I moved off to the side and saw a bunch of papers. I quickly looked through them, and they were all Delmar related stuff. Nothing of importance. I turned my head and scanned the area for any members heading my way. No one.
I headed toward the wall opposite the counter where there was a desk. I opened each of the three drawers. The first had a few golf balls in it. The second had a box of pens, a large box of short pencils for scorekeeping, and a pocketknife. By the time I opened the third, I was expecting nothing. When the drawer opened, I found a box of golf balls. I lifted it, and underneath were a bunch of business cards. I quickly flipped through them. This guy, that guy, they were all people I knew from Delmar. Then I came across Lee Endicott's card.
"Hello," said someone behind me.
I was startled, but I was caught. I had to turn around. I didn't recognize the voice, which was a good thing. It wasn't Bill. Or Imogen.
I slowly turned around. There stood a woman I had never seen before. She wasn't dressed in golf attire.
"Yes, how can I help you?" I asked.
"I was looking for Cut 17," she said.
She had never been here before. I had deduced that much. Cut 17 is a steakhouse that is located right next door to the clubhouse but on the other side.
"Oh, yes, you just came out of the wrong door. Head back into the clubhouse, and make a left. You can exit to the other side," I said.
She was surprised, "Oh, I don't know how I missed that."
"Nothing to worry about," I said.
"Thank you for your help," she said.
"Enjoy your meal," I said.
As she walked away, I turned and put the card back into the drawer underneath the golf balls. That was too close. I closed the drawer and, still crouching, made my way to the sliding door, opened it, and walked out. I hurried to the clubhouse to wait for Imogen's return.
Lee Endicott. What on earth would Bill be doing with his card?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I was sitting at the bar, enjoying my drink, when in walked Imogen. She smiled as she strolled up to me about twenty minutes after we had parted ways.
"My seven iron never looked so good," she said.
"Twenty minutes with a pro can do that," I said.
"And to think, it took me this long to finally schedule a private lesson. What was I thinking?"
"Probably that you should be on the tour and don't need his help."
"Oh, don't be silly, Max," she said.
"Who's the one being silly now?"
I ordered her a drink, and she sat. We discussed what I had found buried under a set of golf balls in Bill's shed. Imogen was just as perplexed as I had been.
"Lee Endicott's card? I just don't get it," she said.
"Me either."
"Do you suppose he was thinking about investing?"
"Does he have two million dollars?" I asked.
"He might. He was a professional golfer."
"I'm wondering how he got the card. It's the same personal one that he gave me. Cell scribbled on the back," I said.
"Do you think Eric gave it to him?" she asked.
"Not the one with the cell number on it. Endicott gave that to me. The one Eric forced on me was just a general one."
"So maybe Bill knows Endicott. I'm not sure what that means, if anything."
"Eric didn't mention it. Neither did Endicott. They also didn't mention playing golf. And I've never seen him at Delmar before. Have you?"
"Nope. First time I saw him was at dinner. And I've yet to even talk to him."
"Believe me, I wouldn't have minded if you had stolen an hour from our conversation. Not exactly the highlight of my night."
"And what was that, Max?"
"Now you're just trying to make me blush."
We had another drink, talked a little more about Lee Endicott and Bill, then decided that it was getting late, and we needed to discuss dinner plans. I wasn't in any hurry to settle in for a meal just yet, and Imogen agreed. Instead, we put off our supper decision until after we both had finished our drinks.
"I might want to head back to the office for a bit," she said.
My phone rang. I looked at the caller ID. It was John Carrington.
"Hold that thought," I said, then answered the phone.
"Max," he said.
He didn't even need to hear my voice this time. But he was the one calling me.
"Mr. Carrington," I said.
"So formal," he said. "Do you have a second?"
Of course I had a second. I always had a second when I was sipping on a scotch.
"What's up?"
"We've done some checking on the phone number that left the voicemail," he said.
"The one on Alese's phone?"
"Yes, Max. The threatening one."
"We tried as well. Called the carrier and requested the number. We got a 'we're working on it' response."
"It's a little different when we call. Sometimes."
"Good to hear. And?"
"Well, you're lucky. This is one of the sometimes. They told me that the number came out of Manhattan. But that's all they know. And that's all they are going to be able to find out. They said they think that the number was bounced around many times to hide its identity. It's untraceable. They're not even sure that the number originated in Manhattan. It's just their best guess."
"I'll take it. Better than nothing," I said.
"Well, I'm glad to hear you say that because it might just be…nothing."
I thanked John for his time and for digging on my behalf, and he gave me the 'we're colleagues' line even though he couldn't remotely think of Imogen and me as his equals or peers. Then he disconnected.
"What was that all about?" Imogen asked.
"Alese Steiner."
"And," she said.
"And they traced the call."
"The voicemail?"
"That's the one. He said they think the call was made from Manhattan."
"Really?" she asked.
"Indeed."
