by Blair Howard
Sorry, Amanda. “Okay,” I said. “You take the honor.”
She did.
The first was a par four, 436 yards to an elevated green. The landing area off the tee was generous, easy to hit, and, for a low handicapper, a good long drive would leave an easy four or five iron to the green. For me it was a good long drive and then a three hybrid, if I got lucky.
The ladies tee is set some 100 yards farther forward of the men’s tees, but that’s not where she was. She was with me, on the big boy tee box. I watched as she bent down and teed her ball. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. She definitely wasn’t wearing a skort.
She stepped away from the ball, driver in hand, and stood behind it to get her line. Then she stepped back to the ball and addressed it. Her swing was one of the most beautiful I’d seen outside of the PGA tour, and she hammered her ball a solid 300 yards right down the middle, leaving herself maybe a nine iron into the green.
Oh hell, Harry. You are in some kind of trouble.
She bent over, picked up her tee, turned, looked at me, then smiled with her head cocked to one side.
Well, I did my best, but my best was thirty yards short of hers. I had roughly 155 yards to the flag. It would take as good of a seven-iron shot as I’d ever hit to have any chance.
I pulled the seven from my bag. She sat in the cart, watching. I could feel her eyes boring into my back as I addressed the ball. Yep, I was intimidated.
I hit that ball as good as I ever had. I watched as it soared up and onward and then down onto the green. Eat that one, missy.
“Nice one, Harry. Well done.” She clapped as I climbed back into the cart and drove to her ball.
She pulled a pitching wedge from her bag, not even bothering to get her line before proceeding to fly the ball right to the center of the green, taking a divot that must have been all of two feet long in the process. She bent over to pick up the divot, making sure I had a good view of her ass. I watched her as she replaced it. Golf wasn’t the only game she was playing.
We drove to the green. The two balls were within ten feet of the hole; hers was maybe a foot closer than mine, which meant I had to putt first. My nerves were jangling. Nevertheless, I managed to lip the ball into the hole for a birdie three. I had never birdied the first hole in my life. This was a first I felt a thrill run through me.
I looked at her. Game on, girl.
Unfortunately, she made her put and birdied it, too.
Oh what fun.
By the time we reached the seventh tee, she was two up, and I was feeling like a damp rag. She was playing like a pro, and I was playing like the amateur that I was. Fortunately, she was giving me five shots, the first of them coming on this, the par five seventh, where we’d found Angela Hartwell in the river beside the green.
“Isn’t this where you found Angela’s body?” she asked.
“Yes, just over there, in the shallow water just to the left of the green.” I nodded in the general direction.
“I don’t know how you do it,” she said.
“Do what?”
“Deal with all those dead bodies. It must be absolutely horrible.”
“You can say that again,” I said, as I took my three iron from the bag. “Your honor.” I watched as she teed her ball. I shook my head in wonder. How come some people are blessed not only with great beauty, but also great talent? This one has it all. I bet she can sing, too.
She stepped back behind the ball, crouching down to get her line, then she straightened, looked at me, smiled, and walked around and addressed the ball.
Jeez, will you look at that. No wonder I’m getting beat. She’s making my head ache.
And then that I noticed that, not only was she beating me off the men’s tees, she was also playing with men’s clubs.
Damn!
Her swing was a long, loping loop; her hips turned to the left and her back arched; the club head finished close to her heels. It was a thing of beauty. The ball lifted on the spin, dropping to the center of the fairway some 270 yards out, and rolled on for 20 more. I shook my head. I was doomed to take this beauty to dinner. Amanda would be outraged.
I took my usual three iron. There was no point in trying to hit a driver. I just wasn’t that good. I hit a good shot to the center of the fairway, maybe 220 yards. She had me by at least sixty yards. The only consolation was that I was there in zero, because of my free shot, while she was where she was in one.
Down on the fairway, I took out my five wood—they call them metals these days—and I hit a good shot to within 160 yards of the flag. I was there in one. If I could get up and down, I’d have a natural birdie. With my shot, it would be an eagle; I’d be only one down. With four more shots I’d be in with a chance.
We drove to her ball, where she did the whole bend and straighten routine again, then hammered the ball with a three iron to within 100 yards of the green. The woman was on fire. I had to do something
I stood over my ball, thought about it, shook my head. It wasn’t a difficult shot, but with the goddess watching, and a dinner that would get me into more trouble than I could handle on the line….
I sighed, dragged out my seven iron, tried to relax, and then…. I watched the ball as it gained altitude. It was bang on line, and then it dropped down onto the green, out of sight. I knew it was good, but how good?
“Very nice, Harry. I’m beginning to get the idea that you don’t want to buy me dinner.”
I didn’t answer. I just smiled at her.
She took a pitching wedge and, with an easy sweep, lofted the ball onto the green. It wasn’t as good a shot as mine, I could tell, but still.
When we got to where we could see the surface of the green, I couldn’t help it, I laughed. My ball—I just knew it was mine—was within two feet of the hole. Hers was at least twenty feet away.
“Damn you, Harry Starke.” She said it with a smile, and without malice. She putted the ball to within three feet, then sank it for a par five. I was lying net two. I sank the putt for a net eagle. We were all square, and I still had four shots coming to me.
