The Eighteenth Green

by Webb Hubbell

  I assured her I would read everything very carefully and asked her to find out whatever she could about Surplus Systems, Ltd.

  “If this is what I think it is, what happens next?” Micki asked. Her voice betrayed her unease.

  “It’s exactly what you think it is, a ticking time bomb. I wish I knew how much time is left on the fuse. I need to speak with one more person before we decide what to do next.”

  “And who is that?” Micki inquired.

  “Harold Spencer’s widow.”

  65

  I HAD FINALLY REMEMBERED why Harold Spencer sounded familiar. Angie and I had played Harold and his wife in a club mixed doubles tennis tournament many years ago. They won and that was the end of it—handshakes, off to dinner with friends. I gave up tennis when Angie died, and our paths hadn’t crossed again.

  But would she agree to see me? My first thought was to show up at her front door and hope to catch her by surprise. But I knew this plan was neither fair to her nor likely to succeed.

  I wandered into the kitchen and sat down at the table. After a bit of thought, I called Red.

  “I need a favor,” I demanded, mimicking his blunt style.

  “Who works for whom in this relationship?” he chuckled. “What now?”

  “I need to speak with Harold Spencer’s widow. Will you call her? Give me an intro?”

  “Won’t be necessary. She’s already expecting your call,” he said, reciting her number.

  “Why should she expect my call?” I asked, jotting the number down on the back of someone’s grocery list.

  “For a couple of reasons. After you told me about Harold’s death, I drove out to see her. I was close to both Harold and Judy—her name is Judy. I hadn’t heard about Harold and felt the only way to make amends was to see her in person.” His lengthy explanation was unexpected.

  I couldn’t help but wonder how close they had been, but kept my wondering to myself.

  “The other reason is that Harold gave her a sealed envelope with instructions to give the envelope to you if something happened to him. I have no idea why. I told her that you are one of my attorneys as well as my friend and that she could trust you. You should make the trip soon, she’s leaving town.”

  “I’m on my way,” I told him.

  “Better call first, Jack. Her son and some of his buddies are guarding the house—they’re all Navy SEALs. Now it’s your turn to do me a favor. If you learn something from Judy that you need to tell Lucy, leave me out of it. Okay?”

  “I never disclose my client’s confidences, even to a fiancée.”

  “Good man, and good luck,” he signed off.

  I punched in the number I’d jotted down. A male voice answered with a curt “Yes.”

  “Hello, my name is Jack Patterson…”

  “Say no more. When can we expect you, and who will accompany you?” the voice asked.

  “We should be there in about an hour and a half. My driver is Mike Fendler and my paralegal is Brian Hattoy.”

  The stately colonial was set on about half an acre, a large lot for Somerset. Normally a leafy oasis, it now bore a harsh resemblance to a scene from The Godfather: men patrolling the grounds, dogs straining at their leashes, and the house lighted as though for Christmas. Checkpoints had been set up on both driveways. I shuddered to imagine what the neighbors thought.

  We were waved through and directed to a small parking area. A very polite young man escorted us to the back door, where a muscular young man greeted us. “Mr. Patterson, please come in, but Fendler and Hattoy will need to be searched.”

  To my surprise Big Mike replied in a threatening tone, “By you and who else?”

  I was about to say something about not feeding the lions, when several guys rushed up to give Mike and Brian those clenched-fist man hugs that must hurt.

  The man who had greeted us said, “Okay, men, back to your stations,” and extended his hand.

  “Welcome, Mr. Patterson. Mike and Brian are old friends, so forgive the little scene—I’m John Robert Spencer.” He turned to Brian and said, “Master Sergeant, it’s an honor to have you in my home. My mother doesn’t know you’re here.”

  We had to dodge several large cardboard boxes on the way to the family room: someone was packing up.

  “Mom will be down in a minute. Can I get you a drink?” he asked.

  I started to decline, but was interrupted by a clear voice from the stairwell.

