Death in a Green Jacket

by James Y. Bartlett

  There were two people in the room. One was a huge old mammy, wearing a kerchief around her ears, an old pink sweater over a flowered corduroy dress, battered old slip-ins that may, at one point, have been fuzzy slippers, and navy blue woolen socks pulled up over her calves. Her large upper body and thick arms nipped inward at the waist before shooting outwards again in an enormous pair of hips. There was a shelf around her middle that looked flat and sturdy enough to hold a cup and saucer. She was stirring a huge pot of something on the back burner, while a tin coffee pot bubbled on one of the front burners. She was singing softly to herself, a monotone hum, which every now and then sounded vaguely like a gospel song. I kept hearing the word “Jesus.”

  Beyond the kitchen, Lester was sitting in the eating nook, which contained a round, fake-wood table with three spindle-back wooden chairs. The table was covered with a lace-like cloth. There was an old radio on a shelf above his head, playing some rap. Lester had in front of him a cell phone, a notebook, and the Augusta newspaper, which he was slowly perusing when we came in.

  He was a short, skinny man, with graying curly hair cut close to his skull. He was wearing blue jeans, a mock turtleneck and sneakers. He also wore gold-rimmed glasses, and had a pencil stuck behind one ear. Instead of a crime boss, Lester looked like he could be the head of shipping for an auto parts store. He did not look dangerous, deadly or even very scary.

  Kitchen took the lead.

  “Miz Johnson,” he said bowing slightly to the huge woman at the stove. “How’re ya doin’?”

  She muttered something indistinguishable and gave her pot another stir.

  “Lester,” he nodded at the man. “Staying out of trouble?”

  Lester finished the story he was reading before carefully folding the paper and putting it to one side of the table. He looked up at us without expression and motioned for us to take a seat at his table. I held out a chair for Kitchen and eased him down into it.

  “Thass right,” Lester said, watching. “I heard you got your ass popped. Mmm-mmm. That shore do smart don’t it?”

  Kitchen, teeth clenched, didn’t say anything.

  “Mama,” Lester called over to the woman. “Is that Brunswick stew ready yet? Might let these white boys get a little taste. Best damn stuff in Augusta.”

  Mama grumbled something and reached up into a cupboard for some bowls.

  “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” Lester said, looking at Kitchen directly. “I don’ believe any of my boys has been gettin’ in trouble.”

  “No, Lester,” Kitchen said. “I stopped by to see if you could give me a little help.”

  Lester’s face broke out in a wide grin. “Is that a fact?” he said, chuckling. “Hey, Mama! You hear that? The poh-leece want me to give them a little hep!” He leaned back, face beaming.

  Mama dished out some stew in three bowls. She carried two bowls over to the table, the floor creaking in protest as she waddled. She made her way slowly back to the stove, picked up the third bowl, fished in a drawer for some spoons and brought that over to the table. She reached behind her and grabbed a box of Saltines on a shelf and plopped that down on the table as well. Then she waddled back to the stove.

  “Thanks, Mama,” Lester said. “Smells pretty damn good.”

  Mama shot him a look and shook her head.

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” Lester said. “Pretty daggone good.”

  “Thank you kindly Miz Johnson,” Kitchen said. “It does smell wonderful.” He picked up a spoon and dug right in. Lester opened the crackers and crumbled two of them into pieces on top of his stew, and began to eat. I followed suit. For the next few minutes, nobody said anything as we ate. Mama’s Brunswick stew was amazing. Filled with chicken, corn and sausage, she had also thrown in carrots, celery, potatoes, tomatoes, the usual okra, and a blend of spices I’m not sure I could identify. But it was smooth, peppery and delicious.

  When we had finished, we all three sat back in our chairs. Mama waddled back over and picked up the bowls and carried them heavily to the sink. Lester’s cell phone rang, but he ignored it.

  “What you need?” Lester asked Kitchen.

  The police lieutenant reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sheet with a photo on it and showed it to Lester. “What do you know about this guy?” he asked.

  Lester studied it carefully. Or pretended to, while he bought some time. “Uh-huh,” he said to himself a couple of times while he looked at it. Kitchen waited patiently. I looked at the photo upside down. It was a grainy shot of a man with a mustache and long hair.

  “Not a good picture,” Lester said finally. “But it do look a lot like Carlos.”

  Mama, over at the sink, started when she heard that name. “Lord a’mercy,” she moaned.

  “And who is Carlos?” Kitchen said.

  “Dude from South America,” Lester said, still looking at the photo. “Seen him once or twice. He have somethin’ to do with the trade in blow.”

  “He’s a runner?” Kitchen pressed. “Delivers the goods?”

  Lester shook his head. “Naw,” he said. “He be more important than that. He come to town when things get a little messed up. Like y’all put somebody in jail or somethin’. Carlos come up and straighten things out again. Pretty soon, it’s all back to normal. Product come in, product go out.”

  “Where does he come from?” Kitchen asked.

  “Miami.”

  “How does he get things straightened out?”

  Lester smiled, a rueful smile. “That be a real good question, my man,” he said. “Carlos is one strange dude. You don’t always know when he’s here, but you shore do know when he’s been here. People tend to get shot when he’s in town. Ain’t nobody I know messed with him still alive.”

