“Not really, no,” I said. “But it could be our murderer. The walls are starting to close in and he … or she … might be getting antsy. This could have been a diversion of some kind.”
“You mean he … or it … is planning something else?” Mary Jane said. She looked worried.
“Maybe,” I said. “This weekend offers a big stage. If the killer is trying to make some kind of statement, this would be the perfect time and place to do so. Big sporting event. National television. Hundreds of media on hand. Yeah, it’s a grand stage.”
“All the more reason why DJ and I will stay here today, thank you,” Mary Jane said. She stood up, picked DJ up out of his chair, nodded at Kelsey and headed upstairs.
“You really think something may go down this weekend, Hacker?” she asked me. “Do I need to be worried?”
I shrugged. “Worried? Probably not,” I said. “Alert? Yeah, always a good idea. You’re walking the fairways again today?”
“Yup,” she said. “Ben wants me on Scannell’s group. He’s playing with Billy Calloway and that French guy, whassisname?”
“Henri Robitan,” I said.
“Yeah, him,” she said.
“I’ve been told that he has a certain Gallic charm that drives the femmes crazy,” I said. “Is that true?”
“Dunno about the Gallic charm thing,” she said. “I mostly notice his lack of deodorant. But I hear that’s a French thing, too.”
“Ah, yes,” I said. “That stereotype goes all the way back to Pepe LePew.”
She was still chuckling when I left.
With my family all accounted for and spending IBS’ money like it was fresh out of a Monopoly game box, I rode the van down to the golf course at about ten thirty and had the driver let me off up near the clubhouse. The crowds were noticeably larger and more enthusiastic now that it was the weekend. People were milling about everywhere and Conrad Gold’s security people were busy keeping the great unwashed out of his multi-million dollar clubhouse.
My IBS credentials got me in anywhere I wanted to go. All hail the power of the press. I used them to make my way down into the basement of the clubhouse, where I found the security office. I was not surprised to find a number of police officers, both uniformed and wearing detective’s street clothes, standing, sitting and talking on their cellphones.
I stood there for a minute or two and watched, and when I had determined which of the plainsclothes guys looked to be the man in charge, I went up to him.
“Hacker, IBS,” I said, flashing my television credential badge at him. “What can you tell me about the incident last night?”
The head guy was a little bantam-weight, dressed in a coat and tie. He had a buzz cut on his head and a faint sheen of sweat on his face. He looked like the kind of cop who would pull out his Glock and shoot you in the head if you mouthed off to him, so I quickly decided to mind my manners.
He looked at me, looked at my badge and did a double-take.
“Hacker?” he read the name again. “Aren’t you the guy who works with the Boz? Damn, you guys are hilarious. They never show us the inside of your booth, but my mental picture is you two guys slamming down fruity drinks and just making shit up as you go.”
“Yeah,” I said, “That pretty much sums it up. Who said drunk and stupid was no way to go through life? Now, what can you tell me about last night, officer…?”
“Detective,” he snapped. Some cops are sensitive that way. “Detective Wally Howe. I can’t tell you anything about last night. It’s an ongoing investigation.”
“What kind of bomb was used?” I pressed on. Because what else could I do?
“The kind that goes boom,” Detective Howe said. “But this one just went pop, instead.”
“I heard that the device was …” I deliberately left out the last word. Sometimes cops will play the word game with you when you do that.
“Mostly ineffective,” Howe said. Not what I was going for, but I could work with it.
“Badly designed?” I said. “Or did it misfire?”
“I think it did exactly what the perp wanted it to,” he said. “Make a noise, make some smoke. Scare some people. There was some oil leakage on the manifold of the engine, and that caught fire. The device itself had very little in the way of explosives.”
“Not C4, then?”
He laughed. “More like a few cherry bombs attached to a heat source,” he said.
I looked around at the police gathered in the security office and walking in and out of the small space.
