The Killing Green

by David Deutsch

  "You're selling it?" Imogen asked. "Why?"

  Alese sighed. "We haven't found the right auction house yet. But we will. Regardless, it's time to let it go. I've been able to enjoy it for all these years, and now it's time for others to derive some pleasure from it."

  "That's very kind of you," I said.

  "Well, it isn't all altruistic of me, Max. It's going to fetch a pretty penny at auction."

  I was sure of that.

  "And you're receiving death threats?" I asked, getting back to the reason for her visit.

  "Yes. I've received a few."

  "And you went to the police?"

  "I did. I told them about the threats, and they said they couldn't do anything about it unless something actually happened. They told me to keep them posted. They also told me about you. That I should get a private investigator to check the threats out. Follow up on them. Find out if any of them were credible."

  "So that's why you're here."

  "You got it. That's why I'm here. I need your help. Will you help me?"

  I looked at Alese. I looked at Jabber. Then I looked at Ginny. We had ourselves another client.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  We agreed. We would help Mrs. Alese Steiner try to figure out who had been sending her death threats. We explained that we would begin today. No time to waste. We asked her some particulars including what type of threats she was receiving. If any of them were in print. If any of them were made orally via telephone. If anyone left a name, rank, or serial number along with the threat. That last one was wishful thinking. In all cases, no one left anything besides some nasty words.

  All the threats came via the mail. Letters. Snail mail. Paper shoved in an envelope and sent from a variety of places across the United States. In addition, the letters arrived in your favorite movie or television serial killer format. Cutouts of letters of all different shapes and sizes from various magazines glued into words on a piece of paper that formed sentences that then formed threats. It screamed amateur hour, but at the same time it also screamed scary shit.

  Alese also shared with us the name of the painting and showed us an image of it hanging in her house on her phone. The painting that Mrs. Steiner had in her possession was indeed a big deal. One that would certainly garner worldwide attention. One that could certainly raise some suspicion as well. Schubert at the Piano was one of Klimt's works—I had confirmed it. On the internet. So it must be true. Bad joke. And according to every bit of research, the painting was destroyed by the Nazis in 1945 when they burned the Schloss Immendorf to the ground.

  But I had seen it. Hanging on a modern day wall in a modern day house. She had shown us the picture where it sat prominently in her living room for her eyes only. Sheltering this masterpiece from Klimt lovers. From art lovers. From the world.

  We needed to see the physical evidence. The letters. The envelopes. The painting. So when Alese left we agreed that we would stop by her place later in the day. Right now we had other things to attend to. Namely, reviewing the suspect list, I mean the list of tee times and who was out there on the course yesterday.

  Imogen was in her office, so I strolled across the hall and surprised her. I saw her sitting at her desk, staring at her laptop.

  "My love," I said, standing at her doorway.

  She didn't look up from the monitor. She was immersed in whatever she was looking at.

  "Have you taken a look at this painting, Max?" she asked.

  "Yes, of course."

  "It's beautiful, Max."

  "It is."

  "But it was destroyed, burned by the Nazis in 1945," she said.

  "I read the same thing."

  "How could she have it if it was destroyed?"

  "I don't know, my love. Maybe her family is from Germany?"

  "But all the accounts of the day say that it was burned. Even if she was from Germany how could she have it?"

  "Are you saying…"

  "I'm thinking that the only way she could have that painting is if someone in her family was a Nazi and stole the painting before they burned the museum to the ground."

  "That's some serious stuff, Imogen."

  "I realize that, Max. But, it's the only explanation that makes any sort of sense."

  "And if that's true, if someone in her family was indeed a Nazi and stole that painting, then there's a true owner out there, and the provenance of the painting is tarnished. I don't know how she could auction it off."

  "Money, Max. An authenticated Klimt doesn't come up every day. People will pay for it, whatever the provenance."

  "I know that's true, Ginny. But there's something very wrong about that."

  "I think we should head over to Campbell Auction House. Maybe they can enlighten us on this painting."

  "That's a start, my love. But first things first, we've got a murder to solve. What do you say we go through that tee-time list? See what we've got."

  "Sounds like a plan, Max.

  Nazis. Stolen art. And a murder on a golf course. Things were getting interesting.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Bill was an interesting fellow. For starters, he was the golf marshal at the world-renowned Delmar Country Club and Golf Course. Actually, there were two golf courses at Delmar. There was the short, par-three, executive course and the professional course. The professional course that was designed by Bill himself. In addition to being known as the guy who designed the Delmar course, he was a former professional golfer. In the sixties and seventies he made quite a splash on the PGA Tour. Although never a winner of a Major, he earned the nickname Bridie, as in Bridesmaid, because he always managed to finish in the top five.

  Being fifth didn't get him much fame, but it did earn him enough money to retire after he hung up his clubs. He moved to Manors, helped design the course, and set up shop as the resident pro and marshal. He'd been here ever since. Checking you in right before you teed off, greeting you when you parked your cart, and even sometimes laughing with you as he ushered the not-so-great foursomes along on a busy day with a bitingly hilarious remark.

