch this.” He brought the club back slowly and stopped three-quarters of the way back. Craig knew this was his patented knock down shot. Chet completed his downswing and kept the club low to the ground, stopping again almost three-quarters of the way past the ball. He held his follow-through and stared at the ball taking off towards its target.
Deep Rough - A Thriller in Augusta Page 4