She lowered her head and began weeping in earnest. I reached out and touched her shoulder, and let her cry. This was interesting. John Judge, mild-mannered and likeable accountant for the telephone company, had somehow come across the name of a noted killer in the Columbian drug cartels. After which he had turned up shot in the head execution style. Coincidence? Doubtful. Did that mean Enrico de la Paz was in Augusta? And if so, for what reason?
“Did you tell the police about this,” I asked when she had calmed down a bit. She fished around in her bag for a tissue, and blew her nose and dried her eyes with it.
“No,” she said. “I have not talked to the police.”
“Don’t you think you should?”
Her eyes grew wide again. “No!” she said forcefully. “I cannot. If I do, they will come to kill me. You must not tell anyone what I have told you. They will come to kill you, too.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “This is the United States. You can generally tell the police something without getting killed for it.”
She laughed. It was a bitter, sarcastic laugh. “You do not understand,” she said. “There is nowhere they cannot reach. There is no policeman they cannot buy. There is nothing they cannot discover. If I tell the police about Johnny, I will not live another week. If you tell the police, you will not live, either.”
She looked around the plaza. It was empty save for a wino sleeping on a bench about a hundred yards away.
“I must tell you something more,” she said. “In the last week, I have been watched. I have been followed.”
“What?” I was surprised. “Are you sure? How do you know?” She shrugged. “It is nothing I can point to. But it is a feeling I have. A feeling that someone is watching me, watching what I do every day. I cannot look behind me and say “there—there he is,’ but I know someone is there.”
I looked at the wino, who seemed to be snoring away peacefully. I looked at the windows of the buildings across the plaza and up and down the riverfront. There was no one I could see. But someone could be there watching us. It was a creepy feeling.
She reached over and touched my arm. “Please,” she said. “Do not go to the police. I beg you. It would be my death sentence. And probably yours as well.”
Now it was my turn to look at the river. This was getting out of hand. There was a difference between nosing around a little to find out what officialdom was hiding from regular citizens, and getting involved with the Medellin cocaine cartel. And the difference was getting rousted by an overworked civil servant like Lt. Kitchen versus getting two in the hat from Enrico de la Paz. I certainly wasn’t ready to volunteer for the latter, and I don’t think that Brett Jacoby would expect me to, either.
On the other hand, I wasn’t quite ready to hurl John Judge over the side, even though I had never met the man. He was on the verge of being forgotten. Dropped into that great vat of invisibility that catches so many. His mother would remember him, but she would eventually die. Maria would remember him fondly, but she would move on. His boss, Mack Hutchinson would find another to train as his successor, and go off to retirement giving nary a thought to the nice young man who once worked for him. The days would peel off the calendar, week after week, month after month, and before too long, no one on the planet would remember that once there was a nice, funny, likeable, earnest, hard-working young man named John H. Judge. Who had stumbled into something, or showed up in the wrong place, or whatever…and his life had come to a sudden, brutal, end. His life, and all the potential that it represented, taken away in a blink.
There was injustice there. No one deserved such a fate. Could I do anything about it? I didn’t know. But I suddenly realized that I had to try.
I looked back at the young woman beside me, who was gazing at me with an expression that was equal parts fear and hope.
“Okay,” I said. “I won’t go to the cops. For now.”
She reached out and touched me again, softly. “Gracias,” she said. “God bless you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I believe I’ll need it if I’m gonna get through this one alive.”
Chapter Eleven
Have you completely lost your mind, Hacker?” Mary Jane was being contrary. She began to list the reasons why.
“One: You don’t even like Augusta National.
“Two: This doesn’t concern you.
“Three: You’re messing around with people who kill people like the rest of us eat peanuts.
“Four: This doesn’t concern you. Oh, did I mention that already?
“Five: You could get killed.”
“I think you mentioned that already, too,” I said. “How about: ‘I’d miss your rock-hard abs and the way you make my body sing?’”