  He was serious, intense, passionate, and funny all at the same time. He would have scared the shit out of me if I were competing against him on the tour. But that wasn't going to happen. Hell, I liked scotch too much to actually train for qualifying school. For the time being, I had decided that I would stick with drinking and solving crimes with my wife. Maybe I'd hit the Senior Tour. A guy can dream. And usually especially well after a few drinks.

  I was back in my office, comparing the list Bill gave me to the handwritten list that I swiped off of his paper schedule. I blew up the picture on my laptop and started with the 7:00 AM times. Four people actually teed off at that time. Seven in the morning. That means you had to be up at 5:30 or 6:00. Jesus Christ. That is not fun. At least not for me. I like sleep. I treasure sleep. I do not like to disrupt my sleep to play sports. But I may be in the minority. Because here were four guys who felt different about sleep, golf, and apparently life.

  Everything matched. Four names on Bill's list and four names on the printout. I moved on. Everything moved along the same way. 7:30, 8:00, 8:30. Then we came to 10:00. There was a discrepancy. Looked like Dan Millwood was a scratch. He was on the printout but not on Bill's list. Bill only had the three guys who did play. I knew them all, and believe me, no one was breaking any records in that threesome. I kept on keepin' on. Everything continued to match up, until we came to the one o'clock tee time.

  The printout had one person listed, Carl Westbrook. Scheduled for his post-lunch tee off. But when I turned my gaze to the blown-up, handwritten, tee-time schedule, I saw something odd. Carl's name was there as you would expect, but there was something else there. Something illegible. But something nonetheless. No other foursome, threesome, twosome or solo golfer had it next to their group. But it was here, and it was odd.

  "I'm calling her in," I said to Jabber.

  She looked at me from under my desk, curled up in a ball, just her eyes. She di
dn't even bother to move her head.

  "Ginny!" I yelled.

  Nothing.

  "Ginny!"

  Then I heard a faint reply. I needed to install an intercom or some other way of getting in touch with Imogen when she was in her office. Yelling wasn't going to cut it. Maybe carrier pigeon would work.

  "Why in God's name are you shrieking at me like a shrew?" Imogen said, approaching my doorway.

  "Working on alliterations? How about shrieking at me like a snotty, psychopathic, stern shew? Really? You couldn't think of anything better?"

  "You are such an asshole sometimes."

  I smiled.

  "Anyway, Jabber liked it," she said. "I can see her wagging her tail."

  "She's sleeping. She must be dreaming."

  "Oh. At any rate we need a better way to communicate in here."

  "Agreed."

  "Well, now that I'm here…"

  "Yes, well, now that you're here. Keep the momentum going, and walk over to my desk."

  She shot me an exasperated look, walked her lovely body over, and then rolled an Aeron chair meant for a guest right next to me behind my desk. She crossed her legs, exposing a fair amount of her well-toned, perfectly tanned thigh, picked up a pen off of my desk, lifted the capped point to her lips, and nibbled on the tip.

  "Yes, Max."

  This was seductive Imogen. This was playful Imogen. This was the Imogen that distracted me from work. Of any kind. I was going to ignore her.

  "Look at this," I said.

  I directed her attention to the blown-up picture of Bill's schedule book.

  "Do you see this?" I asked, pointing to the illegible mark.

  She looked closely at my computer screen. Tapping it with the pen right on the illegible mark.

  "Don't do that," I said.

  "Do what?"

  "Tap the pen on the screen."

  "Why?"

  "What do you mean why? You'll scratch it."

  "Oh Jesus. Can we move on?"

  I would try to move on. I hate scratches on my screen. And, since she didn't scratch it, well, from what I could gather, I would try to let it go.

  "OK, sorry. So, do you see anything?"

  "Yes, I see something, but what is it?" she asked.

  "I don't know," I said. "But look at this."

  I handed her the printout and then proceeded to walk her through all of the tee times. Showing her that Bill never makes any sort of mark when there's a scratch or someone doesn't show. He only writes the names down of the people who are standing in front of him when they check in.

  "In this case, there's a mark," I said.

  "Yes, I see that," she said.

  "There is something there," I said.

  "Yes. You're not crazy if that's what you're getting at."

  "No, I didn't think I was, well, maybe."

  "Can you blow it up any more?"

  "Let me try."

  I increased the zoom. Slowly and then it was maxed out. I centered the image, and then we both stared at it.

  It was some sort of circle. But it was poorly constructed. It may even have been a spiral. A spiral?

  "What do you think it is Imogen?"

  "I don't know, Max. A really bad circle."

  "His penmanship sucks. But I guess he was a golfer not an artist."

  "Maybe an at sign?"

  "He didn't strike me as tech-savvy. I had a feeling if he was writing down an email address, which I don't believe that he has ever done, he would write the word at, not make a symbol."

  Imogen laughed.

  Then I looked closer and could barely make out something behind the symbol. Something very faint.

  "Do you see that?" I asked, pointing to the faint line.

  Imogen squinted. Then she squinted harder.

  "Do you have a pair of reading glasses ol' man?"

  "Don't be a wiseass," I said.

  She chuckled and then smiled. "Touchy, touchy. You're not old, Max."

  "So you say, my love. So you say. C'mon do you see that?" I asked, pointing again to the faint line.

