Tonight I Said Goodbye (St. Martin's Minotaur Mystery)

by Michael Koryta

  Cody seemed to like that suggestion. "You're right. Hubbard's a businessman. Hartwick was a professional thug."

  It seemed that Wayne Weston had been one, too. Or at least a professional extortionist. I looked at Joe, thinking about Dan Beckley, and he gave me an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

  "Here's the deal," Cody said. "I'm going to see what we can find out about this Hartwick guy. In the meantime, you are going to sit on your hands, got me? I was content to let you stay on the case when I thought you'd cooperate, but, obviously, that's not how it worked. You jeopardize my investigation again, and I'll see that your licenses are revoked. Understand?"

  "That's the deal?" I said. "Hell of a deal, Cody."

  He smiled coldly. "Okay, it's not a deal. It's a command, Perry. An order. And you'd be wise not to test me on it." He got to his feet. "I'll be in touch."

  After Cody and Swanders were gone, Kinkaid looked at us. "That's bullshit," he said. "You two run a legitimate business. He can't tell you what cases you can and can't take, not unless he's got something to charge you with."

  "No, he can't," Joe said. "But he can make it damn difficult for us."

  "Surely you're not telling me you're going to listen to him? Dammit, Pritchard, you can't quit on this."

  Joe stared at him with surprise and distaste, as if Kinkaid had suggested Joe give up the PI trade and become a figure skater. "I'm not going to quit on this," he said condescendingly. "I'm just saying it will be more difficult now. We're going to have to keep something of a low profile."

  "So, what now?" Kinkaid said. "How do we move forward?"

  "The way I see it, we've got to do two things," Joe said. "We've got to find out much, much more about the Russians. We need to find out who they deal with, what type of scams they're running--absolutely anything that might connect them to Weston or Hartwick. Or Hubbard. And we've got to do the same thing with Hartwick. Basically, we've got to perform some thorough background investigations on everyone we've connected with this case."

  "It's going to be hard to do that with Hartwick," I said. "He's based in South Carolina, not Cleveland. As far as we know, he was just a visitor here."

  "Well, then," Joe said, "it seems to me one of us should go to South Carolina."

  Kinkaid frowned. "Split up? I don't like that."

  "You didn't like it last night, either, Kinkaid, but we ignored your advice then and we'll ignore it now," Joe said, making the remark lighthearted enough to avoid riling Kinkaid again. "If we all go trooping down to South Carolina, Cody will throw a fit. And we'll be losing time up here."

  "Cody's going to shit a brick, regardless," I said, "If we all go down, or just one of us."

  "I'm assuming a few days down there should be sufficient for you," Joe said. "Until then, I'll try to keep your absence from attracting Cody's attention. If he does find out, I'll tell him you're out of state on another case, something unrelated to Wayne Weston. He can't prevent us from working altogether, although he'd surely like to try."

  "You're assuming a few days will be sufficient for me? I gather I've been nominated as our South Carolina man?"

  Joe nodded. "Yeah, you have been. Scott and Eggers will more likely want to keep on eye on Kinkaid than on you or me, so I figure he and I should stay in the city and see what we can do with the Russians. Besides, the Russians present the greatest threat, so it would be best to keep two men here."

  "Scott and Eggers," I said. "Shit, I forgot about them. They'll never let me leave the city a day after witnessing a murder."

  "Gee," Joe deadpanned, his eyes wide and innocent, "maybe we shouldn't tell them you're leaving."

  CHAPTER 13

  WHEN I stepped off the plane in Myrtle Beach late the next morning, I closed my eyes and took a deep, contented breath. It was seventy degrees, and the sun was out. When I'd left Cleveland a few hours earlier, it had been in the upper thirties, with snow flurries spitting through a stiff wind off the lake. For the first time since I'd heard of him, I was thankful Randy Hartwick had lived in South Carolina.