“Don’t make jokes,” she scolded. “I’m serious. You need to tell the police what you’ve learned and get the hell out of there. You’re a golf writer, not Sam Spade.”
She was right, of course. I hated that. It was about nine in the evening, and I was sitting uncomfortably in the Victorian settee in my suite in the Olde Magnolia. Did the Victorians have different shaped bodies than we do now? I’ve never been able to figure out how to sit in the convex shape of their furniture without sliding off slowly towards the floor. They must have been perchers back then, instead of lollers.
I had called Mary Jane and filled her in on the day’s events. She had listened quietly through my entire dissertation until I finished. Then she exploded on me.
“Look,” I said when she had finally stopped analyzing my need for excitement and my compulsion to save the entire world, “I agree with almost everything you’ve said. But Maria Sanchez is afraid that if I tell the police what she told me, that her life will be in danger.”
“That’s crapola…” Mary Jane started up again. I cut her off.
“Wait a sec,” I said. “That may or may not be the case. But I promised her I wouldn’t go running to the authorities…yet.” I emphasized the last word. “I just need a day or two to kick this thing around a bit more and see what else I can learn. There are still a lot of loose ends floating around. I don’t even know why this Judge kid mentioned the name of that cartel guy. Maybe he read something in Time magazine or something.”
She blew out her breath in an impatient “phew,” which sounded like a preface to the beginning of another lecture.
“And,” I said quickly, “I really need to find out if there is any connection other than the coincidental with Augusta National. Why did someone go to the trouble of dragging the kid’s body out to the 10th hole and digging a hole for it? That doesn’t sound like something the Medellin cartel would bother doing.”
“Unless it was a warning,” Mary Jane said.
“Exactly,” I agreed. “A warning for what? To whom? See? These are all things I’d like to find out.”
“Even if it means you get shot?” her voice was quieter, and I thought I heard a bit of a quaver.
“I’ll try like heck not to get shot,” I said.
There was silence.
“Victoria said today she misses you,” she said.
I was silent.
“I miss you, too,” she said.
“I’ll be careful,” I said. “I promise.”
She was not happy when we bid each other goodnight and hung up. Because of that, I was not happy, either. It was different being in a relationship. Before Mary Jane, I could make decisions about what to do, and not do, and no one was affected by those decisions except me. Before Mary Jane, I could pull on the end of the string I found myself holding, and follow it to wherever it might lead. Even if it led to a shallow grave in the bunker at the 10th hole at Augusta National. But now, if I did that, Mary Jane would be affected. Victoria, too. Which meant I had to factor them into my decision making. I wasn’t used to that. It made me uncomfortable. And it made me feel good at the same time. Someone cared about me, thus my life was no longer truly my own. That was the trade off, in a nutshell. So, in addition to trying to
find out who killed John Judge while avoiding Enrico de la Paz, if indeed he was in the neighborhood, I had to worry about the feelings of Mary Jane and her daughter. How was that supposed to work?
For now, it meant I had to get out of my Victorian suite, the walls of which were suddenly closing in, the flocked chintz grabbing for my throat. I slid off the settee and decided to go down to the inn’s lounge. Maybe there would be something to watch on TV, or one of the other guests to chat with. Anything to keep from thinking about my problems.
I walked downstairs and into the sitting room, on the opposite side of the mansion from the breakfast room. It was a pretty space, built in a faux rotunda with large windows, a curving series of window seats following the arch of the wall, two card tables in the center of the room, and a conversation pit arrangement against the near wall, with two large upholstered pieces set at an “L” facing a large-screen television.
To my surprise, the room was crowded with people, all of whom seemed to be talking golf while they sipped cocktails or coffee. I remembered that Conn had said the National used the Olde Magnolia for some of its VIP international guests. It looked like they were all here.
One of the other guests spotted me, and approached, holding out his hand.