YES!
“So, Harry,” she said. “Show me where you found poor Angela.” I did. I walked her down to the riverbank and we stood there in silence. What she was thinking about, I had no idea. I did know what I was thinking about, and it wasn’t pleasant.
“So, do you have any suspects yet?” she asked thoughtfully.
“No.”
“How is the investigation going?”
“Right now, it isn’t. It’s still very early.”
“What about that forty-eight hours thing? Don’t you need to have it solved by then?”
“That would have been nice, but that’s rarely what happens, especially in a case like this one.”
“Where are you focusing your efforts?
I looked at her. What the hell? “I’m asking questions. It’s how you get the answers,” I said, with no little sarcasm.
She didn’t seem to notice. “Do you think this is where she died?”
“I don’t know. Could be. Could be she died elsewhere and was dumped here.”
“And you have no persons of interest at all?”
“Why are you asking all these questions? Do you know something?”
“Nope, just curious. It’s very interesting. Come on. Let’s play golf. I’m looking forward to our dinner together.”
The hell you say!
The game was close. It all came down to the eighteenth hole. We stood on the tee all square, thanks to my having received three more shots, and I still had one for the final hole. I had a chance.
But when she hit her third to within eight feet of the hole, I was in trouble. I was on the green in four, net three, thanks to my free shot—I’d managed to find the fairway bunker midway out, and that had cost me one. Now, as I said, I was lying net three some thirty feet from the pin with a break to the left of at least three feet staring up at me. If I missed, and she made hers, dinner was on me. Someho
w, though, I wasn’t worried. It is what it is.
I got behind the ball and figured out what I hoped would be the line. I addressed the ball, swung the putter smoothly on through, watching as the ball rolled interminably and… inevitably into the hole. I stood there, stunned, and so did Ruth Archer—and up on the terrace overlooking the green, so did Amanda. If Ruth missed her eight-footer now, she would owe me $100. She didn’t.
“Well damn,” she said, walking up and shaking my hand. “I guess I’ll just have to figure out another way to get you all to myself.” And with that she walked off the green into the clubhouse, her hips swinging, leaving me to see to the cart and clubs.
Ten minutes later, I was seated in the bar with Amanda drinking a double gin and tonic, and I needed it.
“You, Harry Starke,” she said, “are one lucky S.O.B. She had you there. And if you’d had to take her to dinner… well, let’s not talk about it.”
“Lucky my ass. I just played my best round of golf in three years, maybe more. I shot a two over seventy-four. She was two under, for God’s sake. And I had a plan anyway. Yes, I would have had to buy her dinner, but nothing was said about it being just her….”
“You sneaky....”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But listen. I’m thinking she has some kind of an agenda….”
“Hah, and we all know what that is.”
“No, Amanda. That’s not what I meant. I think she might have been on a fishing expedition. She asked an awful lot of questions, about Angela Hartwell and the investigation. I asked her why. She said she was just curious, but… well, there was something, and for the life of me I can’t figure out what it could be, unless…. Who knows? Something to think about, though.”
“Well, like I told you before, she’s as crooked as a bent nail.”
I nodded. “Her excuse for wanting to meet with me today was that she thought she was being stalked but she never even mentioned it, and I forgot to ask her. I was too focused on not losing the match.”
“Yes, good job, too.” She was smiling, but not with her eyes, and I knew I had to change the subject.
“Right. Let’s get some lunch and then get out of here,” I said. “Are you working today?”
“Yes, I have to do the six and eleven o’clock news. Why?
“Can you get someone to cover for you?”
“I suppose, but why?”
”Just being selfish. I need a quiet evening. Time to think. I thought maybe you’d like it if I cooked dinner.”
“You sneaky….” She took her iPhone from her clutch, hit the speed dial, talked for a few moments, disconnected, looked at me, then smiled and nodded.
Chapter 9
I called Jacque and told her I was taking the rest of the day off, and that I’d be in bright and early the following morning. It didn’t go down well.
Next, I called Kate and told her the same—that turned into a much longer conversation, but her overall reaction was the same as Jacque’s, though I told her I would call her in the morning and bring her up to speed.
I must admit, I had a small twinge of conscience about taking the time off, but what the hell. That’s why I run my own company. I make the rules. Besides, I wasn’t really taking time off; I just needed the rest of the afternoon to think about the case, do a little organizing. I could have done all that at my office, but there it would be one interruption, one distraction after another. Better I do it at home, where I wouldn’t be disturbed. That was what I told myself.
The calls made, I returned to the bar. Amanda had ordered a second round of drinks, which was… well, not good, but again, what the hell?
It was still early, a little after two o’clock, when we got to my house. I’d already had more to drink than I should, so I made coffee—but not with the Keurig.