  “And you get along with him?” I asked.

  “I still here, ain’t I?” he said, looking at me directly for the first time. “Who you be?”

  “Hacker,” I said. “From Boston.” It worked before as an ice-breaker.

  “Uh-huh,” Lester said.

  “Have you seen this Carlos around lately?” Kitchen continued.

  “Last time was a couple months ago,” Lester said. “But I have heard tell he’s been seen around last few weeks. Like I said, you don’t always know when the dude is about. He ain’t come over for some of Mama’s stew yet.”

  “You know anything about that boy that was shot over at Augusta National?” I asked.

  “Sheeeeeit,” Lester erupted. “Don’ you be talkin’ ‘bout those white cracker boys. God-damn bigots, all of ‘em. Racist mother-. . .”

  Mama made a warning noise, deep in her throat.

  “Sorry, Mama,” Lester caught himself just in time. “I guess you can tell those white cracker asses not be my favorite people. No, I don’ know who shot that boy. Far as I care, you can lock up the entire bunch o’them crackers. Do the world a favor.”

  “Thanks, Lester,” Kitchen said, getting up. “Maybe if you hear where Carlos is or see him or something, you can give me a call. Like to talk to him.”

  Lester laughed. “Don’ think Mister Carlos be interested in talkin’ to no poh-leece,” he said. “Shootin’ one, maybe. Talkin’? Not so much.”

  “Well, I’d appreciate it a lot if you hear anything you’d let me know,” Kitchen said. The two men nodded at each other. He turned to the old woman.

  “Miz Johnson,” he said, bowing slightly. “Thank you so much for the wonderful gumbo. You haven’t lost your magic. It’s still the best in the county, bar none.”

  I added my own thanks in as gracious a Southern manner as I could muster for a white-assed cracker boy. The woman grumbled something, but I thought I could detect a hint of a smile. We walked out past William, still guarding the hall, and continued outside. The group of men were still sitting on the front stoop. They watched us with silent, white eyes as we got in our car and drove away.

  “Who is this Carlos person?” I asked when we we
re heading back towards downtown.

  “His real name is Enrico de la Paz,” Kitchen said. “Carlos is an alias. Got the photo from a friend at the FBI.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Seems like Enrico is a popular guy around here. Everyone seems to know him.”

  “And doesn’t want to cross him,” Kitchen said.

  “Wonder if that holds true with those white-assed crackers over at the National,” I said.

  “Maybe we should go ask them,” Kitchen said.

  “Capital idea,” I said.

  “Drive on,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was hard even for Lt. Travis Kitchen of the Richmond County Police Department to get inside the gates at Augusta National. The Pinkerton guards made us wait at the gate, and wouldn’t open it until they had phoned in to the clubhouse and talked to about half a dozen people. I thought at one point that Kitchen was going to pull his service revolver and kneecap one of the guards who exhibited a little attitude.

  Someone inside must have given permission, because they finally opened the gate, and we soon found ourselves waiting outside Charlie Grosvenor’s office. Even though it was Saturday, the place was humming with life. The tournament started on Thursday, but CBS technicians were crawling all over the golf course, setting up the cameras and their satellite uplinks. The construction of all the bleachers and stands was finished, save for some last-minute touch ups by the painters armed with buckets of Masters green paint. The fairway ropes were being strung, the mowers were out clipping the grass down to the prescribed 1/32nd of an inch, and the food stations were getting ready for the hordes of patrons who would be lined up at the gate by 6 a.m. Monday morning. Even the tickets for a boring practice round are snapped up and highly prized.

  Brett Jacoby walked into the foyer where we were waiting. Grosvenor’s secretary picked up the phone and buzzed the inner office.

  “Hacker,” Brett said in greeting. “I didn’t know you were coming over. What’s going on? Charlie just called me into this meeting.”

  I introduced Brett to Kitchen.

  “We’ve come to a point in the investigation where we can share some information,” I said.

  “We?” Brett said, looking at Kitchen.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Turns out the Judge case got a little more complicated.”

  “What do you mean?” Brett asked, sounding like he really didn’t want to know.

  I shook my head and nodded toward the door of Grosvenor’s office. We waited in silence. After several long minutes, the door to Grosvenor’s inner sanctum opened and the chairman walked out. He was dressed in casual weekend clothes, khaki’s and a maroon golf shirt with the Izod alligator on it.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, and motioned us to come in. We filed in and took seats around the coffee table. Kitchen and I sat on the sofa, Brett pulled up a side chair and we let Grosvenor take the large leather armchair that faced the fireplace, which was filled with an arrangement of magnolia leaves.

  Again, I introduced Kitchen. He and Grosvenor shook hands. Grosvenor looked at me.

  “I thought you understood that your inquiries were to be somewhat confidential,” the chairman said, his voice registering disappointment. “We wanted to know what was going on with the unfortunate incident of several weeks ago, but I don’t believe you had authorization to involve the authorities beyond the scope of your brief.”