  She looked closely and then answered, "Yes, I think I do. Like a faint line."

  "Yes. Some sort of line," I said.

  "It looks like it might be a letter. That was erased. Very hard."

  "Look here," I said, pointing to what might be another separate line.

  "Yes, I see that too," she said. "Another letter?"

  "I think so."

  "Initials," she said.

  "The killer's initials," I said. "That's if we can piece together these two letters."

  "Bloody hell," she said.

  "More like bloody Carl."

  "Oh, Max."

  CHAPTER NINE

  "He's hiding something?" Imogen said.

  "But why? Why would he do that?" I asked, albeit a bit wound up. "Erase the initials, and then cover it up with a bad doodle. What the hell is he hiding? Why would he be covering up something?"

  "Jesus, Dutch. Steady on. I don't know. You don't know either. But what's with the panic?"

  "Sorry, my love. I don't know. Carl's dead. And now it looks like Bill was part of something. Covering something up. I like Bill. I've known him forever. Well, ever since I joined Delmar, which seems like forever. I can't see him covering something like this up."

  "We don't know if he is. We don't know what he did or didn't do. All we know is he erased something and then doodled something over it."

  "Are you listening to yourself? That doesn't sound very promising for ol' Bill."

  "Yes, I realize that, Max. But it's apparent that we should talk to him before we draw any conclusions."

  "Agreed, my love. Jabber, what do you think?"

  I looked down. Ginny looked down. And all we saw was Jabber still sleeping, completely sprawled out, legs everywhere. She snorted then made some high-pitched noise.

  "She's in agreement," Imogen said.

  "Good. Then let's do it. After I call John."

  "Why?"

  "I want to ask about the golfer who found Carl."

  I dialed John and put him on speakerphone.

  "Carrington," he said, answering the phone.

  "John, hi, it's—"

  "Max. Glad you called."

  "I've got Imogen here too, on speaker," I said.

  Habits are hard to break. I've been on so many conference calls that my first inclination is to announce who is on the call. I surprised myself though. I didn't say, "Max Slade here," when he picked up.

  "Hi, John," Imogen said.

  "Miss Whitehall, I mean Miss Slade, Imogen," he said.

  "Pick one, and go with it," I said.

  John chuckled. "Sorry, still getting used to the whole married thing. Imogen, good to hear your voice," he said. "Interesting day yesterday, huh?"

  "That's an understatement," I said.

  "So what's up, Max?"

  "What can you tell me about the golfer who found Carl?" I asked.

  "I knew you were going to ask me about him, Max. That's why I brought you along. You're a logical guy. I like the way you work."

  "Thanks," I said.

  "I spoke to him yesterday," he started. "He was playing solo too. The back nine. Teed off about fifteen minutes after Carl."

  That meant he was probably the 1:15 guy on the schedule. I sat back a little in my chair. Imogen was sitting with her elbows on my desk, head close to the phone speaker, listening.

  John continued. "He said he hit a great shot right onto the fairway, to the left of the sand trap. As he came upon his ball he saw the body off by the trap. He said he rode over to the victim, got out, saw he was dead, pulled out his cell, and called the police."

  That didn't sit right with me. He didn't leave the course, tell someone, and then call the police?

  "He called right from the course?" I asked.

  Ginny looked over at me and started to whisper something. I hit the mute button.

  "That doesn't sound right," she said.

 
"I know."

  I unmuted the call.

  John had already started speaking. "He said he called from the course, then promptly left to talk to the golf marshal, what was his name?"

  "Bill," Ginny and I said simultaneously.

  "Right, Bill, the former golf pro," John said.

  Carrington spoke to Bill. Of course he did. He was the cop here. He was the sergeant. He knew what he was doing. He must have also asked him for the list of golfers. But something told me he didn't check Bill's log. He probably didn't even know that it existed. I was willing to bet that John Carrington had never played a round of golf in his life.

  "The golfer ran to the marshal, talked to him, and then Bill shut the course down and called us immediately. Cops were on the scene within a few minutes. They talked to the golfer, took his statement, and got his information while they proceeded to tape off the area."

  "What did he have to say?"

  "What I already told you, Max. He came upon the body and then called the police. Everything he said makes sense. Checks out. The body didn't appear to be moved. Or touched postmortem. Forensics is still going over the data to see if we can find something that could help. But for now, he's not of any interest to us."

  "Makes sense," Imogen said.

  "What was the guy's name?" I asked, fishing to see if John had pulled the list.

  "It's the guy who teed off at 1:15 PM, Kevin Sweeny."

  "How do you know that?" I asked.

  "I've got the list of tee times right in front of me, Max."

  He was good. And he must have known that I was digging to see if he had that information. But he wouldn't let me know that. He just played it off.

  "The list of tee times?"

  "That's the one, Max. And, in case you're wondering, we've already spoken with all of them, and their stories checked out. So I'll save you the time."

  He knew. Of course he did.

  "Bill told me that you asked for the printout," John continued. "Good thinking. I figured I'd save you some time. Like I said, or maybe I didn't, I was going to call you and let you know."

  "After all, we're colleagues now," I said.