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THE KILLING GREEN
by
DAVID DEUTSCH
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Copyright © 2015 by David Deutsch
Cover design by Yocla Designs
Gemma Halliday Publishing
http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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CHAPTER ONE
I had just sat down in my new leather club chair that now adorned my new office. If I was being honest, the chair wasn't bought, and it really wasn't new. It was a gift from Mike Miller. And that was odd. Not odd because we didn't get along. We did. Quite swimmingly. It was odd because he thought, really believed, that I would want any sort of memento from the opulent offices of Baxter, Miller & Clarke when he finally closed it down.
I had refused. Objected. Told him to take it, and burn it. But he insisted and actually had it delivered the day that I moved into this joint. Which, coincidentally, was today. I told the movers to toss it in the alley. But they didn't seem to believe me or care and had just stood there staring at me, asking repeatedly where to put the thing until I relented and told them where to shove, I mean, put it.
I opted to place it in front of my desk and off to the side of the couch that sat directly across from me where I would be seated doing work. I now had a little potential client meeting area—a couch, small cocktail table, and now a giant brown leather club chair, complete with ottoman that was pushed off to the side, rounding out the look. In the corner of the office I had a bar. A glorious, beautiful bar. It was made of stained birch, handcrafted in the early 1920s, sporting brass accents with gold inlay. It was very art deco, stocked with a bunch of scotch and made me feel like Daddy Warbucks as I'd poured myself a glass just moments ago.
Jabber, my black lab, was here with me, as was Imogen, who was already sitting on the couch sipping a scotch and soda. Ready to relax. And why not? It was almost four. And we'd accomplished a lot today. We had moved our stuff in here. Here being the new offices of Slade Investigations located in beautiful Manors, NY, just down the street from my, I mean, our house. We had decided that we didn't want very much of a commute if we were going to really do this.
"Now what, Dutch?" Imogen asked.
"First thing, I'm trying to focus on taking a sip. That is, if you don't mind."
She rolled her eyes at me, playfully annoyed but still very much attracted to me and my sparkling personality. Well, at least I hoped that she was still attracted to me. We hadn't been married all that long. Still in the honeymoon stage. That is, if you weren't counting the five years that we dated. I was pretty sure she counted.
"Funny," she said, crossing her legs. "While you take your first sip, think about what we should do next. My office is done, and so is yours."
"Exactly. That's why I'm treating myself to a drink," I said, taking a sip of my Glenfiddich 18, neat.
"What about reception?" Ginny asked.
I chuckled. "We need a phone line first. We haven't set that up yet."
"We also need a receptionist."
"How about Jabber?"
"I'm being serious, Max," she said.
"OK, my love. I'm putting on my serious hat," I said.
"If you have one of those, I've yet to see it,"
"Good point. OK, let's give this a go. Any ideas on the receptionist?"
"None," she said.
"Male or female, my love?"
"Don't know. I haven't thought about it."
"Well, that's one to ponder on. Our phones aren't exactly ringing off the hook yet."
"Dutch, no office line, remember?"
"I'll work on that."
We needed to hire a receptionist and hook up a phone line. Two important items on the agenda for tomorrow. Today, I was happy just to finish unpacking our stuff and setting this place up. I wasn't thinking about getting any actual work done. Not that there was any work to be done. We didn't have any clients. All we had was this space, my bar, and a drink in each of our respective hands.
It was quite a leap to finally open our own private investigation firm. Take on a new challenge. One that would go hand in hand with our new life together. It had sounded laughable when we'd stood on the steps of the local police station six months ago after helping Detective John Carrington solve the murder of Ted Baxter. A case that I had been dragged into when I'd almost been locked up for murder. He had suggested that we would make great private investigators. He could use our help. And, if I remembered correctly, he'd said, and I was paraphrasing here, that others could use our help as well.
We'd laughed, and then I had an epiphany. We could do this. We could help John and the police, but more importantly, we could help people. People who were in trouble. People who had problems. People who needed someone to fight for them.
When we'd finally discussed it in detail, Imogen had agreed. We would leave our jobs running my venture capital firm, sell it, and "retire." Open up a private investigation firm. We didn't need the money. We had both done very well over the years. Despite my modest upbringing, I had managed to sell a technology company during the dot-com boom for a couple of million bucks. I was one of the lucky ones. And I knew it. Right time, right place. Dumb luck with a little ingenuity sprinkled in.
