Murder on the Front Nine

by Steve McMillen

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 Steve McMillen

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1-4699-1228-7

  ISBN-13: 9781469912288

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-62111-994-4

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated, first, to my lovely bride Beverly and to my family. Also to old friends, new friends, old neighbors, new neighbors and to my brother Tim, who never got a chance to read the book.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Mickke D

  Chapter 2: The Army Buddies

  Chapter 3: Mickke D

  Chapter 4: The Reunion

  Chapter 5: The Golf Match

  Chapter 6: The Judge and The Coins

  Chapter 7: The Failed Attack

  Chapter 8: The Suspects

  Chapter 9: Mickke D

  Chapter 10: The Search

  Chapter 11: Barry & Dean

  Chapter 12: The Oil Company

  Chapter 13: The Contract

  Chapter 14: SIL Receives Payment

  Chapter 15: The Suspects Arrive

  Chapter 16: The Plan

  Chapter 17: The Failed Ambush

  Chapter 18: Ken, Steve & Stan

  Chapter 19: Dave, Andy & Paul

  Chapter 20: Paul’s Revenge

  Chapter 21: Mickke D & Barry

  Chapter 22: The Fire

  Chapter 23: Sam

  Chapter 24: SIL

  Chapter 25: Gary and Dean

  Chapter 26: SIL

  Chapter 27: The Judge

  Chapter 28: Trever

  Chapter 29: The Senator

  Chapter 30: Barry & Bill

  Chapter 31: Mickke D

  Chapter 32: Bambi and Thumper

  Chapter 33: Barry & Bill

  Chapter 34: Mickke D

  Chapter 35: Mickke D & TC

  Chapter 36: Mickke D & Blue

  Chapter 37: The Assassin

  Chapter 38: Mickke D

  Chapter 39: Mickke D & Mrs. Byers

  Chapter 40: SIL

  Chapter 41: One Less Witness

  Chapter 42: Mandi Lee

  Chapter 43: The Attack

  Chapter 44: The trip to Little River

  Chapter 45: The Second Attack

  Chapter 46: Mickke D

  Chapter 47: The Treasure Hunt

  Chapter 48: The Cover-up

  Chapter 49: The Hearing

  Chapter 50: Dean Rutland

  Chapter 51: The Second Hearing

  Chapter 52: Connie Smith

  Epilogue

  “Steve McMillen is new to the book scene, but he reads just like your favorite best-selling author. What a find! “Murder on the Front Nine” is a page-turner for golfers, Myrtle Beach tourists, and anyone who loves a good mystery. It’s a perfect vacation read.”

  T. Lynn Ocean, author of the Jersey Barnes thriller series

  PROLOGUE

  Trever Byers is on his way to catch the 6:00 ferry from Southport for the twenty-minute boat ride to Bald Head Island for his weekly early morning golf game. It is late spring along the Carolina coast and the forecast is for another beautiful Chamber of Commerce day.

  Trever, a retired ATF agent, is currently an advisor and consultant to United States Senator R. Gene Brazile of North Carolina. He is also a freelance underwater self-proclaimed salvage junkie. He likes to catch the first ferry out of Southport, a quaint little resort town along the North Carolina coast, so he can get his round in before lunch and catch the 12:30 ferry back to the mainland. Today he plans to meet his friend and fellow salvage junkie, retired Federal Judge Thomas Allen Cadium, for a business lunch before leaving the island.

  He always enjoys playing golf at the Bald Head Island Club. The 18-hole seaside golf course winds its way over dunes, around lagoons, along the ocean, and through a maritime forest. The course designer left much of the terrain the way he found it, creating a course of almost unparalleled wild beauty. Many of the holes are undisturbed, bordered by the still lively natural habitats of herons, egrets, foxes and alligators. It is unspoiled, quiet, and very few golfers play this early in the day. He can already smell the salt air and he can hardly wait to see the fine, clear rooster tail of water that his traversing golf ball leaves on the fairway from the early morning dew. He usually plays alone, walking with a pull cart. A normal round of golf for him is under four hours.

