“I’ll meet you inside,” she said, walking toward the house on her toes. Like a ballerina—or a pole dancer.
I reached for her cell, carefully keeping her place in the book. Instead of calling headquarters, however, I hit the redial button. After only one ring, a man answered. I recognized the Texas twang.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
We found no criminal record for Al Jones. We’re also checking his work history. It’s not easy. Plenty of golf pros work off the books occasionally, like plenty of cops. Jones also bounced around a lot, like balls I’ve sliced off holes next to highways. I once hit one onto Old Country Road from Eisenhower Park that’s still bouncing. I have my Johnny Miller moments, but I’ll never win the U.S. Open.
After checking out O’Reilly’s house and finding nothing unusual, I drove back to Broken Oak. It was Monday and the club was closed as usual. But I hoped to corner Randy Randall and come up with a copy of Jones’s résumé.
Except for a few forensics people tidying up on the tenth hole, the golf course was dead empty. I was pleased to investigate in relative peace, without Dr. Fitch looking over my shoulder, dunning me to let him play, or Vince Henry, the greenskeeper, examining his irrigation. Courses need occasional rest to recover from duffers like O’Reilly. Could the gods of golf have whacked him for disrespect, aided and abetted by the ghost of Robert Trent Jones? I’ll open it tomorrow anyway. There’s as much chance of finding more evidence as one of these members finding a moment of silence for O’Reilly before teeing off.
I found Randy Randall in his office, a cramped, windowless room off the kitchen, the butler’s pantry when Dame Winifred lived here. No wonder the butler always does it, with pantries like solitary confinement at Riker’s Island.
Randall was seated at a rolltop desk, intently studying some papers, holding a ballpoint in his right hand. I cleared my throat to get his attention.
“I told you the club’s closed,” he said, before looking up.
“You didn’t tell me,” I told him.
“Oh, it’s you. I thought you were a salesman.”
“Selling what?”
“They’re all the same. Who knows? How did you get in? I thought I locked everything.”
“Not the front door,” I said.
“That lock’s a little tricky,” Randall said. “I should have it replaced. It’s fooled me before. We recently had intruders who took most of the liquor and a cash box I kept in here. Nothing was damaged, thankfully. They could have entered through the unlocked front door.”
“It’s still called a break-in.”
“The police thought it was some local kids, or our cad-dies. They never found out. No offense, Detective, but your department did not try too hard.”
“Do any of the members try to get in here on Monday?”
“Occasionally. I always refuse them, though some can’t seem to take no for an answer.”
“That must bother you.”
“Hardly, Detective. Their insistence, for lack of a better word, is how they got where they are.”
I can think of some better words. But I can’t let this case get away from me. It’s time for a verbal wham-bam.
“Cut the bullshit,” I said. “Someone else was just in here and left the front door unlocked.”
“No. Really—” He looked genuinely puzzled.
“Let me get this straight. You live here all alone?”
“If you can call it that. After all the late dinners and cocktail parties, when the staff’s cleaned up and gone home, before the morning shift comes in and prepares breakfast for the early golfers, I do have an hour or two to myself. I must confess to liking January best, when the club’s completely closed. And I usually like Mondays.”
“Your aunt Winifred also lived here alone?”
“She had help.”
“Was she sleeping with any of them?” Another whambam, trying to loosen his Locust Valley lockjaw.
“Come on, Detective. You can’t besmirch a progenitor of the mystery genre.”
“Huh?”
“My aunt was constantly sleeping with the help. You’ve obviously never heard of the ‘Randall Scandals’ and ‘Randy Dame Winifred.’ She was caught in compromising positions with servants and royalty.”
“Really?”
“She was always in the tabloids.”
“Tell me more about your aunt.” I’m not sure why I wanted to know.
“She was very beautiful. You may have noticed her portrait in the foyer.”
The life-size full portrait Randall referred to was the focal point of the huge entrance hallway he modestly termed a foyer. Randy Dame Winifred, at least in oil, if not on the printed page, had certainly caught my jaundiced eye.