  “Please, Jack, join me for a cocktail or a glass of wine. My mother taught me that a lady never drinks alone, and I could use a scotch. Do you still play tennis?”

  I turned to face the voice and understood why Red didn’t want Lucy to know about Judy Spencer. She wasn’t beauty-queen gorgeous, but she exuded class and self-confidence. I recognized her, but only just.

  I waited until she reached the bottom step before replying.

  “I’m surprised you remember; I gave up tennis a long time ago.”

  “You and your wife were charming and worthy opponents, as I recall.” She paused and added softly, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you. It’s kind of you to remember. I am sorry for your own recent loss. I hope…”

  “Please forgive my attire. I’ve been packing all day so I must look a fright,” she interrupted, flashing a tired smile.

  She wore jeans, tennis shoes, and an oversized polo, but certainly didn’t look a fright. She looked ten years younger than I, although I suspected we were at least fairly close in age given that her son had to be at least thirty.

  “Lucy had better watch her back,” I thought.

  Her son John Robert introduced her to Mike and Brian. “Mother, meet Mike Fendler; he and I served together in Iraq.” She greeted Mike with an extension of her hand and a “pleased to meet you.” John Robert turned and continued, “And Mom, let me introduce you to Master Sergeant Brian Hattoy.”

  She gave a little start. “You’re kidding!”

  “No, he works for Mr. Patterson now.”

  Judy walked up to Brian, threw her arms around him, and said through sudden tears, “Thank you, thank you.”

  Brian returned her hug, but looked more than a little uncomfortable. John Robert responded to my puzzled expression.

  “Sergeant Hattoy saved my life in Iraq, along with several of the men you met outside. Small world, isn’t it?”

  I agreed, feeling a little misty-eyed myself.

  Judy stepped back, totally in control again. “I’m so pleased to finally meet you, but Mr. Patterson and I have a little business to conduct. John Robert, please bring me a scotch and whatever Jack wants, then you men leave us alone. I’m sure you have lots of catching up to do.”

  We were soon seated in two large armchairs with our drinks and, after a few minutes of chitchat, she turned to the business at hand.

  “Did you know Harold well?”

  “No. In fact our tennis game was the only time I met him, either of you for that matter. I gave up tennis when my wife died. Since then, I’ve limited myself to golf,” I answered.

  “You’re right. Our paths haven’t crossed since, but I’ve kept up with you in the papers. You’ve had quite an interesting career lately. But back to Harold—he was club champion for several years, and he and I won the mixed doubles until I tired of the competition. Several of the women were downright nasty about our winning every year. Now, I only play with my group for fun, not blood,” she laughed.

  “He was also a very good poker player; a mathematician by education, and he had a photographic memory. He seldom missed the Friday night poker game at the club. Did you know the guys he played with that last night tried to call on me after the funeral? I told them to keep the hell away. None of them cares a hoot about me. I’m sure all they wanted to know was if I still had their IOUs. I most certainly do have them, and I’ll call every one of them, but not now, not before you do your job, Jack.”

  “My job?” I asked uneasily.

  “I want you to send
those bastards that murdered my husband and your client straight to prison.” I was taken aback by her sudden vehemence.

  “Do you know who murdered your husband?”

  “No, not specifically, but I have a good idea. That’s why John Robert and his friends are outside standing guard. I’m leaving town as soon as possible.”

  “Aren’t you worried they’ll find you? Your son can’t guard you forever, and a moving truck is easy to follow.”

  “Oh, you mean the boxes. They’re all going into storage, as is the furniture. If you’re successful, I will come back to Bethesda one day.” She gave me a wry smile.

  “My son has chosen the spot for my exile, somewhere warm and exotic, where no one can find me. Thanks to sweet Red, we leave tomorrow. He’s offered his jet to take me wherever we like.”

  I tried again, deciding not to rise to the bait. “So who do you think murdered your husband?”

  She allowed herself a touch of irritation.