I'd used the money to start a venture capital firm, and from there I'd done well for myself. Imogen, on the other hand, was a diligent worker. She'd made her money the hard way. She'd inherited it. Her family was loaded. Old English money. But Imogen didn't rest on her trust fund. She'd been an investment banker at a prestigious bank in London and made herself a small fortune. She'd retired at thirty-five and moved to the United States and the sleepy town of Manors, NY, next door to me. For excitement, she'd said. A new place, new people, and a new way of life. Well, she'd certainly found that and more, I would argue.
I leaned back in the club chair and took a long sip of my scotch. Music. We needed some music in this office. I'd make sure to hook up some speakers in here so that I could stream a constant flow of tunes. I needed music to think. To reason. To live. Anyone who didn't like music was suspect in my book.
I gave a head rub to Jabber, who was sitting next to me, while Imogen sipped her drink, staring into space with her head leaned back against the top of the couch when my cell phone rang.
"Max," the voice said.
"Yes," I said.
I was trying to figure out who was on the line.
"Max, it's—"
John Carrington.
"John," he said.
Sergeant John Carrington of the Manors Police Department. This was the first time we had chatted in months. The last time we spoke he had congratulated me on my engagement to Imogen. And I had reciproca
ted by congratulating him on his promotion to sergeant.
"Do you have a minute?" he asked.
"Yes, of course. How are you?"
"I'm well, Max. Listen, I've got something here that I think you would be able to help with."
"What kind of something?"
"A dead kind of something. Recent. Could you get over to the station?"
"I don't see why not. And what about Imogen?"
Imogen looked over at me when I said her name. It must have roused her from her daydream. She mouthed a question asking me who was on the line. I didn't bother answering.
"Bring her along. You're a pair, aren't you?"
A pair? Yes, I supposed we were a pair. Partners.
"Partners," I answered.
"Good, get here as soon as you can. I'll explain in the car."
"Where are we going? The crime scene?"
"You're quick on the uptake, Max. See you in five."
He disconnected.
CHAPTER TWO
A crime scene. With a dead person. I had never been to a crime scene. And I'm pretty sure that Imogen had never been to one either. We did stand outside the perimeter of yellow tape a while back, but we were never inside the house. Never where there was blood, and people running around with cameras, white gloves, test tubes, and other sorts of CSI tools.
"Was that who I think it was?" Imogen asked.
"I think so," I said.
"What do I need to bring with me?"
"Just your gorgeous self. I don't think the dead guy cares much about anything else."
"Max, have a little respect."
"I do have respect. For this drink. Enough to know that swigging it is wrong. Bottoms up."
I pounded the remaining two fingers of my scotch, and Ginny gulped down the rest of her defiled Glenfiddich and soda, and we were off. We hopped in my black Audi RS7 on our way to the police station, one mile down the road.
When we arrived at the old redbrick building there was an aged, non-descript, black Lincoln Town Car with the engine on idling by the cement stairs leading to the entrance. I parked the Audi. Ginny and I walked out and started heading over toward the car.
The driver's side front tinted window started to move down. A hand waved us on.
"Get in," John said.
We opened the back door and hopped in. It was very plush in the back. The seats were deep and made of very comfortable leather. I sat on the passenger's side, and Ginny sat behind John. The passenger seat was empty.
"Shouldn't I be sitting in the front?" I asked.
"Maybe next time, Max."
Still a junior detective, I see. In the back, in my car seat. All I needed was a sippy cup.
"John, what is going on?" Imogen asked.
Next time we'd be taking my car. Not to be snobby but John's police-issued car wasn't exactly a high-performance vehicle.
"A body's popped up."
"Is that how it works?" I asked. "Dead, I'm guessing. Dead bodies pop up?"
"Pretty much. And I have a pretty good idea that you might know the guy."
I have learned to trust John's hunches. It was his hunch that had kept me out of prison when everyone else thought that I killed Ted Baxter. It was John that had saved me. Trusted his gut.
"And how is that going to help?"
"Means you know more than we do at the moment. I'm hoping that you can help us crack this nut sooner than later."
John was asking for my help. And if he was asking I was going to oblige. I had to help. I owed him.
We were driving at a good clip down Main Street, heading west. John didn't put on his lights or siren. I wasn't sure if this kind of car had flashing lights or a siren for that matter. The only time I had been in the back of a police car was when I was nineteen. I got busted for underage drinking at a college bar. The cops loaded my buddies and me into the back of a squad car and, on the ride to the station, tortured us with stories of how our lives were over. Cops. Always a barrel of fun. Turned out all I had to do was pay a fine.
John turned left at some point, and Main Street turned into back roads, winding through neighborhoods filled with large, lovely houses, each sitting on an acre lot. Some even had white picket fences. Driving by you saw upscale cars of every make and model. It was like you were at an auto show. There were some expensive minivans thrown in. After all, we were in the suburbs.