  I drove down the town's beach strip in a rented Ford Contour with the idea of scanning the hotels until I found the Golden Breakers. After a few blocks, I realized that was a bigger task than I'd anticipated. The hotels seemed to go on endlessly. I drove slowly down Ocean Avenue for fifteen minutes and saw nothing but hotels, hundreds of them. Most of the hotels on the beach side of the street were tall, elegant structures, while just across the street they tended to be tacky one-or two-story buildings that were a far cry from their impressive neighbors. Only fifty yards apart, and yet the difference in quality--and, no doubt, in room rates--was amazing. After passing dozens upon dozens of hotels and resorts without locating the Golden Breakers, I gave up and pulled off Ocean Avenue in search of a gas station. Running parallel to Ocean Avenue but a few hundred yards farther inland was Business Highway 17, the commercial strip. On this road hotels were scarce, but you couldn't spit out the window without hitting a T-shirt shop or a seafood restaurant. I pulled into the first gas station parking lot I found and went inside to ask for directions.

  The clerk, a bored-looking girl who was twirling her blond hair with her fingers, told me I was eight blocks south of the resort and then said, "All the hotels have maps on their brochures and reservation mailings, you know." Smart-ass. I didn't have a brochure or a reservation.

  I found the Golden Breakers eight blocks north, just as the gas station clerk had promised. It was a hell of a building, too. A single-story lobby was bordered on each side by a sixteen-story tower containing the rooms and suites. On top of the lobby was a sundeck with a pool. Nice. I parked in the entryway and went inside. The sign indicated there were vacancies, so I decided I might as well stay at the Golden Breakers. I asked for room rates; while the figure was higher than I wanted to pay, it was also much cheaper than it would be a few months down the road, when tourism season hit its peak. It would be on John Weston's tab, anyhow. I asked for a two-night stay and paid with my credit card, keeping an extra receipt for the expense account.

  Once the bill was settled, I returned to the Contour and drove across the street to park in the hotel's garage. For the first time I was thankful to have the little car. The parking garage had the lowest ceiling of any garage I'd ever been in, and I wasn't sure my truck would have fit. Maybe everyone down here drove small sports cars. There would certainly be little need for four-wheel drive. I found a spot, took my suitcase from the trunk, and went back to the hotel. My room was on the second floor of the north tower. I took the elevator up, found the room, and went inside.

  The hotel room was actually three rooms: a living room with a couch and television, a small but fully equipped kitchen, and a bedroom. Both the bedroom and the living room had sliding glass doors that opened onto a wide balcony overlooking the beach. I dropped my bag onto the couch and went out on the balcony.

  The sun was shining, reflecting off the water and making the waves sparkle. Several people lay on blankets on the sand, working on their tans, and a group of kids were tossing a football back and forth near the water's edge. Too cold for them to be swimming yet. A single boat with a bright blue-and-yellow sail was cutting through the water a few hundred yards off the beach. I leaned over the rail and looked down. The beach wasn't very crowded, but that didn't surprise me. It was too early in the year for family vacations, and there was at least a week still to go before spring break would bring the college kids down. I left the balcony door open to let the warm breeze in and went back inside. It was a beautiful day and I had a beautiful hotel room, but I was here to work. I took off my long-sleeved shirt and pulled on a thin polo shirt, then slipped the Glock into its holster at the base of my spine. I wasn't expecting trouble, but Randy Hartwick had certainly attracted some in Cleveland, so I wasn't about to go in search of his associates unprepared. I slipped the keycard for the room into my pocket and rode the elevator back down to the lobby. The receptionist saw me coming and smiled.

  "Is the
room satisfactory?"

  "It's amazing," I said, and her smile widened, as if I'd just made her day. "But I have another question."

  "What's that?"

  "I was hoping to speak to the owner. Do you know where I might find him?"

  She hesitated. "Well, Mr. Burks isn't here. Is there something a manager could help you with? Can I ask why you want to speak to the owner?"

  "Because I want to know who's responsible for this dump," I said, waving my hand at the gleaming lobby. Her smile disappeared, and I said, "I'm just kidding."

  "Oh." Her smile was back in place now. Relieved.

  "I need to talk to the owner about a mutual acquaintance," I said. "Someone who passed away, I'm afraid."

  She put her hand to her chest. "Oh, no! Why, we're really having some bad luck lately. Just two days ago a man called to tell our security chief that one of his close friends had died."