  What a beautiful day, he is thinking as he readies himself to tee off on number 1. He does several minutes of stretching exercises as soft white clouds chase one another, like tumbleweeds, across the clear, blue sky. He was told by Justin, the golf pro, that someone who he thinks is staying on the island teed off about fifteen minutes before him and if Trever hurries he can catch up to him and play as a twosome.

  Justin told Trever he tried to start a conversation with the guy but all of his answers were one or two syllable words,” yeah, no, uh-huh”. Justin said he was truly a strange person.

  Justin said he did not know the man’s name, but he rented a golf cart and clubs and bought a dozen golf balls. He paid for everything in cash. The pro said he had a case with him, which the man said, in as few words as possible, contained a telescope so that he could do some bird watching while playing.

  Trever thinks the whole thing is a little strange because he did not see any other golf carts in the parking lot. There are no automobiles on Bald Head Island. Transportation on the island is limited to golf carts, bikes, skates, and well-worn walking shoes….an accurate reflection of the slower, more relaxed island attitude. The pro said the man would be easy to spot; he had on dark glasses, a beard, moustache, and a wide-brimmed Panama hat. He said he truly looked more like a bird watcher than a golfer.

  Trever plays the first hole in one over par and then he pars number 2 and number 3. His day is going well. Number 4 is a slight dogleg left and he begins to think he is good, so of course he ends up with a double bogey on the hole. He comes back to reality, stops thinking and begins just playing golf again. He misses a birdie putt by inches on number 5 and ends up with a par. As he walks to the tee box on number 6, which also just happens to be as far away from the clubhouse and as close to the 10,000-acre tidal creek preserve as you can get, he is only three over par.

  A disconcerting thought enters his mind. He has not seen anything of the bird-watching golfer who teed off ahead of him, although he did see occasional cart tire tracks zigzagging across the fairway in the early morning dew. Little does he know that the bird watcher is seeing a lot of him, in fact, he has him right in his sights. The bird watcher visually checks the area with his scope. He sees nothing but a majestic view of a beautiful golf course with a light mist hovering above the lakes and ponds. He finds no one else within sight.

  Trever places the ball on the tee, takes a practice swing and addresses the ball. There is the slight, quiet, thud sound of a silencer and Trever’s round of golf ends at three over par and so does his life. He is dead, shot through the heart.

  The assassin checks the area again for traffic before going to Trever’s body. He feels for and finds no pulse. He searches and discovers what he is looking for in Trever’s golf bag. He hurriedly rolls the body onto a plastic drop cloth he brought with him, cleans up what little blood is on the ground and drags the body, along with the pull cart into the trees. He folds up his rifle, places it back in the carrying case, takes off his beard and hat but leaves on the moustache. He puts everything in a green garbage b
ag. He leaves the rental clubs but takes the dozen golf balls; after all, they are Pro V1’s. He drives the golf cart back through the trees toward the tidal creek for about one-quarter mile where his rented boat is moored to a dilapidated old wooden boat dock, waiting to take him back to the mainland. By the time the authorities discover Trever’s body, the assassin is well on his way to the Wilmington Airport and home.

  Earlier that day, before dawn, the assassin took his luggage, to the boat he had stashed on the tidal creek. He did not have to check out of the condo because he paid in full under an assumed name when he checked in. He bought food when he first arrived and had all of his meals in the condo. The fewer people who see him, the better. He cleaned and wiped down the condo the night before and that morning he wore gloves. The condo was probably cleaner when he left than when he arrived.

  He checked the area around the sixth tee box several times while riding his golf cart and looking for birds. He knew exactly where he was going. He had gone over repeatedly in his mind every step of the attack. He received an e-mail before he left home about the golfing habits of Trever Byers and they were the same each week. Trever was a creature of habit. The assassin cleaned his weapon several times and calibrated his scope. He probably did not need the scope but he decided to use it anyway. When you are a hired assassin, still alive and not in jail, you make sure you have everything right or you will not live free to a ripe old age. He drove his cart back to the condo, wiped it down and walked the short distance to the clubhouse.