“So why the show of force?” I said. “Doesn’t sound like the general public is in any danger here today.”
“Until we catch the guy, there’s still a risk,” Howe said, his eyes narrowing, “The device from last night was not a major threat to anyone, but the wiring on it was pretty sophisticated. Some of the connections were soldered. They did a nice neat job. Showed some good design and capability.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, if this guy could build a small device like this, he definitely could build something bigger and more dangerous,” Howe said. “So we’re out there actively trying to find him.”
I looked over at the wall of TV monitors that covered one wall. Conrad Gold spared no expense in security. It looked like he had cameras covering every square inch of the exterior of his buildings.
“Got him on video?” I asked.
“No comment,” Howe said, with a little smirky smile. I took that to mean, yes, he did have him on video.
“What do we tell the viewers?” I said.
“You should be able to tell them that we have the perp in custody,” he said. “You and the Boz should have some fun talking about it.”
“I don’t suppose you can give me a name?” I said.
He just looked at me, still smiling his evil little smile.
“No,” he said. “But I’d love for you two to come to the press conference after.”
“You sound pretty confident,” I said.
He shrugged. “Matter of time,” he said. “Just a matter of time.”
31
Tommy Scannell began his third round as the leader by a couple of strokes. By the time he had played five holes, his lead was gone and there were twelve players bunched within four shots.
He bogied the first hole, never a good start. Saved par on two but only by getting up and down from the greenside bunker. Bogey on three. Par on four, bogey on five.
The New York gallery was ecstatic at this turn of events, notwithstanding Scannell’s crestfallen look. Most of them, I hope, were just happy to be able to witness a close, hotly contested and bare-knuckled brawl between the dozen or so at the top of the leaderboard. A few of them, I think, were happy to witness another human’s misfortune. New York sports fans can be tough like that.
Boz and I watched the early collapse from our booth on sixteen. Ben Oswald had told us to be ready to offer commentary for golfers when they played seven and eight. We were nowhere close to those two holes, but we had video screens, so we winged it.
When Scannell missed his par putt on five, and the feed went to a commercial, Boz shook his head sitting next to me.
“Could be curtains for the kid,” he said alliteratively.
“Could,” I said. “Or could not.”
“What does that mean?”
“Could is one of those weasel words,” I said. “Like when they say on the news, such-and-such could mean the end of the world. They don’t say it will mean the end of the world, they say it could mean it. Of course, they don’t say it also could not mean anything because then everyone will realize that they’re just guessing. Or trying to blow smoke up your dress. But the implication is there—it could, or it could not. You choose.”
“You make my head ache,” he said. “And I didn’t have anything to drink last night.”
“Really?” I said.
“Well, I had a couple of beers with some of the
caddies,” Boz said with a smile. “But that doesn’t count.”
Scannell parred the sixth. Of the others in the field, the South Korean, Lee Kyung-Ju, was three-under for the day and right there near the lead. Enrico Paz, the Spanish Flash, had come out of nowhere, six under for the day, and was now just a stroke behind.
Ben Oswald buzzed in our headphones.
“Okay you morons,” he said, “Our leader is playing seven. Call it straight, for Chrissakes. This is a major.”
Van Collins tossed us the ball. “Tommy Scannell has moved to the seventh tee,” he said. “Let’s go to Boz and Hacker for the call.”
“Tommy Scannell is leaking so much oil so far in this round that he’s a one-man environmental disaster,” I said. “Somebody should call the EPA and have him arrested. But the fat lady hasn’t warmed up her pipes yet. Let’s see what he can do on this hole, a long dogleg left.”
“Worst feeling in the world, Hacks,” the Boz said. “You’re going backwards on a day when you need to put the hammer down. Scannell has made some bad swings so far today, and let a whole lot of people back into the contest. All the experts predicted that this young man would eventually fade away, and so far today, all the experts have been right.”
