An Open Case of Death

by James Y. Bartlett

  “So what’s new?” he asked, leafing through the pages of his menu.

  “I might have a lead on this Newell person,” I said.

  “Really?” he said. “Where is he?”

  “I didn’t say I know where he is. Or who he is. I just said I might have a lead,” I said. “I need to chase it down first.”

  “Don’t get cute with me, Hacker,” Strauss said. I looked at him, surprised at his aggressive tone. “If you know where this guy is, I want to know.”

  “And when I find out, I’ll tell you,” I said.

  He sat there simmering. The waiter brought us our beers. I tasted mine. It came from a local craft brewery. It was cold, it was hoppy, it was beer.

  “I spoke this morning with Will Becker,” I said, changing the subject. “He’s not a big fan of yours.”

  “He’s a dumbass,” Strauss said. “He used to be a pretty good player. But he’s just another old guy with delusions of grandeur.”

  “His delusions are worth at least ten million bucks,” I said. “So maybe not so deluded after all.”

  Strauss took a sip of his beer. His face got a little red.

  “Whose side are you on, Hacker?” he said, his voice low and menacing. “I’m not liking this attitude of yours.”

  “My attitude?” I said. “I’m just doing what you hired me to do. I’m trying to find your mystery heir. I’ve talked to both Jack Harwood and Will Becker and both of them say that, before he died, J.J. Udall warned them not to trust anybody. And your name came up as someone they should particularly not trust. Maybe I should go see Harold Meyer and make it a trifecta.”

  The waiter came back to take our orders. I asked if they still had that cheeseburger with the Angus beef and the melted brie. He said they did, but told me it was priced at $40 during the tournament week. I smiled and ordered one. Jake asked for the turkey club.

  “First of all, I don’t know why you are talking to the partners,” he said when the waiter left. “Second, I don’t know why they shouldn’t trust me. What did I ever do to them, but help make them rich?”

  “Hard to figure, isn’t it?” I said. “Of course, now that Udall is dead, somebody at Baruch Brothers is going to come in and rejigger the whole management foundation of the Pebble Beach Company. And since that someone is you, maybe they feel like they’re gonna get rejiggered right out of the picture. Unpossible, I know, but I think that’s what they are expecting.”

  “My primary fiduciary responsibility is to the corporation,” Strauss said. “And that means …”

  “That you’ll cut off their balls first chance you get,” I said. I shrugged. “Don’t feel bad, that’s what all you capitalists do.”

  “I have no intention of cutting off anyone’s balls,” he said. “But the death of J.J. Udall means that changes have to be made to the corporate structure. It’s all written down in the partnership agreement. It’s all …”

  “…perfectly legal,” I finished for him. “Yeah, that’s probably what has them worried.”

  Jordan Speith and Justin Thomas walked in, looking like they had just finished a practice round. They saw Strauss and came over to greet him. And me. They pulled up chairs and sat down. The waiter brought out our food, took orders from the two newcomers and went away. Strauss began pontificating on the Rules changes just instituted at the beginning of the year, and the three of them began a spirited discussion of the hows and the whys. My eyes glazed over almost as much as they had during the lecture about poa annua, so I just ate my forty dollar hamburger and listened with half an ear.

  When I was finished, I stood up.

  “You guys will have to excuse me,” I said. “I have some work to do.”

  I left the Lodge, stopping by the putting green to see if I knew anyone there. I didn’t see any professional golfers, but I did see the guy who starred on a CBS sitcom I never watched. He was standing by the ropes, signing autographs and, it appeared to me, flirting with some rather nicely proportioned California girls. Since CBS broadcast the AT&T National Pro-Am on the weekend, they always made sure most of their stars were prominently featured on the broadcast, whether or not they could actually play the game. It’s a cynical world.

  I wandered up to the press tent and ran into Sharky, who was talking to a police officer. He waved me over.

  “Hack, this is Johnny Levin,” he said. “He’s a detective with the Monterey Sheriff’s department. He was just telling me something about the Sykes case.”