  The assassin arrived at the Wilmington Airport about two hours after he left Bald Head Island. He boarded a private plane and arrived home mid-afternoon.

  After a shower, he called a pre-determined number and left a message, “The birdie putt fell and I have the scorecard with me as proof. Bring your clubs and meet me at the course tomorrow at noon.”

  He arrived at the exchange point about an hour ahead of the scheduled meeting to look around and make sure that it was not a trap. A master of disguise, he was dressed in khaki shorts, orange t-shirt, brown ball cap, and a carefully applied goatee. He had the scorecard in a brown paper bag along with his lunch and a .38 revolver.

  The exchange point was a large city park full of benches, playground equipment, and screaming kids. There were trees, mounds of lush green grass, and carefully cleaned sidewalks where the kids rode their skateboards and the parents took their walks. It was wide open with several escape routes. His rule has always been do not go in unless you know how you are going to get out. He did reconnaissance at the park several times for escape routes before he left on his trip to Wilmington and then on to Bald Head Island. He plans to be very careful because this client was a referral. They already wired the first twenty-five thousand to his numbered Singapore bank account. He has done the job. If he has to walk away without the other twenty-five thousand, so be it. He would still have the scorecard, his life and his freedom. He could always collect later.

  He brought with him a unique electronic device which he had plugged into his ear. The device allowed him to know if anyone was trying to bug him and it scanned for radio transmissions in the area. He sat on a bench almost one hundred yards away from the designated pick-up point and began eating his lunch, which consisted of a sandwich with pastrami, Swiss cheese, and onion on a rye bun. He brought along a Diet Pepsi to wash it all down. All the time he was enjoying his lunch, he was also listening. Soon his attention to the sounds around him paid off. The park became crowded and extremely noisy. And all of the noise did not come from screaming kids. Someone was planning to kill him.

  The usual smile on his face turned into a frown, his eyes slit lizard like against the desert sun. He reached for his gun and almost said aloud, who do they think they are dealing with, an amateur? However, he kept quiet, stayed calm, and he did not panic. He finished his lunch, got up and left with the scorecard still in his brown paper lunch bag. He would collect later.

  Chapter 1: Mickke D

  I sluggishly and slowly pull myself out of bed around 7:00am. It’s Saturday morning and I heard my overnight guest leave about 6:30. She told me last night she had to be at work by 7:00 at some resort on the ocean. She was a cute, well put together young thing with freckles, I’m guessing in her mid-twenties. I must have really made a big impression on her because she did not even say goodbye. She did leave me a note which read, Mickke D, been fun but my boyfriend will be back in town tomorrow. See ya “pops”.

  She never mentioned she had a boyfriend and what is this “pops” bit? Oh, well, there are quite a few available women in Myrtle Beach. Of course, sometimes I feel as if I have been married to most of them.

  I walk into the bathroom and with blurry eyes gaze soulfully into the mirror. Staring back at me is a 45 year-old single again male about 6’1” 190 pounds with sandy blond hair. He looks to be in good shape when he pulls his stomach in and throws his shoulders back. Maybe not the buff, ex-Green Beret he was after mustering out of the army fifteen years ago, but certainly not a “pops.”

  Maybe the bright red boxers he is wearing made her think of Santa Clause. Maybe that was what Paula Ann did not like. My third wife hated them also but I thought it was just because I told her my second wife gave them to me. Gee, maybe I need to buy new underwear and all of my women problems will disappear.

  Still looking in the mirror, I check out my butt in the reflection of the mirrors on the door of my walk-in closet. One of my ex-wives once told me my butt was as nice as Freddie Couples’ backside. Since I am not into checking out pro-golfers posteriors, I took for granted that it was a compliment but it just looks like a rear end to me.