  “Mr. Grosvenor,” Kitchen responded. “A serious crime was committed here at Augusta National and a young man was murdered. In the course of investigating that crime, my office found suggestions of further criminal behavior. Mr. Hacker, whom you asked to nose around, also discovered potential evidence of wrong-doing. It is my responsibility as a sworn officer of Richmond County to investigate serious crimes and bring those responsible to justice.”

  Grosvenor shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “Lt. Kitchen,” he said. “It is my understanding that you have resigned from the Richmond County police department. Under what authority, then, are you here?”

  “I un-resigned,” he said. “I’m still a cop.”

  “I see,” Grosvenor said. “Well, let me state that we here at Augusta National—all our employees—have been instructed to cooperate fully with the authorities in this case. As far as I know, no one here at the club had anything to do with the unfortunate incident. And while we would certainly wish to continue our cooperation in any way, it is also the case that one of the major events of the year is planned to begin in two days. Everyone here at the club is rather preoccupied at the moment. Can this discussion be put off until next week when things are a bit less hectic?”

  “No,” Kitchen said.

  Grosvenor stared at him. His eyes narrowed. He was not used to being refused.

  “How can I help you?” he asked, his voice icy.

  “Do you know someone named Enrico de la Paz?” Kitchen asked.

  Grosvenor blinked. He looked at Brett, then at me, then back at Kitchen. “N-n-no,” he stammered. “I don’t think so.”

  “How about Jose Feliz Obrador?” Kitchen pressed.

  “I don’t think so,” he said hesitantly.

  “You don’t think you know your own father-in-law?” Kitchen sounded incredulous.

  Grosvenor leaped out of his chair. It was an almost involuntary movement, a reflex action. He realized, once he was standing, that he had jumped, and tried to make it seem natural by walking over to his huge desk and rooting around for a paper.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I must have mis-heard the name. Yes, Obrador is my wife’s father. But we have not seen nor spoken to the man in more than twenty years. He is involved in some bad business down in South America.”

  He walked back over and sat down in his leather chair again.

  “He is involved with the Colombian drug cartels, is he not?” Kitchen pressed on.

  “I have heard that,” Grosvenor said, “But I don’t know personally if that’s true.”

  Kitchen smiled slightly and began firing questions.

  “Did you know that de la Paz has been seen in recent weeks here in Augusta?”

  “No.”

  “That he is well known locally as the main connection to the drug trade from South America.”

  “No.”

  “That he is, in fact, Obrador’s enforcer?”

  “No.”

  “That he very likely is the one who shot and killed John Judge?”

  “No.” Grosvenor was sweating now, squirming, crossing and recrossing his legs. “Listen, what’s the point of all this? I’ve told you that we have nothing to do with him. Haven’t seen nor heard from him. My God, if this Paz fellow was the one who killed that poor lad, then go and arrest him.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Kitchen said. “You’d like de la Paz to be put on ice, wouldn’t you? Has he been here? Called? Has he threatened you in person?”

  “No, of course not,” Grosvenor said, wiping a hand across his brow. “Why would you think that?”

  “Because Rico only comes to town when there’s a problem,” Kitchen said. “And I think you’re the problem. I think the Judge killing was a warning. I think you’re involved in some way in Obrador’s business and he wants you out. And maybe because he’s family, he wants you to get out before he has to take you out. How’m I doing?”

  Grosvenor had turned an interesting shade of red. He kept silent.

  “What happened with Christian Geer?” Kitchen continued.

  “He came to see me two days ago,” Grosvenor said. “We talked for a bit in this office, and then he left. Brett was here, he’ll tell you. Apparently, he had a heart attack downstairs in the lobby. I heard the sirens of the ambulance arrive and that’s when I found out what had happened.”

  “Did he show signs of illness?”

  “Not at all,” Grosvenor said. “He was in good spirits.”

  “What did he come here to talk about?
He was heard by Hacker and others to say he had important things to discuss with you.”

  “That conversation was private and shall remain so,” Grosvenor said.

  “Do you or your corporation have business interests in Belgium?”

  “I don’t believe that is any of your business.”

  “Maybe and maybe not,” Kitchen said. “We are investigating the apparent murder of Christian Geer. You will be asked to give a formal statement.”

  “Murder!” Grosvenor leapt out of his chair again. “The man had a heart attack! He collapsed downstairs in front of my staff. No one touched him at all. I’ve never heard such nonsense in my life.”

  “We have evidence to the contrary,” Kitchen said calmly.

  The two men stared at each other. “Perhaps you’d like to revise your story?” Kitchen asked.

  “Absolutely not!” Grosvenor almost shouted. “This conversation is at an end. If you wish to speak with me again, I will be accompanied by counsel.”

  Despite his brave front, Grosvenor’s voice was shaking. He turned to look at me.

  “Mister Hacker,” he said. “Our agreement has come to an end. I insist that you immediately discontinue your inquiry. I trust you will honor your commitment to not discuss or write about this matter with anyone. I …we…Augusta National appreciates your efforts and we wish you well.”

  “You can’t fire me, because I quit,” I said. Kitchen chuckled. He stood up.

  “Thank you for your time,” he said. “You will be hearing from me again.” He paused and looked down at Grosvenor, who was gripping the arms of his leather chair.