  I shook his hand. He was a big and burly man with broad shoulders and a thick trunk, dressed in a white dress shirt and black slacks. But his wide black belt with gun and holster affixed on one hip gave him away as a cop. He turned to look at me. His head was huge, the size of a watermelon, but his eyes were small and beady.

  “Just telling the Shark-man here that forensics found what looked like footprints in the area,” he said.

  “Up on the clifftop, or down on the beach?” I wondered.

  “Up top,” he said. “Could be nothing, of course. How many golfers a week wander over to the cliff and look down? Probably a lot. But they have a good print of a left shoe and a partial on the right.”

  “Do they still think Charlie went over on purpose?” I asked. “Or are you thinking he might have been helped?”

  “Way too early to tell,” he said. “Officially, it’s still ruled a suicide. But if that ever changes, we have the shoe prints on file, just in case.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “Let me ask … when an old guy dies of natural causes in the hospital, do they ever do an autopsy?”

  “Almost never,” he said. “The medical examiner only looks at bodies when we think a crime has been committed. If some old geezer has a heart attack and dies, especially if he’s in the hospital and under medical care, there’s no reason to go to the expense. Cause of death is obvious and the case is closed. Why do you ask?”

  I shrugged. “I dunno, it’s probably a longshot. But I’m wondering about J.J. Udall’s death a few months ago.”

  “The sports guy who used to own a piece of this place?” Levin’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

  “Yeah,” I said. “He was in the hospital up in Frisco. He had like three or four heart attacks, and was in their care after the last one. The docs said he seemed to be getting better. Then he died. Suddenly. Unexpectedly.”

  “Geez, Hack,” Sharky said, “Udall was something like 85 years old. People that age die all the time. And not unexpectedly. It’s called old age.”

  “I know, I know,” I said, “But I’ve talked to some people who saw him in the hospital, and they said he was worried about something. Warned them. So I just wondered if they might have done any tests after he passed.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it would be likely,” the cop said, shaking his head. “Not much in the way of probable cause. Like Sharky said, when an eighty-something kicks off, it’s not exactly a surprise, is it?”

  I agreed with him and we walked off.

  “That sounds like a longshot, Hack,” Sharky said.

  “Yeah, probably so,” I agreed. “Let’s try something more tangible. Wanna go with me up to the mountains?”

  “The Ranch at Redwoods? Let’s do it!”

  I drove my car down through Carmel and turned east onto Carmel Valley Road. For about ten miles, we followed the twisty road, which in turn followed the twisty Carmel River, past several golf courses, vineyards, upscale neighborhoods and fancy looking restaurants. Sharky, doing the navigating, told me to turn north on Redwoods Road, which started climbing into the mountains. There were switchbacks, long uphill straights and occasional downhill sections when we crossed over a ridgeline. Despite the name, I didn’t see any giant stands of redwoods anywhere: to the contrary, the landscape was mostly open fields of brown grasslands, with occasional woodsy groupings down in the valleys which were drained by streams and creeks. As we climbed, the views got better and better, as rough rows of mountain p
eaks loomed in a purple barrier to the east, while, looking back as we crossed the many ridgelines, the aching blue vastness of the Pacific filled the horizon to the west.

  “Boy, I wouldn’t want to try this road out late at night after pounding beers down at the Hog’s Breath,” I said.

  “Yeah, “Sharky said, “If you buy land up here, it’s because you really want to get away from the human race.”

  A small herd of deer scrambled across the road in front of us, skittering down into a wooded copse a few hundred feet below the roadbed.

  It was a good twenty minutes of careful driving before we reached the entrance to the Ranch at Redwoods. A big fancy sign in gold leaf, built on a circular walled platform of squarish river rock, told us we were entering “A Community of Distinction.”

  There was a guardhouse a few hundred yards down the entrance drive. I pulled to a stop in front of the gate and an elderly gentleman in a blue and gold uniform came out of his wooden building and leaned down to speak through my side window.

  “Afternoon, gents,” he drawled, giving us his best Ranch at Redwoods smile. “Where are we off to, today?”