“She was no dowdy dame,” I said.
“That’s one way of putting it. You noticed the plunging neckline?”
“Noticed?” I said. “I nearly fell in.”
“Quelle décolletage,” said Randall, trying to sound like a tit man. Though he looked and sounded more like his aunt’s prissy little tec.
“Few know what a femme fatale she was,” Randall continued.
“Who was the artist?”
“Some unknown, but he did a good job. If she were only alive and writing today.”
“She’d look damn good on a book jacket.”
“I meant her writing, Detective. The tragic part of the Randall Scandal was her cuckolded husband blowing his brains out. That was partly why she came to this country. When she was here, she calmed down considerably.”
“Maybe that’s why the book I’m reading is so boring.” I tried a different angle to raise his hackles, hoping for a slipup.
“Which book?” he asked.
“This may sound foolish, but I don’t know the title. It belonged to my wife. She was a big fan, read everything of your aunt’s. But the cover and a bunch of pages are missing.”
“What’s it about?”
“A guy’s been shot in the back on a moor surrounding a big estate like this.”
“A brash American?”
“I think his name is Phelps.”
“Martin Phelps?”
“That’s him. The estate’s owned by a gun enthusiast called the earl of something.”
“That’s the earl of Cranbrook. Your book, Detective, is Murder on the Moor. One of my aunt’s most famous works.”
“Don’t tell me the ending.”
Randall was pleased to get me off the investigative track for the moment, maybe because Murder on the Moor had a lot in common with O’Reilly’s murder. There could be a clue in that book that would finger Randall. The settings were uncannily similar, as were some of the characters.
“Tell me about Al Jones,” I told him.
“I’ve told you all I know.”
“I need to know more about all those golf lessons with Mrs. O’Reilly.”
“I’ve told you—”
“Only that Jones is a good pro.”
“Who behaves himself, despite being quite the ladies’ man.”
“Tell me more.”
“I am sorry, Detective. But it’s more than one man can handle just to keep this place running. I do not have the time, nor the inclination, to delve into much else.”
“Who are you kidding?” I said. “You know when somebody so much as farts around here.”
“You and your quaint expressions. I only know that when the members are pleased, I am pleased as well.”
Now I’ve heard everything. But I can play this game better than golf.
“I can tell you run this place like a Swiss clock. You must keep impeccable records.”
“Of course.”
“Then you must have a copy of Al Jones’s résumé on file.”
I had pushed one of his buttons. Instead of stonewalling me as usual, he produced the document immediately.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Randy Randall escorted me to the front door, saying, “I will make sure it is locked this time.” It soun
ded like he said, Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.
“Is the pro shop open?” I asked.
“It is also closed on Mondays,” Randall said.
“Can you let me in?”
“I suppose I could. It is my shop, you know. Al Jones merely owns the merchandise.”
“Let’s go,” I said.
“We don’t have to go outside,” said Randall. “Follow me.”
He led me into a passageway off the main entrance hall, past Dame Winifred’s provocative portrait.
“It is my shop,” he continued, “but Jones makes a fortune from it. I should raise his rent.”
The passageway ended with a dark wooden door and a brass plaque engraved Men’s Grill.
“Through here . . .” Randall opened the door.
We entered a wood-paneled room filled with sturdy chairs, tables with tidy place settings, a well-stocked bar, and a big-screen TV. Everything any man ever needed.
“I may have to lock this room from now on, too,” Randall grumbled. “My liquor has been disappearing.”
“You wouldn’t want to lose the TV,” I said.
“This Brobdingnagian boob tube?” said Randall. “I would not mind in the least. What a pity no one reads anymore.”
He opened another dark wooden door, leading me into the men’s locker room. I admired the mahogany lockers and wall-to-wall carpet, muttering, “Pretty fancy.”
“We do our best,” Randall said.
“Is every member’s name engraved on his locker in brass?”
“Most assuredly.”
“O’Reilly?”
“Of course.”