  I throw on some shorts, a t-shirt, and flip-flops before going out to retrieve the morning paper. I smile as the warm, balmy, salt air hits my face. Looks and feels like it is going to be another perfect day at the beach. I may even try to play golf today and forget about my rather mundane way of life here in Myrtle Beach.

  However, do you know what? My life wasn’t always boring. Paula Ann spent most of the evening talking about herself. If “pops” could have gotten a word in edgewise, I would have told her that after graduating from Ohio State with a degree in landscape architecture and four years of ROTC I went directly into the Army. I spent time in Colombia and Panama training troops and chasing bad guys around. I finished my tour of duty at Fort Bragg as an Investigative Officer for Army Jag. Nothing dull about those times.

  As I reach into the newspaper box, I hear a gushing noise as all of a sudden my neighbor’s sprinkler system heads pop-up out of the ground as if flowers were being born instantly. I get my morning shower outside instead of in. I move away from the path of the water and return to my rather cookie-cutter, three-bedroom, two-bath ranch. It is a poster home for golf course living along the Grand Strand. I make it back to the safe confines of my house. I am drenched. Fifteen years ago I would have been quick enough to avoid the water barrage altogether. My God, maybe Paula Ann was right. I am getting old. Of course, she did not mention anything about “pops” being old in bed last night.

  Just as I get back inside, my phone rings. It is my neighbor. As I dry my hands and stand dripping water on my tiled kitchen floor, he says with a chuckle that he saw me outside and is sorry about the sprinkler going off and soaking me. He also tells me to be sure and read in the paper about the golfer who died at the Bald Head Island Golf Course. He and I played there not too long ago.

  I throw the paper on the table, towel off and get ready to prepare my usual Saturday morning breakfast of orange juice, two eggs over easy, nice piece of ham steak, a blueberry bagel with honey and a cup of decaffeinated green tea. The other six days of the week, I listen to my doctor, who seems to think my cholesterol is too high. Those days I have orange juice and oatmeal. Actually, I was hoping to have breakfast with Paula Ann at one of the local pancake houses so I, the middle-aged bachelor, could show off my young, trophy girlfriend. So much for that idea, “pops.”

  I get breakfast prepared and I sit down t
o enjoy it along with the morning paper. I see the article my neighbor was referring to. The headline reads, “Golfer killed in North Carolina”. The report says that a man was shot and killed at the Bald Head Island golf course Friday morning and the local police are calling it a homicide. The article goes on to say the man killed was a retired government employee who was working as a consultant to United States Senator R. Gene Brazile of North Carolina.

  I think what the world is coming to if you cannot feel safe on a golf course? My mind wanders back to dangerous Army times when golf was a welcome relief from the everyday stress of Army life.

  My playing partners were fellow officers back then who were looking to fill out their weekend foursome.

  There was “By the Book” Barry Green, a first lieutenant from Port Clinton, Ohio. We called him that because he was always quoting some Army regulation. Our second member was Second Lieutenant Bill “Tank” Cutter from Greenville, South Carolina. He acquired that nickname because he said he always wanted to drive a tank but no one would let him. The third member was Second Lieutenant Ted “The Reverend” DeShort from Orlando, Florida. He got that name because he had transferred from the Chaplin Service to the Infantry. He never told me why and I never asked. Bill invited me to join the group and I became the fourth, First Lieutenant Mickke David MacCandlish from Lancaster, Ohio. You’re right, that’s why my nickname has always been Mickke D.

  I became good friends with my golf partners while at Fort Bragg and after their tour of duty was over, Barry, Bill, and Ted started a “Spook” business called SIL (Special Investigations Limited). That business would eventually involve me.

  I don’t seem to have the time to play golf now. Why is that? Aside from the fact that I have been married, divorced, and broke three times, I run a landscape business, have my own real estate company, and teach golf on the side. No wonder I have no time to play golf. I work too hard. All three of my ex-wives said the same thing in court. I spent more time working than paying attention to them. I need to re-align my priority list. I need to add some excitement and fun to my life. I need new underwear and a new girlfriend.