  “We’re going to the golf clubhouse,” I said.

  “And what is the purpose of your visit?”

  “Rape and pillage,” I said with a straight face. “Maybe some arson, too. But mostly pillage.”

  The security guard didn’t respond, but just smiled in at us as if he hadn’t heard what I’d just said.

  Sharky leaned forward and spoke. “We’re here to see Reggie Davis,” he said. “Meeting him at the clubhouse.”

  “Right, Mister Davis,” the guard said, as if glad that someone had finally spoken the magic word. I half expected a stuffed Groucho duck to descend from the skies above. He went back into his guardhouse and came back out a few second later with a green sheet of paper announcing us as verified and approved guests. He reached in and place it on the sill of my front windscreen.

  “Golf course is second drive on the right,” he said. “About a quarter mile on up. You’ll see the sign. You gentlemen have yourselves a grand Redwoods day.”

  He stood back and gave us a two-fingered salute off the brim of his cap as I pulled away.

  “Must be lonely up here,” I said. “Probably doesn’t get many visitors.”

  “Pillage?” Sharky said.

  “Who is this Reggie Davis chap?”

  “Owner and developer,” Sharky said. “Always good to drop the name of the big chief.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Nah. I’ve seen his picture in the paper, though.”

  I found the turn off to the golf course and we soon pulled up at the sprawling clubhouse facility. The exterior was more of that dark, reddish river rock. The building’s red tile roof was massive, swooping down in front and on both sides in wavy lines, almost like melting chocolate. There were heavy wooden beams and lots of brass appointments everywhere. The architecture spoke of exclusivity and wealth. I pulled up at the front and a kid in black slacks and a white oxford shirt came running out to valet-park the car.

  “Welcome to the Links at Redwoods,” the kid said, handing me a ticket. “Do you have clubs to drop off?”

  “Nah, we’re just here scouting the place for a heist,” I said. “We won’t be long.”

  The kid looked at us like I had spoken in Swahili. Sharky said “We’re meeting someone in the pro shop.” He led me up the entrance steps and into the dark depths of the clubhouse.

  The lobby was elegantly appointed, with soft upholstered chairs scattered in conversation groups here and there. A big circular desk stood in the middle, manned by a lovely young thing in a Redwoods polo shirt and dark skirt. We nodded at her and Sharky pointed at the pro shop, which was off to the left in its own wing. I could see a large dining room off to the right, with tables set with glistening silver and china before huge picture windows looking out over the golf course and the mountains beyond.

  The pro shop was, like the rest of the place, elegantly appointed. The fixtures for clothes and other golfing gear were made of rich mahogany. Brass sconces cast pools of light onto the dark green walls which were hung with prints showing ye olde golfers bashing balls around Scotland with their mashies and niblicks. Soft music of an indeterminate kind played softly in the background.

  Yet another beautiful California woman stood behind the desk, smiling at us. Tall, blond, she wore a white monogrammed polo, pressed chinos and had a swishy little pony tail thing going on. I made myself conjure up a mental picture of Mary Jane. But I still had one or two carnal thoughts sneak through.

  “Hi guys,” she said enthusiastically. “You have a tee time?”

  Sharky answered before I could say anything. He was probably worried about what I might come up with next.

  “We’re looking for Mike Nelson,” he said. “He around today?”

  “Sure is,” she said, tossing her head towards a window. Her pony tail swished behind her. “He’s out on the range. Giving a lesson to Mrs. Wallbeck.”

  “Thanks,” Sharky said, smiling at swishy girl. “We’ll go find him.”

  We wandered out onto the huge deck behind the clubhouse. It was flagstone, with a painted metal railing all around and filled with wooden tables and chairs. All the tables were empty, save for one off to the right, where two white-haired women were enjoying a pitcher of what looked like margaritas and a huge plate of nachos covered with cheese and chili. Luckily, I had just eaten lunch an hour earlier, or I might have made a move on them. The nachos looked delicious.