I love coffee and, over the years, have become something of a connoisseur. I’ve tried most of the expensive brands, even Kopi Luwak, which is the one that’s eaten by and fermented inside a little animal called the civet. I tried it because I felt I had to, and it was very good, but I just couldn’t get the image of… well, you know. Couldn’t get that out of my head. Anyway, I felt like a treat, so I liberated one of my bags of Jamaican Blue Mountain from its air-tight container, put the water on to heat, and prepared the French press: eight level teaspoons of coffee made four eight-ounce cups, two for each of us. I drink it with a teaspoon full of half-and-half, no sugar, and let me tell you, it’s exquisite.
I handed a cup to Amanda, and we retired to the sofa in front of the great windows. She was about to speak, but I put a hand on her arm. When I drink Blue Mountain, that’s all I want to do: sit quietly and enjoy the moment.
After we’d each consumed our second cup, she said finally, “Okay, Mr. Coffee. What was that all about?”
I looked at her, bemused. “Amanda. You’ve just experienced something wonderful, something very few folks ever get to enjoy, and you wonder what it was all about? Didn’t you like it?”
She screwed up her face, “I suppose. It was okay.”
“Okay? Just okay? You just guzzled down twenty bucks worth of the best coffee in the world and it was just okay?”
She burst out laughing, “Oh Harry, you’re such a chump sometimes. Coffee is coffee. How different can it be? I liked it. It was okay.”
“Wow. No more of the good stuff for you, then. From now on you can drink the supermarket crap. Remind me to get some in for you.” Okay my ass.
“Time to go to work,” I said, getting up from the sofa. “We’ve lots to sort out, so let’s get on with it.”
“Hey, no, we’ve plenty of time. Come back and sit with me for a minute.”
“No ma’am. I get back down there with you, I’ll never get up again. I came home to work, and work I will, with or without you.”
She pouted.
Damn. I almost gave in.
“Later.” I said. “Now, we work.”
I went into the cubicle I called my office—it was actually a large walk-in closet, but I’d had to give up the spare bedroom the day Amanda started moving her stuff in. She didn’t live with me, but only technically. I think she had more clothes at my place than she did at home, and she spent more time here than there, too.
I grabbed a couple of legal pads and some colored pens, cleared the dining table, and sat down. Amanda was at the window, looking out over the river. The light shone through her flimsy summer dress. She was bewitching. The longer I watched her, the more my will deteriorated. I walked over to stand behind her, slipped my arms around her waist and nuzzled her ear.
“That’s not fair,” I whispered in her ear.
“No, it’s not.” She turned, wrapped her arms around my neck, and kissed me.
I let it happen, but pushed her gently away before things could go any further. “Later. Right now I have to work.
She smiled. “I’m holding you to that first part.”
I sat back down at the table. She also sat, opposite me. We talked back and forth, making notes and spreading sheets of paper all over the table until well after five, by which time my head was spinning, and so, I think, was hers. During the past three hours I’d consumed five cups of coffee, and I was wired; Amanda had switched to Riesling right around three o’clock and was already on her third glass when I decided to categorize and prioritize everything we’d gone through before calling it a day.
My subject list had grown to almost two dozen pages, of which several stood out.
I needed to know more about Regis Hartwell, his life and death, his friends, his business, and whether or not someone really was stealing from his banks.
I needed to know a lot more about Angela Hartwell, too. Someone needed her to die. Why? What was she doing, or what did she know, that was so threatening? Someone had searched her apartment. What were they looking for? What was she doing and who was she with during those two hours after she left the club, before she met her end?
Dr. Ed Gray might be able to answer at least some of those que
stions, so that would be first on my list of things to do.
Motive was my next concern. Who benefitted from Angela’s death? Only one person that I could think of: Ralph Hartwell. But he might not be the only one. If someone had been stealing, and Angela knew about it, or if they even suspected she knew about it… that opened up the field to all sorts of people—people I didn’t even know. I had to find out more, and Ed Grey might, again, be able to point me in the right direction. In the meantime….
I grabbed my iPhone and punched in the number for Tim’s direct line. He answered immediately.
“Hey, Tim,” I said. “It’s me. I need you to do me a favor. Angela Hartwell’s cell phone is missing. Can you see if you can find it? You can tell me what you find when I get in tomorrow morning. Seven thirty.”
I gave him the number of the missing phone, and he said he’d get right on it. Then I asked him to put me through to Ronnie.
Ronnie Hall is one of my staff. With a background in banking and an MSc in finance from the London School of Economics, he handles my white-collar investigations.
He didn’t answer the phone, so I left a message.
“Hey Ronnie. I have a question that’s been bugging me for a couple of days. How does someone steal from a bank without actually walking in and holding it up at gunpoint? I don’t need to know right now, but if you could give me something in the morning, that would be great. Talk to you then. Bye.”
That done, I felt a little more relaxed. Tomorrow morning I’d have answers to some of my tech questions. Now I had to go see the people I hoped could fill in the gaps.
Two more calls later I had an appointment with Ed Gray for ten thirty the next day, and one for noon with Ralph Hartwell.
Next, I called Kate and told her I needed her present for both meetings. She agreed to meet me at my office as soon as she could tear herself free.
Finally, I put Amanda to digging through the Channel 7 archives—no, not that evening, in the morning. I wanted anything and everything to do with Hartwell Community Banks, and I knew that if it was there, she would find it. After that I really did feel better.