  “Again, Jack, I don’t know. But I’ll tell you what I do know. Harold was shaken to the core by Rachel’s arrest. He’d told me she was a colleague, and I thought he was simply concerned about a friend. But one day he gave me an envelope and said, ‘If something happens to me, get this envelope to Jack Patterson, the lawyer.’

  “I was frightened, but he assured me it was just a precaution. He made me promise not to open it and said to be sure to get it to you.”

  “Why me?” I tried to keep my voice steady.

  “He said you were a friend of Rachel’s father, that he trusted you to get it into the right hands.”

  “Did you open it?” I hated to ask.

  She wasn’t offended. “I wanted to, but didn’t. I was afraid what might be in it. Harold was, well…let’s just say he wasn’t perfect. I put it under the silver trays in the buffet and tried to forget about it. Harold’s death was such a shock—nothing seemed real. One day life was normal; the next day it was hell. For the first few days the police were all over the house, searching and asking questions. But I had no answers, and neither did they. I was trying to figure out what to do next when I heard about Rachel. Her suicide was just too much—it couldn’t have been a coincidence. That’s when John Robert and I got really worried.”

  “Does he know about the envelope?”

  “No, and I’d prefer he didn’t. Other than one tennis match, I don’t know you at all. But Red says he trusts you, and Red doesn’t trust many people. So I’ll do exactly what my husband asked and let you decide what to do with the contents.”

  She reached under her seat cushion and handed me a manila envelope. “Please don’t open it here. Now, do me one more favor, please.”

  “Name it,” I said gripping the envelope.

  “Ask John Robert to freshen our drinks, and let me spend a little time with the man who saved my son’s life. This may be my only opportunity.”

  66

  I LISTENED as Judy, John Robert, and Brian spent a nice half hour reminiscing about the happy personal outcome of a conflict that had proved fatal for so many. When I sensed the conversation was dying down, we wished her and her young protectors well and sped off toward the Western Shore. I made myself wait until we were out of DC traffic to tear open the envelope.

  Dear Mr. Patterson:

  If you are reading this letter, it means that I am dead, likely murdered for what Rachel and I discovered. I can only hope that Rachel is still alive—she is a courageous young woman. We were colleagues of a sort. She was an analyst at the Pentagon and I am, or should I say was, the head of the testing division for Rouss Military Systems.

  Rachel approached me almost two years ago. She said it was possible that a missile system developed by Rouss, tested, and eventually discarded, had not been dismantled or destroyed, but in fact, had been retained and sold to a third party. She also told me that contrary to the Pentagon’s policy, my company had been given the contract to dismantle the system. I told her that her conclusion was nuts, couldn’t have happened under Pentagon policy. But she was able to produce other such instances, and over time I came to believe that she was correct: Rouss had been given the contract to dismantle systems that it had developed and tested.

  As my wife may have told you, I am good with numbers. But one doesn’t have to be a genius to realize that the revenues from each of the five projects Rachel identified make no sense. The revenues far exceed the dollar amounts of the government contracts and so do the profit margins. See the attached Exhibit A.

  For over a year, I have been working, without success, to prove that these numbers were the result of accounting errors. I have come to agree with Rachel that Rouss has developed a plan to remedy the defects in a discarded system and sell it on the international market; whether the Pentagon condoned this scheme remains to be seen.

  It took some careful digging, but I found that lobbyists paid by Rouss had managed to bury language in an agriculture appropriations bill granting a waiver to the Pentagon’s long-standing policy. How such a waiver could benefit the country is beyond my understanding. I doubt anyone on the agriculture subcommittee even noticed it.

  We were very careful to keep our collaboration secret—no texts or emails, just the occasional meeting at a local coffee shop. We were almost ready to send our report to the Inspector General of Defense when Rachel was arrested. Nothing she or I did or wrote compromised the government in any way. And it was certainly never meant for or sent to the Israelis or any other foreign government.