“Ain’t over yet,” I said. “Let’s see what he can do with this tee shot. You need a nice controlled draw around the corner, otherwise there are all kinds of problems to deal with.”
We watched on the monitor as Scannell conferred with his caddie, pulled the driver and lined up his shot. He made a pretty nice swing at it and the FlitePath camera traced the ball’s flight as it started just right of center and began bending back to the left.
“That’s a beauty,” I said. “He made a good swing on that one. No sign of the shakiness we’ve seen so far this round.”
Oswald had us toss the feed up ahead, where Paz was chipping up onto the 12th green. He played that shot to about six feet for par, we broke for another commercial, and when it came back, Scannell was ready for his approach.
“Easy six-iron into this green,” Boz said. “Pin is back left, which should work for Tommy’s right-to-left ball path.”
He made another nice pass at the ball, and his shot flew up onto the green, checked and rolled down to about ten feet below the hole.
“Man, if he can drain-o that one, he’ll be right back in it,” Boz said.
“Don’t think he was ever out of it,” I said.
“Leakin’ lots of oil, tho, Hacks,” Boz retorted. “Like you said.”
“Or maybe getting used to the atmosphere,” I said. “He’s only played in two other majors, and never was on the leaderboard until this week. Rarified air up here. Now he’s been through the worst of it, maybe he’s about to turn it around, play some good golf again.”
“You’re such a glass-half-full kinda guy, Hack,” Boz said.
“All-the-way full if it’s a fine peaty Scotch,” I said.
“I hear ya, my brother,” Boz said. “Set ‘em up, Joe.”
“Geezus,” Oswald said in our ears, “Are you guys drinking on the job out there?”
As it turned out, Tommy Scannell did start playing better. He made that birdie putt on seven, made another on eight and once he made the turn, he relaxed and resumed playing beautiful golf. Some of the others did as well, so by the time the third round came to an end, Scannell was up by two shots again. Eight other players were within four shots. Sunday shaped up to be fun.
Once the last group had played our hole, we began collecting and stacking up our notebooks and other papers and got ready to head back to Television City. I still had my headphones on, so I heard the buzz when Bill Stirling, one of Oswald’s assistant directors, called down from the control room.
“Hey Hacker,” he said, “Can you see Kelsey anywhere? She’s gone dark. Not answering.”
I glanced out our small window overlooking the green. It was pretty empty around the green, as people began heading home once the last group has passed through. There were still crowds of people in the hospitality tents that ringed the green. But those places had air conditioning, soft seats and an endless river of booze for the guests to swill down. They’d still be serving people after the sun went down.
I looked around but didn’t see Kelsey, one of the two fairway followers we had out with the last groups today. She wouldn’t be hard to spot, with her fanny pack, microphone and a cameraman lugging around a portable camera who in turn was followed by the sound guy with his fuzzy microphone on an extended pole. But I didn’t see any of them from my vantage point.
“No sign of her, Bill,” I reported. “Where was she when you last talked to her?”
“Seventeen tee,” he said. “If you guys are leaving the booth, would you mind going over there and see if you can find her? I’ll bet her equipment crashed or something.”
“Ten-four,” I said.
I turned to Boz. “Kelsey is missing in action,” I said. “We gotta go find her.”
We climbed down from our booth and walked over to the tee of the par-three seventeenth. The semi-island green sat empty in the near-distance, with water on the left and those big glacial boulders protecting the front. More hospitality stands towered over the riverbank all the way down the right side from tee to green, and these, too, were filled with fans swilling down the free booze and food.
The Boz was staring up at the people partying in the stands. He looked at me. “Say, Hack-Man,” he said, “I could use a wee bracer after all that hard work. You with me?”
“I thought we were looking for Kelsey,” I said.
“We’ll find her,” he said. “After we fortify ourselves.”
I sighed. “OK,” I said. “One quick one.”
“That’s the Hack I know and love,” he said, and he led me up the stairs and into the nearest hospitality stand.