"What do you think about that?"
"I think that it's likely. More likely than the places that those letters came from."
"I would say that you're right. At least Manhattan is in the same state."
I filled Imogen in on the rest of our conversation.
"Better than nothing," she said.
"Hey, that's what I said."
"I know. I was listening."
"Anyway, what were you saying just before John called?"
"Not important. So, what do you want to do about dinner?" she asked, finishing off her drink.
"Cook something at home?" I asked.
Imogen laughed.
"Really?" she asked, still laughing.
"Of course not! Let's grab something here."
"There's the Max I love."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
In the morning Imogen claimed that a candidate was on her way to interview for the receptionist position. In honor of the occasion I put on a fresh pair of jeans and my best V-neck black T-shirt. I didn't want to scare the poor lady off.
All last night and on my way to work I couldn't get the idea of Bill and Lee Endicott knowing each other out of my head. It didn't make sense. But he had the card. Right there in his shed, buried under a box of golf balls.
I was sitting at my desk, sipping a coffee when Imogen appeared in the doorway.
"I have been staring at Bill's schedule for the past hour."
"What time is our candidate set to arrive?"
"Soon, Max."
"And what have you found out?"
"About the receptionist candidate?"
"No, my love, the schedule."
She chuckled. She seemed distracted.
"Right. That's the thing. The more I stare at it, the harder it is to focus. Can you take a look? I have a hunch, but I'm just not sure what I'm looking at anymore."
"Sure. Scoot over here, my love."
She pulled over an Aeron chair and sat ne
xt to me behind my desk. I pulled up the image on my laptop. It was hard to focus sometimes when I was sitting next to Imogen. She had a habit of wearing short skirts. And she'd always be crossing her legs, revealing a healthy amount of tanned thigh.
"Pull it up, ol' boy," she said.
"I'm working on it. Hold your horses," I said, pulling up the image.
"I hate that expression," she said.
"That's because you're English," I said. "'Round these parts we hold our horses."
"Silly American."
"Here it is," I said.
We both stared at the image. I blew up the part where you could see some sort of lines that had been erased.
"So, let's hear it," I said. "What's your hunch?"
"I think Lee Endicott was out on that course the day Carl was murdered."
I was shocked, and I must have looked it. Her hunch threw me. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that she might be right. It made sense. I don't know why I hadn't come to the same conclusion sooner. Bill had his card. Hidden in a drawer. It did seem rather odd.
"Pick your jaw up off the desk," Imogen said.
"Do I really look that bad?" I asked.
"You didn't connect the dots?" she asked.
"Can't say I did. I'm glad someone in this office has a brain."
"So now that we're in agreement, let's take another look at that picture."
I sipped my coffee and looked. Hard. I stared at the screen trying to make out the faint, blurred lines that sat directly in front of both of us. But my eyes had gotten tired from staring, and I diverted them toward Ginny's legs. She was an extremely attractive woman. And she was my wife. I was indeed a lucky man.
"Dutch," she said.
I must have been staring blankly at Ginny's lower half.
"What on earth are you looking at?"
"I think it's funny when you call me Dutch," I said.
"I only do it to annoy you," she said.
"It's not working. I like it," I said.
"Max, what do you think?"
"I'm not sure," I said. "It all just looks like a blur at this point."
"See! That's the same problem I'm having. But look here," she said, pointing to one of the blurred lines. "That's a straight line. Do you agree?"
"I do," I said. "There are a lot of straight lines. That's the problem."
"Just hear me out, Max. Look at this one running perpendicular at the bottom of that line."
"Yes, I'm with you. I see that. It's just a little blurred where the lines would connect."
"Yeah, but zoom out," she said.
I zoomed the image out a bit so we could see all of the blurred erased markings.
"I think that's an L," she said.
I stared at the screen. She might have been right. Was that an L? It certainly looked like it. How had we not seen that before?
"I think you're right," I said. "How did we miss that?"
"Sometimes your mind needs direction," she said. "Helps to channel the focus in the right direction."
"You are a wonder."
She blushed.
"Why thank you, Max."
She playfully pushed me, and then we got back down to business.
"If that's an L are you thinking that the other lines—"
"Yup," she said, interrupting me.
We both looked at my laptop screen trying to piece together the other markings. We zoomed in, zoomed out, increased the resolution, decreased the resolution. We tried every computer trick in the book. Nothing. We just stared at the same thing, and it was leaving me with nothing but bloodshot eyes. And Imogen wasn't faring any better. She was rubbing hers trying to coax them into seeing something that wasn't there. We were about to call it quits when I had an idea.
"I've got an idea. Let me try this," I said.
"What?"
"Just watch," I said.
Then, with one click of my thumb, I flipped the image into its negative. And that's when I heard Imogen gasp. My eyes all but popped out of my head. My mouth must have been gaping open, and if Imogen hadn't made some sort of audible sound I might have stayed like that for the next fifteen minutes.