  I have entrusted our analysis to this envelope, and thus to you. I cannot confirm that weapon systems were sold rather than dismantled as per Rouss’s contracts with the government, but I also cannot explain the increased revenues and profits far above Rouss’s norms.

  Please tell my wife and son I love them. I was not a perfect father and husband, far from it, but I loved them both very much.

  Harold Spencer

  September 12, 2016

  The summary and exhibits supported the conclusions stated in the letter. They were much more detailed than the Excel spreadsheets I’d seen only hours before on Rachel’s zip drive. I found myself wishing he’d left out the part about not being a perfect husband or father.

  Rouss was up to no good, but so far nothing linked them to either death. My mind wandered for a few minutes—what had Judy said about poker? I punched in her cell number.

  “Judy, I’m sorry to bother you, but did your husband carry his cell phone with him when he played poker?” I asked.

  “He did, but the police never found it. It belonged to Rouss anyway.”

  “Did he have his own computer at home?” I asked.

  “We have a Mac, but Harold never used it except to pay the bills. He always used Rouss’s laptop for work.”

  “Do you still have it?” I asked.

  “Their HR person took it away. He came by to explain my husband’s life insurance, how to move his 401K, that kind of thing. He was very helpful.”

  Another dead end, I thought. But Judy wasn’t quite ready to let go. “Did you open the envelope?”

  I couldn’t lie, so I answered. “I did. He told me to tell you and your son he loved you both very much.”

  After an unexpectedly long silence, she said, “I suppose he did, in his own way. Thank you, Jack. Maybe our paths will cross one day, but please don’t try to reach me. Be careful—surely you know they’ll come after you next.”

  I didn’t acknowledge her concern, but said goodbye and wished her well. Who could blame her for skipping town? I wondered what she meant by “he did in his own way.”

  The phone buzzed almost immediately—it was Micki. “Our pal Donald Cotton wants to settle the asset forfeiture case. Says he’ll give us Rachel’s Defense Department pension and bank account. He’ll also give us all her personal effects, the rings, her phone, and computer—but the phone and computer will be scrubbed.”

  “And how did we respond?” I asked.

  “‘We’ told him I wanted him to file an inv
entory with the court before I’d consider any settlement. He said he had already done so under seal; he left my copy with the court clerk—jerk. One of Martin’s men will pick it up first thing tomorrow morning. Stella would love to get the computer and phone before they are scrubbed, but I think we’d lose that one if we fought it.”

  “No mention of the insurance and pension money from Israel?” I knew the answer.

  “Not a word. That’s why I want the inventory. And Jack, we need to find that money from Israel,” she said.

  “I’m on it. Listen, we should be back at Maggie’s in about twenty minutes: assemble the troops—it may be a late night.”

  After a little thought, I called Rabbi Strauss.

  “Sorry to call so late, but were you able to find out the name of the bank where the pension checks were deposited?”

  He hesitated, and I pushed. “Rabbi, the name of the bank is not a state secret.”

  “No, no, of course not. My mind was elsewhere. The monthly deposits go to Parra Bank in Alexandria. I also verified that the widow’s pension goes to her parents during their lifetimes. The embassy will send you the correct paperwork for the Jennings to fill out.” He sounded apologetic.

  “Okay, and did anyone check the site where Ira was killed?”

  He laughed, “Nothing gets past you, Mr. Patterson, does it? I’m sorry, but if shell fragments were found at the scene, and if their origin could have been identified, it would not be in the interest of the state of Israel to reveal such information.”

  I had never mentioned shell fragments, and he had just given me some very interesting information.

  “Do you have any idea how Hamas obtained the weapon in question?” I asked.

  “Surely you know I have no answer to that question,” he answered, with almost no inflection.

  “Rabbi, let me be clear. Two wonderful, young American Jews are dead. So far the only response from either American or Israeli authorities has been a blank stare and evasion. Oh, and that old shibboleth—national security.