  This was the same woman I'd talked to on the phone. Possibly the nicest person in the world, and now I'd cast a shadow over her day twice in the same week. I was from Cleveland, though. She probably expected it.

  "Hmm," I said. "Yes, that is depressing. Now, do you have any idea where I might find the owner? A Mr. Burks, is it?"

  "Yes, Lamar Burks. As I said, he's not here today, and I don't think he will be, but I could take a message for him."

  "Well, I was really hoping to find him today."

  She frowned. "I think he's playing golf, but I don't know which course."

  "I suppose I could call around and ask," I said, and she smiled at me and shook her head.

  "You're in the wrong place for that. There are about one hundred golf courses within an hour of this hotel."

  "Yikes." I drummed my fingers on the counter and thought about it. The receptionist was wearing a name tag that said REBECCA. Pretty name. Pretty face, too. Probably nice legs under that counter. What was I thinking about again? Oh, right, finding the owner.

  "You said the hotel has golf packages available?" I asked.

  She nodded. "Yes."

  "Well, maybe Burks plays those courses frequently. It seems like he'd be on pretty good terms with the management."

  "Good idea," she said, sounding truly impressed, and I tried not to blush. Shucks. I'm full of great ideas, Rebecca. Having a few about you right now, in fact.

  She crossed the room and pulled a brochure from the rack on the wall. I'd been right; she had been hiding some damn fine legs under that counter.

  "It looks like we have packages with five different courses," she said. "That would be a place to start."

  I took the brochure from her. "Mind if I use your phone?"

  "I'm not supposed to let you use it, but I won't tell if you don't."

  "Deal."

  She put the phone on the counter, and I began calling and asking the pro shops if Lamar Burks was around. I said it casually, as if I fully expected he'd be there, trying not to make anyone uneasy with my calls. On the fourth call, I found him at the Sweetwater Bay Golf Course.

  "Yeah, Lamar's around," the man who answered said. "Hell, he's been here all day. We've been trying to throw him out for hours." Someone laughed loudly in the background. Nothing like a little fun in the pro shop, smoking cigars and talking golf all day while everyone else is working for a living. "I don't see him right now, but he's got a tee time in an hour," the man told me. "He's probably down at the putting green, maybe out at the range."

  "Thanks," I said, "I'll try to catch up with him."

  I hung up and smiled. "Success, Rebecca. Thanks for your help."

  She seemed to like my using her name. "You're welcome. Should you need anything else, I hope you won't hesitate to ask me."

  "I'll probably have to hesitate," I said. "Sweet, elegant women like yourself shouldn't be corrupted by men like me."

  She smiled and ran the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip. "A little corruption never hurt anyone."

  Oh, man. I needed to leave, or Lamar Burks and Randy Hartwick were quickly going to become forgotten goals of the afternoon.

  "I've got to go, Rebecca," I said. "But promise you'll miss me."

  "I promise," she said, and laughed. I left the hotel. I was starting to like South Carolina just fine.

  The Sweetwater Bay Golf Course was only a fifteen-minute drive from the hotel. There was a map on the brochure, and I found the course without trouble. The pro shop was a small, white clapboard building surrounded by palm trees. If you've just spent a winter in Cleveland, palm trees rank among the most welcome sights in the world. Signs pointed down golf cart paths toward the "Championship Course" and the "Executive Course." I parked and went inside. An overweight man in khaki shorts and a Nike polo shirt was seated behind the counter. I asked him if he'd seen Lamar Burks.

  "You the guy who called earlier?" he said, not taking his eyes off the small television suspended from the ceiling. The Golf Channel was on, and someone was demonstrating the art of chipping. Fascinating stuff.

  "Yeah, I called earlier. Is Lamar around?"

  "Uh-huh." He waved his head toward the front of the building without looking at me. "He's on the range. He'll be going out on the executive course soon."

  I looked out the window and saw the driving range at the far end of the parking lot. There were only six people there, and three of them were women. There were two young white men and a middle-aged black man.

  "Can I get a bucket of balls?" I asked.

  "Grab one from the rack," he said. "It's five dollars."

  "Okay. Got any clubs I can use?"