As we sped out of a neighborhood, we rolled up to the entrance of Delmar Country Club. The large entry monuments made it look like you were driving onto a palatial estate. John hung a right, and we proceeded down the road that eventually led to the actual club. But first, we had a stop at the guardhouse.
"How can I help you, sir?"
John rolled down his window, didn't say a word, and held out his badge so the guard could get a good look at what a real police officer looked like.
"Go right ahead, sir," the guard said.
John pulled his arm back into the car, rolled up his window, and stepped on it. We drove another quarter of a mile down the road, surrounded by lush greenery and magnificent landscaping. They certainly took care of this place. And they should have. After all, it cost a fortune to join. I knew. I was a member.
When we arrived at the clubhouse, John pulled right up to the entrance, popped his door open, and stepped out.
"Let's go," he said.
Imogen opened her door, and I opened mine. Then a valet ran over to the driver's side.
"Good afternoon, sir," he said to John.
He started to hand John a ticket.
"Leave it here," John said.
"But sir—"
John pulled out his badge and flashed it in the teen's face. "Leave the car here."
"Yessir."
"You two, let's go."
The three of us entered the clubhouse. Porters opened the doors for us, and then we strolled into the main room. It was stately, large, and beautifully decorated, like you had been transported onto a proper Southern plantation.
"This place is nice," John said.
"Sure is," I said.
"I've always wanted to see it," John said as we headed through the building.
"No one's ever invited you?" I asked.
"I guess I don't have friends in high places," he said.
"Next visit the round of golf is on me," I said.
"You're a member?"
"Of course," I said.
"I thought as much."
We kept walking until we were through the large clubhouse and exiting out the back. Once outside, we were left staring at the immense, perfectly manicured, professional golf course sprawled out in front of us. The PGA played a tournament here each year. I'd come a few times to watch. It was frustrating to see every ball that the pros hit land in the middle of each fairway, one after the other, in a line. I couldn't do that. As much as I wanted to and as much as I thought myself a proficient golfer, I was in envy of those guys.
Imogen, John, and I were in front of the golf marshal.
"Sorry, we're closed" he said.
John didn't seem like he was in the mood for witty retorts. He flashed his badge, commandeered a cart, and we all piled in—me in the back as John drove onwards. As we approached the green of the twelfth hole I could see the yellow tape.
CHAPTER THREE
John stepped out of the cart.
"You two stick with me," he said.
Imogen and I followed as John lifted the tape so that we could walk under and into the crime scene. There were officers in uniform walking around, some standing at the perimeter of yellow tape. There were some men and women in white walking around carrying things and putting down little triangular cards here and there. And of course, there were guys in suits, standing around, talking, looking, thinking.
John walked over to two guys in suits. They greeted John deferentially. These two must have been John's underlings.
"Sam, Chris, this is Max Slade and Imogen White—Imogen Slade."
Imogen ignored the confusion. S
he had taken my name. And she loved being married. At least, I was pretty sure that she did. I've learned people who knew you before you married struggle to call you by your new name. Ginny took it all in stride. She never corrected anyone. She always would just let it slide.
We all shook hands. The cops seemed confused as to why we were here.
"They're assisting on this one," John said.
The cops said nothing. Although John didn't mention it, these guys must have been detectives.
"So, what's the deal?" John asked.
I looked around. Besides the people moving about the green, I didn't see a body.
"Deceased male, white, fortyish. Throat slit. One of the golfers called it in. O'Connol and Shepherd arrived then called us. They think he's been dead for an hour or so," Chris said."Where's the body?" Carrington asked.
"Over there," he said, pointing down by the sand trap.
John directed Imogen and me to walk with him. We started down the fifty yards of the sloping fairway over to the sand trap.
"Beautiful course," John said on our walk.
"We'll see how you like it after you tee off," I said.
John laughed. It was an odd juxtaposition. Humor and death. In a way, they go together.
Without humor, something to laugh at, the ability to allow your mind to circumvent the gruesome reality of ceasing to exist, we as humans would go insane. Laughter keeps us going. At the very least, it helps us to cope.
The trap sat off to our left as we walked the hole in reverse. There were large oak trees lining the fairway that sat about five yards behind the sand. It was a slight dogleg so it made sense now that I couldn't see the real activity going on from the green. This would be a nasty trap to get caught in.
As we approached, I could see the body. It lay face down on the grass—blood pooled from his chest to his nose. He was in his golfing gear: shoes, white pants, tucked, orange-collared shirt, and hat that was now off to his side.
The Killing Green Page 1