Why didn’t I think of it sooner? Bad mistake. Assigned lockers never dawned on me.
“Can you unlock it?”
“No one locks them,” Randall said smugly. “Our members are above pilfering.”
“How about murder?”
He smirked again, leading me to O’Reilly’s locker. I opened it with a ballpoint, careful not to smudge any fingerprints, and found it empty.
“Where’s all his stuff?” I said.
“He must have cleaned it out.”
“Maybe someone did it for him.” Why didn’t I think of this yesterday? I should give myself the good old wham-bam.
“It wasn’t me, Detective.”
“Does Al Jones have a locker?”
Randall led me through a maze of lockers into a cul-de-sac. As I opened Jones’s locker with my trusty ballpoint, I quipped, “Besides knowing when anyone farts around here, you know where they hang their jockstraps.”
Randall ignored me.
“I can’t believe no one locks these things,” I added. “Someone stole my old shower shoes at a public course. I can’t say pilfered. It was a great loss. All of seventy-nine cents, plus tax. Not including sentimental value, of course.”
“How tragic, Detective.” Randall forced a smile. No sense of humor, obviously.
“There’s nothing but a towel,” I said, staring into the pro’s locker, “and a pair of golf shoes.”
I picked up a shoe, touching only the insides, and turned it over.
“What would one expect in a golf pro’s locker?” asked Randall, smartly.
“A spike on the right heel’s missing,” I observed.
“Spikes come off all the time,” Randall shrugged.
“It depends on which spike.” I was thinking about the footprint out by the water hazard.
“Ah, you detectives. My aunt was right. Always using your little gray cells,” Randall lisped. “Anything else?”
“Next to nothing in Jones’s and zilch in O’Reilly’s.”
“Look at these . . .” I opened several other lockers. They were loaded with stuff, like a shopper’s closet.
“What do you think it means?”
“It means I’m taking these golf shoes,” I said. “You’ll get a property slip.”
“I think it’s meaningless,” Randall said. “Our golf pro did not murder anyone, nor did any of our members. You are wasting the taxpayers’ money.”
“Cops also pay taxes,” I said. “My weekly check takes a worse hit than O’Reilly suffered. Don’t touch anything in here,” I told him. “I’m sending forensics. And don’t worry. They won’t pilfer anything. All they’ll take are fingerprints.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I drove to the Dunkin’ Donuts in nearby Glen Cove for a good cup of coffee and a good look at Al Jones’s résumé. I also had a croissant, about as continental as I ever get. I would never order a Dunkaccino. I rarely drink anything imported, except a beer called Golfer’s Choice occasionally. It comes from Germany, with an old-time golfer on the can, plus a ceramic cap to reseal it. As if any thirsty golfer or self-respecting beer drinker wouldn’t kill the whole thing in one sitting.
Jones had been a pro at dozens of country clubs from New York to Texas, if his résumé’s not faked. We’ll contact the club managers to verify it. Who knows what will turn up? Too many employers, even fastidious types like Randy Randall, fail to do background checks or ignore them. It’s odd how some folks are so trusting of everyone but cops.
I had studied Jones’s appointment book back in the pro shop. Mrs. O’Reilly was penciled in for lessons almost every day. As the weeks went on, her name became more and more abbreviated. From Mrs. O’Reilly to Mrs. O’R, and Mrs. O to just plain O. Does the latter stand for orgasm? Does the condom from the sand trap belong to Jones? It is a magnum. Mrs. O’s husband is ruled out, for his wicked case of the Irish curse, but a big guy like Jones could be her Texas longhorn.
Jones is not shy. His casual assumption that Mr. O’Reilly was working on his night moves when he got whacked leads me to believe that he could have been humping any one of his lessons out on the course. Then Mr. O happened along and threatened to get him fired, so Jones whacked him. Or Mrs. O could have put him up to it. It seemed to fit, except for Jones being right-handed. Mr. O was definitely done in by a southpaw.