  He finally looked away from the screen, staring at me as if I'd asked to borrow his underwear. "You don't have any clubs?"

  "I'm from out of state. Wasn't planning on playing."

  He shook his head as if this were stunning news. "Well, there are some beaters on the stand against the wall. Grab whatever you'd like."

  I paid him for the bucket and selected a seven-iron, pitching wedge, and driver from the stand of clubs on the wall. The "beaters" were nicer than any clubs I'd ever owned.

  I went outside and walked up to the range. The white guys had left, leaving only the women and the black man. As I approached, one of the women said, "Nice shot, Lamar."

  Lamar Burks was hitting off the grass. I emptied half of my bucket beside him, and he smiled and nodded at me. He was about forty, a short, powerfully built man, with shoulders like gigantic hams. He was wearing white shorts and a white shirt, and under the shorts his thighs and butt were massive. Not fat, either, just thick. It was the kind of backside that would have made for a hell of a post game in basketball.

  I found a tee lying in the grass and placed one of the balls on it, then took the driver and got into position. I'd never been much of a golfer. The game was a little too slow for me, and certainly not athletic enough to compensate for a good workout or game of pickup basketball. I played occasionally but planned on saving most of my outings for my retirement, when my aging body would no longer take the basketball games and workouts but would certainly be up to golf. It had been nearly a year since I'd even swung a club. I took a few practice cuts, trying to get the feel of the driver, and then stepped up to the tee.

  My first shot went about a hundred and fifty yards, but all of them came on the ground. I'd sent the ball whistling across the grass, bouncing occasionally but never rising more than a foot in the air. I put another ball on the tee and swung again. This time I got it in the air, but it sliced horribly. So did the second shot. And the third.

  Beside me, Lamar Burks chuckled softly. "Boy," he said, "maybe I should move down a bit, keep out of the line of fire."

  "No need for sarcasm, Lamar. I'm just shaking off the rust."

  He raised his eyebrows. "Uh-oh. It knows my name."

  I offered my hand. "Lincoln Perry," I said. "I was hoping to talk to you about one of your employees."

  "Which one?" he said as we shook.

  "Randy Hartwick."

  His eyes narrowed. "And who exactly ar
e you, Mr. Perry?"

  I got out my wallet and showed him my license. He studied it carefully, then nodded. "Well, all right. We can talk. But you'd better believe I'm going to finish hitting my bucket first."

  "Fair enough."

  "Go ahead and hit your bucket, too, and I'll try not to laugh. Won't be easy, though. That might be the ugliest swing this county's ever seen."

  I set down the driver and picked up the seven-iron. "Tell you what, Lamar. I'll bet you fifty dollars I can hit this seven-iron farther than you can hit yours."

  "You gotta be kidding me, son! Oh, yes, yes, yes. If there's anything I like more than a betting man, it's a betting fool," he said, and laughed loudly. "How many swings?"

  "Your call."

  "Three swings, then."

  "Deal." I wasn't too concerned about losing my money. I'd seen Burks take several swings now, and, while he was a hell of an accurate golfer, he wasn't much for distance. His arms were short, and his swing was very controlled. He'd been hitting his five-wood when I arrived, and he'd hit that only about two hundred yards. He also had a driver with an enormous, oversized head, the kind that was so popular among golfers who struggled to hit a long drive. I couldn't hit woods well, but I was pretty decent with clubs that had more loft. I didn't have much of an aptitude for the game of golf, but my length and strength usually allowed me to hit very well for distance.

  Burks took his seven-iron out of the bag and took a few practice cuts. I liked what I saw. He had a short swing.

  "I'll go first," he said. He hit his first shot right down the middle, but only a hundred and forty yards. A pretty ball, but not a long one.

  "Damn," he said. "I hit that like my grandmother. Next ball." He swung again, snapping the wrists through a little quicker this time, and got an extra fifteen yards out of it, although the ball tapered off to the right.

  "One fifty-five," he announced happily. It was a pretty long shot for a seven-iron; most golfers would take it. He hit the third ball, but this time he was back at one forty again.

  "You've got to beat one fifty-five," he said, stepping back. "And I know that ain't going to happen."