There was a security type standing at the entrance, and he started to protest about our coming in. We apparently didn’t have the proper badges or something. But one of the people inside—maybe it was the CEO of the energy company that had paid for the space—caught sight of the Boz and came running over.
“Billy Joe Bosworth!” he said excitedly. “Harwood Warwick. We met at a pro-am down in Houston a couple of years ago. I love your stuff on the golf broadcasts. Really great!”
“Well howdy, Harwood, good to see ya agin,” Boz drawled in his best imitation of a Texas good ole boy. “Who do I have to pay off to get a cold beer around here?”
“Your damn money ain’t no good here, my man,” Harwood said, and he grabbed Boz’s arm and led him off towards the nearest bar.
I felt slightly abandoned, but I didn’t take offense. Instead, I glanced around the space. In the front, outside the windows overlooking the tee box, there were a few rows of stadium seats. They were mostly empty now, since play had ended for the day. Inside, there were two bars on either end, and a long table along the back which served as the buffet. I imagined during the long afternoon, the table had been filled with food and plates and utensils. Now, though, there were just some big bowls filled with popcorn, and some smaller dishes of peanuts, Goldfish and other snacks. They clearly were trying to gear it down for the day.
The middle of the space was filled with tables covered in tablecloths and ringed by white folding chairs. People milled about, some standing, cocktails in hand, others seated at one of the tables. It was noisy, it was happy, it was crowded madness.
I started to fight my way to one of the bars to grab something to drink when I noticed a table way on the other side of the room. Two people were sitting there, alone. I could only see the backs of their heads, since they were facing away, but one of the two was a woman who looked, from the back, a lot like Kelsey Jenkins. Sitting next to her was a slightly chubby, fuzzy headed man. From the back, he looked a lot like Digby Allen.
I changed direction, went over, saw that it was indeed Kelsey and Digby, so I pulled up a chair and plunked down across from
them, facing back towards the crowded room.
“Hiya, kids,” I said. “What’s shakin’?”
I got no response. Kelsey sat stone-faced, staring out the Plexiglas window in the side of the canvas covering. Digby, who was sitting pretty close to Kelsey, shifted in his seat and glanced at me, frowning.
“We’re having a private conversation, Hacker,” he said finally. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” I said. “Talk away. Pretend I’m not here. I’m just unwinding after a long day at the golf tournament. Can I get you a drink or something?”
Digby shifted again. “I said we’re talking,” he said. “Why don’t you go away?”
“Well, gee, Digby,” I said, feigning hurt feelings. “That’s not very nice. Kels…you want me to go, too?”
She didn’t say anything. She continued to stare out the window.
“Yes, she does,” Digby said, his voice strained a little. “Now go away.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t do that, my friend,” I said. “Until Kelsey here tells me what’s going on. Because Ben Oswald has been trying to contact her and is worried. Hell, by now, I expect he’s got the local cops fanning out across the golf course, looking for her. And after last night’s bomb attack, everyone’s on high alert. So maybe you’d better tell me what’s going on?”
“He’s got a gun, Hacker,” Kelsey said, softly. She sounded scared out of her wits. “You’d better go. Before someone gets hurt.”
“A gun?” I said. “Why in the hell do you need a gun to talk with Kelsey, Digs? You gonna hold her up or something? Hell, if it’s money you need, I can lend you a few bucks.”
He shifted his position again. When he did, I saw the revolver tucked in his waistband in front. Maybe that’s why he kept shifting around…having the barrel of a pistol pointed down at your goolies would be enough to make any man nervous.
“Go away,” he said again. He wouldn’t look at me. “Just go. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Fine, fine, I’m going,” I said. I didn’t move. “But before I go, tell me something Digby. I haven’t been able to figure it out. Why in the hell did you kill Parker Long? I figured out how you did it. I just don’t know why.”
P.G.A. Spells Death Page 21