“Wilkommen, wilkommen,” he said heartily. He pumped my hand up and down. He was avuncular, with thinning hair and a bushy walrus-like mustache, wearing a tweedy jacket with leather patches at the elbows, some kind of gold club pin in his label and a necktie with the official colors of some organization. “Hans Kleiber,” he said, introducing himself, still pumping my hand up and down. He apparently was going to do that for the rest of the evening, or until water poured out my nose. “You are English?” he said in a heavy, Germanic accent.
“Nein,” I said. “Ich bin ein American.” I thought that was pretty good for someone who pretty much flunked Spanish in high school.
Hans was delighted though, and laughed out loud. “Gut! Gut!” he almost shouted at me. “Come und meet der fellows!”
He led me into the middle of the room, put two fingers to his mouth and issued an ear-piercing shriek of a whistle. The room fell instantly silent. Hans threw his shoulders back importantly. I listened for the heel click, but was disappointed.
He turned to me, smiling. “Vat is your name?” he asked sotto-voce.
“Hacker,” I told him.
He looked at me to see if I was kidding. But when he realized I was not, he burst out laughing raucously. He was still holding my hand and began pumping it up and down again. I waited until his grip loosened a bit and yanked it away.
“Mein herren und damen,” Hans announced to the room. “I have the honor of presenting Herr Hacker to you.” He brayed out another burst of laughter. “Hacker! Is that not vunderbar?” He turned to look at me. “Ve are all hackers, here, Herr Hacker. Every one of us! Ve are golfers and golf officials from all over zee world. Hackers … every vun!”
Everyone seemed infected by Hans’ gaiety, and they all began to laugh as the buzz of their conversation picked up and again filled the room. Hans led me around introducing me to some of them. Hans, it turned out, was director of the Swiss Golf Association, based in Epalinges, just outside Lausanne. He himself was a banker from Zurich, of course. In the next half hour, I met golf officials from Denmark, Luxembourg, Finland, South Africa and the Seychelles. There were people there from countries where I had no idea golf was played. All, apparently, had been invited by Augusta National to come witness the Masters as the worldwide establishment of golf. And, I learned, they all looked forward not only to the tournament, but to the endless parties, dinners, cocktail events and rounds of golf that made up their fortnight of fun. They all thought my name was hilarious, and once they found out I was a golf writer, they were filled with questions. Was Tiger Woods a nice man? Had I met his lovely wife Elin? Did I think Ernie Els would ever win at Augusta? How did the Europeans win the Ryder Cup so many times? And so forth.
Someone slipped a drink into my hand, which I discovered was fine single malt, with just one ice cube and a splash of water to open up the bouquet. As I wandered around the room, being led from group to group by Hans and others, the drink would mysteriously get refilled without any request from me. I’d be deep into a conversation about possible British Open sites in the future—Wentworth, no; Sunningdale, maybe—and suddenly my drink would be full again. These guys were good.
An hour or so later, I excused myself from a gripping discussion about whether or not Colin Montgomerie had deliberately taken a bad drop during a weather delay at the Hong Kong Open, and went to find the men’s room. I splashed some water on my face and left my mostly full cocktail glass in the bathroom.
I came out intending to make my exit and go to bed. Instead, I came face to face with Charlie Grosvenor, who was chatting with a pleasant-looking woman with dark black hair pulled back in a bun. The Masters chairman was in casual mode, wearing an open-neck polo under a blue blazer. He caught my eye and waved me over.
“Mister Hacker,” he said. “I hope your accommodations are satisfactory.”
I smiled noncommittally.
“I’d like to introduce you to Beatrice Samper,” he said, motioning to the woman standing beside him. “She is the executive director of the Federacion Colombiana de Golf, based in Bogata.” He spoke the Spanish words in a flawless accent.
I turned and shook the woman’s hand. “I didn’t know they played much golf in Colombia,” I said.