Jones’s résumé also indicated that he played major league baseball, one season with the Texas Rangers, before becoming a golf pro. I could verify that information about a mile down the road.
Mike’s B.C. × 2 (Batting Cages and Baseball Cards) was a seedy little store in a small shopping center along Sea Cliff Avenue in Glen Cove. Dead last in a row of hodgepodge-ethnic, struggling strip-mall stores: a Korean supermarket, a Jewish deli, an African American dry cleaner, a Chinese takeout, a vacancy where a Pakistani stationer had suddenly left town.
Mike’s place reminded me of pre-Rudy Times Square porno shops. Mike was always sitting by the front window, hawking baseball cards as if they were skin mags, dispensing quarters for his beat-up batting cages in back as if they were triple-X video booths. I once tried hitting back there but struck out more times than a blind man waving a Wiffle bat. I insisted the lighting was too dim. Mike laughed and told me the eyes were always first to go.
“Hey, paisan,” Mike said, as I entered. “Long time no see. Where you been hiding?”
“Over at Broken Oak,” I said.
“Doin’ what? Takin’ out the garbage?”
“Playing golf.”
“Yeah, right.” Mike scoffed. “Playin’ with yourself, maybe.”
We laughed. Mike was an ex-cop, tossed off the force for using too much of the good old wham-bam on a C.W. Post student who attacked him as he tried to break up a bar fight. The firing was a crock, and the community lost a good cop. The kid dropped out of Crayola U and became a crack dealer. Mike came to this. We go back a long way, starting out together as lowly patrolmen, busting crackheads like the so-called student who ended his career. Shaking the doorknobs of dumps like Mike’s B.C. 2 in the middle of the night.
“Where you really been?” Mike asked. “Out at Crab Meadow, over at Eisenhower Park? Still got that golf jones?”
“I told you, at Broken Oak.”
“You gotta be kiddin’. They wouldn’t let you in the gate, let alone golf there.”
>
“I wasn’t golfing, but I can wish.”
“You got a sunburn.”
“You should try it. You look like shit.”
“Rough night.” Mike shrugged. “You’ve had a few of those.”
“No more. I’ve taken up reading.”
“Arrest reports?”
“Murder mysteries.”
“With all due respect to your wife’s memory,” Mike said softly, “you need a woman.”
“You need customers,” I said.
“It’s early,” said Mike.
“Very funny. But I got a murder at Broken Oak.”
I described the goings-on, which had yet to hit the news. I also showed him the résumé.
He scanned it and said, “You got any idea how many rookies come and go in one season in a club like the Rangers? In and out of high school, college, the minors. On and off injuries, drugs, the sauce. It’s a revolving door, like our criminal justice system. I never hearda this guy. Unless he’s Mark McGuire, even his rookie card is worthless. Kinda like rookie cops. But for you, paisan, I’ll look through my big book. If this guy’s got a card, it’ll be in here.”
Mike flipped through a fat, dog-eared reference book. Stopping suddenly, running a thick finger down one of the pages.
“Could this be it?” he said, pointing at a name.
“Jones, Thomas Alva,” I read, squinting at the tiny print. “Texas Rangers 1985.”
“It’s gotta be,” said Mike.
“It only says Al on his résumé,” I said.
“Isn’t Alva a girl’s name?”
“Ever heard of Thomas Alva Edison?”
“Who’d he play for?”
“Come on, Mike. Got his card?”
“For you, my half-Polack paisan, I’ll even look through my big box.”
“You’re all heart, you big guinea.”
“Hey. I’m doin’ you a favor here.”
Mike pulled a large cardboard box filled with baseball cards from under a counter. I collected cards as a kid. Had a few that would be worth a fortune these days. But my mom, like everyone else’s, threw them out.
“Got it,” Mike finally said. “Right here in the rookie section.”
He pulled out a card, examined it briefly, and muttered, “No wonder he never made it. He was an Interstate hitter. I-40 equals a .140 batting average. It’s an old baseball joke. Yours would be even less.”
Deadly Divots Page 7