  “Not a lot of people enjoying life at the Ranch today,” I said to Sharky.

  “I think if you lay out ten or twenty million for a home up here, you kinda expect not to have a lot of riff-raff around,” he said.

  “Are you the riff or the raff?” I wondered. He didn’t tell me.

  Beyond the flagstone deck, a large pond extended out several hundred yards. There was a green ribbon of fairway winding along the edge of the pond to the right, and off to the left, a kind of stepped terrace of lawns ran down to the edge of the water. Here, they had set up the practice area, with yellow ropes, metal stands for clubs, ball washers and buckets of water for club washing, and neat little triangles of stacked balls waiting for someone to come along and whack them into the pond. Out in the water, they had colored flags anchored to provide targets and distances.

  “Floaters for the practice range, huh?” Sharky said, looking at the set-up. “Kinda cool.”

  I agreed. Way down at the far end of the range I could see a young man gesticulating as he explained some fine point of the golf swing to an elderly woman with slightly bluish hair. I guessed we had found Mike Nelson and his student, Mrs. Wallbeck.

  We decided to wait until the lesson was over. We sat down at one of the tables and in short order, a waitress came out. I asked for some iced tea and Sharky nodded his agreement. She went away and came back in short order with two glasses filled with ice and slices of lemon and a big pitcher of tea. She placed a little paper and pencil down next to me. I signed the name “Reggie Davis” and in the space where it asked for my membership number, I wrote “XXIV.”

  Sharky watched with a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He looked at me with raised eyebrows.

  “Oldest member,” I said. “Signs his chits in Roman numerals.”

  Sharky chuckled and we sat and sipped our iced tea and enjoyed the warm sun and the nice views for about fifteen minutes. We watched as Mike Nelson finished up the lesson, helped Mrs. Wallbeck load her clubs on the back of her golf cart and wave as she drove away.

  The young man walked back to the clubhouse, and when he was approaching the deck, we waved him over. He put on a friendly smile, peeled off his white golf glove and walked over to our table. I pushed out a chair for him.

  “Golf teaching is thirsty work,” I said, “C’mon join us for a spell.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” he said and sat down
. He looked at his watch. “Mr. Geddes, my next lesson, isn’t due for another forty minutes.” The ever-vigilant waitress came out with another ice-filled glass. Of course, we were the only customers, except for the two dears demolishing the plate of nachos on the other side of the deck.

  “I’m Hacker and this is Sharky Duvall,” I said. “We’d like to talk to you about Charley Sykes.”

  His body stiffened. He drank some tea and then sat back in his chair, crossing his legs.

  “You guys cops?” he asked.

  Interesting response, I thought.

  “Do we look like cops?” I said.

  He smiled. “Not really,” he said. “Why do you want to talk about Charley?”

  “We’re trying to figure out why a young man with a bright future would kill himself,” Sharky said. “And since you were his best friend in college, we thought you might have some ideas about that.”

  “Look, I told the Monterey cops last December everything I knew,” he said. “Charley and I went our separate ways after college. He had a nice gig down at Pebble, and I’ve been working up here. We didn’t see each other much…maybe once or twice in the last year. He seemed OK to me. Liked his job. Was working on his game. We were going to play in a couple NCGA events this summer.”

  “NCGA?” I asked.

  “Northern California Golf Association,” Mike said. “They run some tournaments around here. A lot of assistant pros sign up, try to keep the competitive juices flowing.”

  “Did he have a girlfriend?” Sharky asked.

  Nelson shrugged. “I really don’t know,” he said. “He never mentioned anyone. Listen, why do you want to know all this stuff? Who are you again?”

  “I’m a writer,” I said. “Working on a piece about Charley. Young man with promise, takes his own life. Our readers want to know why.”

  “Mmm,” he didn’t look convinced. My answer was paper thin. I wouldn’t have believed me, either.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I can’t give you much. Like I said, we kinda went our own ways after Stanford. All I know is that it’s a goddam shame. Charley was a great kid. A good friend. I’ll miss him.”