“Oh, yes,” she said, her deep voice distinctive with its Spanish lilt. “We have many fine courses in the larger cities. It is one of the favorite games of the upper classes.”
I turned to Grosvenor. “It sounds like you’ve spent some time down there,” I said.
He nodded. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I spent perhaps ten or fifteen years living in South America earlier in my career. Buenos Aires, Quito and Cartagena, which is a lovely city. Our firm has long had various operations throughout the continent and one of my first jobs was to oversee various companies.”
Ms. Samper broke in. “His wife is from Colombia,” she said with a proud smile. “She is a very lovely person.”
“Is she here?” I asked. “I’d love to meet her.”
“No, no,” Grosvenor said with a small frown. “Marta does not come to Augusta very often. She prefers Philadelphia and New York. I’m afraid she feels Augusta is a bit of a backwater place.”
“Which it pretty much is,” I said.
He didn’t say anything. But he gazed at me with a look of disapproval. I would have pressed my point—my thesis is not a hard one to defend—but I realized I would be arguing with the chairman of Augusta National, and figured that might not be wise. So I bowed to Beatrice Samper, mumbled something about a long day and an early start and made my escape. But as I walked away, with a last wave to my new best friend Hans, I caught sight of Charles Grosvenor and Beatrice Samper in a far corner, heads together, talking. Neither one looked very happy.
Chapter Twelve
The next morning, I called Brett Jacoby and asked if I could come over and look at the security tapes. He told me he’d call down to the office and tell them I would be there after breakfast. He sounded stressed, but asked if I’d learned anything. I told him I had made a little headway, but had a few more details to check out. He told me to keep in touch and quickly rang off. I imagined the pressure of preparing for an immense event of worldwide interest like the Masters must be fairly heavy. I did not envy him his position.
Instead, I went down to the breakfast room, grabbed a local newspaper and a table over near the windows, nodded at the two or three other guests – most of the heavy drinking international crowd were nowhere to be seen—and sipped my first cup of coffee of the day. A sullen-looking young black girl brought me a glass of orange juice and asked how I’d like my eggs. We settled on a bowl of oatmeal and some toast and jam, and she left me alone with a large pot of coffee.
The newspa
per was full of the usual bad news from Washington and overseas, which I skipped over quickly. No sense in getting upset about things I could do nothing about. I was zipping through the front section, hoping to get quickly over to sports to see how the Red Sox were doing as they prepared to open the new season, when a piece at the bottom of the local news section caught my eye.
“Longtime Police Detective Leaves County Job,” said the headline. I kept reading. “Lt. Travis Kitchen, head of the Richmond Sheriff’s Department Homicide division for the last twelve years, has retired,” the story said. “No reasons were given for Kitchen’s sudden announcement. He had been with the county force for more than 25 years.”
Well, I thought, that’s interesting. I remembered the flush in Kitchen’s cheeks when he told me nobody told him what to do or how to investigate a murder. Now, he had “retired.” Took his pension and scrammed. I wondered if perhaps someone had tried to tell him what to do about the Judge murder, and he had quit in a funk. Or maybe someone had told him to quit. But who? Why? Stuff like that happens when a murder victim or suspect has some political connections and some higher-up is trying to keep an investigation under wraps. Was Augusta National—my erstwhile employer—trying to stifle any news of this case? And if so, why the hell had they asked me to investigate? The Judge kid didn’t seem to have any heavy political connections. Just the opposite, in fact.
But then there was the scary presence of some Medellin drug cartel killer, who may or may not be involved. Maybe the cartel had gotten to Kitchen and told him to forget about the case or they’d find another bunker at the National for him. Maybe …
I stopped myself. I could sit here all morning and come up with maybes. All I’d get out of that was a headache and no answers. I finished my breakfast and the sports pages, and decided to move on.
I was on my way to Augusta National when my cell phone rang. It was Graham Dodd from the Chronicle.
Death in a Green Jacket Page 8