"I can't believe it," she said.
"Neither can I," I said.
"Are you seeing what I am?"
"Yes."
And there it was as clear as rainwater, the initials LE.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
It was hard to describe the shock that I felt when those initials revealed themselves. I suspected Bill and Lee were somehow involved, but to see the cover up unfold before my eyes was hard to process. Imogen seemed equally flabbergasted. We both leaned back in our chairs, and then Imogen spoke, breaking the silence.
"Lee Endicott," she said.
"That has to be it. But why? Why are his initials there?" I asked.
"He was on the course, and Bill covered it up," she said.
"It sure as hell looks that way. Bill jots his initials down instead of writing his full name, then erases them, instead of putting a line through them like he had a million times before, and then he lies about it," I said.
"Now what?" Imogen said.
"Why," I said.
"What do you mean 'why'?"
I laughed. "No, I mean we need to figure out why. Why would Bill do that? And what does it mean?"
"And how do you want to do go about doing that?"
"We need to talk to Bill, of course," I said.
"And you think he's just going to spill the beans?"
"I think with a little persuasion he just might," I said.
"And how do you think we're going to persuade him to implicate himself in Carl's murder?"
"He thinks we're the police. Thinks we're detectives. I think we need to have an unofficial, official chat with Bill and see what happens."
"You want to impersonate a detective?" she asked.
"More like play one in real life," I said.
"Max, you're an idiot."
"C'mon Imogen. He already thinks we are detectives. Aren't we assisting John on this case?"
"Yes"
"We're already working with detectives that want our help, so by default we kind of are detectives. Why spoil the illusion?"
"So, we won't fill him in on the fact that we're just assisting."
"Why split hairs? By the way, where's that interviewee?"
Imogen checked her phone for the time.
"No idea. She should have been here fifteen minutes ago."
"Where do you find these people?"
"Obviously, in the wrong places. I need to change up our job posting strategy," she said.
"Two in a row," I said. "What are the odds?"
"What do I get for the hat trick?"
"A stern reprimand from your boss," I said.
"Promise?"
I laughed. She always had a way of doing that. I moved over to the couch and sat down. Imogen stayed behind the desk. Sometimes moving helped me to think. Sometimes it made me have to go to the bathroom. Legs crossed, I sipped my coffee.
"Can you turn on some music?" I asked.
"Sure," she said.
Music filled my office. I had installed some Bluetooth speakers.
"Can you set this up in my office?" Imogen asked.
"Of course," I said. "I thought you'd never ask."
"So, now that it looks like our interview is a no-show, what do you want to do?"
"Not sure," I said.
If I were being honest, a nap sounded pretty good.
"Chat with Bill?"
"I think we need to plan out how we're going to approach him first," I said.
"Lee Endicott?"
"That means going into Manhattan or another dinner with him. I'm not quite up for that right now. But he's on the agenda. Pencil him in. But don't erase it if we cancel," I said.
"That's terrible, Max."
It was.
"Hey, you can't hit a homerun every time you're up to bat," I said.
"You
want to see if we can chat with another auction house? Get their take on the painting?" she asked.
Alese Steiner. Right. I had forgotten about her with all of these Bill and Lee Endicott revelations floating around.
"How about we meet with Alese. Fill her in on the information that John gave us."
"Why don't we just call her?" Imogen asked.
"Yes, I suppose we can do that. But I'd like to see her face when we give her the news. You can tell a lot from someone's reaction."
"That's true, Max. You're quite the detective."
"Private investigator, my love. And don't you forget it."
I called Alese and told her that we had some information for her and asked if she could meet. She told me that she was not at home and that she could meet in a couple hours over lunch. I told her that was perfect and that she could meet me at the main clubhouse at Delmar. She agreed, and we disconnected.
"Lunch plans," I said.
"Wonderful," she said. "Let me guess, Delmar."
"It's not a guess if you hear me say it," I said.
Imogen made an exasperated face.
"What's wrong with Delmar?" I asked.
"I need a break from that place."
"We'll work on that, after the investigations. It's not my fault a murder happened there. It could be worse. We could be on a case in a terrible location. At least we get good meals and fine liquor on the job."
"There's something wrong with you, Max," she said. "Very wrong."
"At least I'm not predictable."
"If you think so," she quipped. "And, what exactly are you going to tell Alese?"
"Just the basics. That we traced the call to Manhattan. And see if that rings any bells for her."
"That the call supposedly originated in Manhattan you mean," she said.
"I don't think she needs to know that," I said. "I want to see what she says when we tell her that we 100 percent traced the call to Manhattan."
Ginny smiled. Maybe she actually thought that I might have known what I was doing.
"OK, Max. We'll give it a whirl and see what she says."
"We'll shake the information tree and see what falls out," I said.
"You're full of sayings this morning, aren't you?"
"It's the music. Gets my synapses firing on full throttle," I said.
The Killing Green Page 8