The Killing Green

by David Deutsch

  A man in a white coat milled about. John motioned for him to approach. This must have been the coroner.

  "Adam," John said, shaking the man's hand.

  There were no pleasantries to dispense. Adam jumped right into it. He didn't even bother asking about Imogen or myself.

  "Looks like we have a white male here, late forties early fifties, with an incision through the throat. Hard to place the time of death right at this moment, but you can tell it's recent. Cause of death, asphyxiation. We'll get more, if there is anymore, when we do the autopsy."

  "Thanks, Adam."

  John motioned for Imogen and me to follow. We all walked over to the body. Right up close and personal with the dead guy. I could see the blood on the stained grass. The majority of it had already seeped into the ground. The pool that I saw was just maroon droplets that had remained on the perfectly manicured grass blades. The real bulk of the blood was gone. Easy cleanup.

  I couldn't see his face. It was laying flat on the ground. Like he was an ostrich burying his head. As if the grass had used his cheeks as a trellis and had begun to grow up and around him. His body was flat, hands off to the side. You could see his watch on his left wrist, the black leather band. You could also tell he was married. He was wearing a gold wedding ring. His clubs were sitting in the cart about five yards away. A sand wedge was off to his right, and his ball was still sitting halfway buried into the sand. Tough shot.

  I looked over at Ginny. She seemed fine. She was taking it all in. Examining the body as I had just done. Looking for clues.

  I didn't recognize him.

  "Well, you've heard the spiel. What do you think happened?" John asked.

  "His face looks like it was pushed into the ground," I said. "It seems like it's buried pretty good in there."

  "Pushed from behind?"

  "I agree," Ginny said. "Like his throat was slit from behind, and then he was thrown onto the ground."

  "I'd agree," John said. "Maybe the deceased was walking up to his ball, the man popped out behind him, grabbed him, slit the throat, then left."

  It sounded plausible. But I've played golf my whole life. I'm usually aware of what's happening on and around the course. I'm always looking for my ball, focused on the hole, or focused on where I want to and where I don't want to hit the ball. It would be pretty hard for someone to sneak up on me.

  "Cut his throat, right out in the open? For everyone to see?" I asked.

  "It's pretty secluded right here," John said. "We're sort of surrounded by trees. It wouldn't take but a few seconds to do it."

  "Was he alone?" I asked. "I usually play with someone else."

  "I've never played golf alone," Ginny said.

  Ginny was a scratch golfer. My ace in the hole. I can't tell you how many times we've bilked some loudmouth out of a few hundred bucks on the course. Furthest drive: Ginny. Best round: Ginny. She's unstoppable. She should go on the LPGA.

  John picked up his cell. "Was he alone?" He listened. "Ohh. I see." Then he disconnected. "Played alone. He did it all the time. Getting in the back nine after lunch."

  "What was the guy's name?" I asked.

  "Carl Westbrook."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I knew Carl. I'd known him for years. He was one of the loudmouths that we had taken money from. But he wasn't one of the bad guys. He was friendly enough when he wasn't gushing about his golf game. His wife was nice as well. We'd had dinner at the club with them a number of times. Seeing him dead was a shock to the system. I hunched over hands on knees and dry-heaved. I know, not very manly. The good news was the scotch didn't come up.

  "You OK, Max?" John asked.

  "Max?" Imogen asked in a worried tone.

  "I'm OK," I said. I stood back up.

  "First time to the dance. It happens," John said.

  "I did know the guy. He was a friend. When you said his name, it, well, just hit me."

  "Understandable, Max. Like I said, it happens."

  I guess John was right. It happens. It's not everyday that you see a friend dead on a golf course. With his throat cut no less. Not a pretty picture.

  I wanted to know who had done this to Carl. Why did they do this to him? What had he gotten himself mixed up in? He needed my help. He needed someone to fight for him now that he couldn't fight for himself. We had to help John figure this out.

  "I'm kind of glad, well, I mean, I had a hunch that you might be able to help out with this one. And, if you knew the guy, well…"

  "Hunch?"

  "Yeah, I figured you were a member here and knew the deceased. That's why I called."

  He was right. The first time his gut had told him to trust me. That I wasn't a murderer. That I could help him figure out who killed Ted Baxter. And now his gut had served him well once again.

  "So you're using me?"

  "Yeah, if you call retaining your private investigative services using you, then yes, I'm using you. You are a private investigator now, right?"

  "We are, John," Imogen interrupted.

  We were. She was right. We were private investigators. And we were at an actual crime scene. Where my actual friend was laid out on the ground with his throat sliced open. I needed to find out who did this. I needed to find out who would kill my friend in broad daylight in the middle of a golf course.

  "It had to be someone who he knew. Or someone who he was comfortable with was part of the plan. There had to be two killers," I said.

  "You sure you're not going to pass out?" John asked.

  "Is this really the place to be making jokes?" I asked.

  "Good as any. So go on, Max."

  "I think there had to be two killers. One who he knew. One who he was talking to or looking at or doing something with and—"

  "Then one came up from behind him and slit his throat," Imogen said, interrupting me.

  "Precisely," I said.

  Carrington thought about it. As per the norm, he stopped talking and paced a little, thinking, running the scenario though his head. Probably thinking about his theory, the one-killer theory. Where the killer waited, perched behind a tree. Waiting for Carl to make a terrible shot. One that landed him in the trap. Where he'd then jump out, surprise Carl, manage to get around him, and slit his throat. And then theory two, mine.

  "I think you might have a point, Max, and you too, Imogen."

  "But who? Who would he have been with out here? He was playing alone."

  "That's the question, Max."

  The coroner walked back over toward us. He motioned to John, and they both walked away, just out of our earshot, to discuss something.

  "Max, we just had dinner with him last week!"

  "I know, my love."

  "Dreadful," she said.

  There were some words that really accentuated her English upbringing.

  "That goes without saying."

  Carrington returned with the coroner.

  "We're going to flip the body, take some pictures, do some police work. So, if you guys want to—"

  "I get the hint. We'll wait for you by the marshal," I said.

  "Won't be long."

  Imogen and I turned our backs on Carl and headed back up to the green. There were little cards in a line leading the way. There were also guys in white lab coats taking pictures and hunched over different areas of the grass, wiping things, putting powder on blades of grass. Doing things that I've only seen on television.

  "What are you guys looking for?" I asked.

  "Who are you?" the first guy said.

  "We're with Sergeant Carrington," I answered.

  "Beat it," he said.

  I wasn't going to push the situation. Imogen and I kept walking. We arrived back on the green and decided to head out of the crime scene and over to the golf marshal who was still sitting in his little shed made of wood. After a nice long walk, we had arrived.

  "Bill," I said.

  "Max, Imogen. I didn't know you two were with the police."

  I was going to f
ake it. See if I could get some information out of Bill. He knew Imogen and me well.

  "Not something you advertise," I said.

  "This is terrible," he said. "Bad for the club."

  "Worse for Carl," I said. "I wouldn't worry about the club. It'll be fine."

  "Suppose you're right," Bill said.

  "Listen, Bill, I'm going to need your help. Can you do that?" I asked.

  "Of course, you're the police," he said.

  Right. I was the police. Well, not technically. And I needed to make a mental note: You don't ask for help. You tell people what you want them to do for you. And they oblige.

  "I'm going to need a list of everyone who was out on the course today. Can you get that for me?"

  Stop asking. Tell them what you want.

  "Sure, Max. I can get it for you now. I gotta pull it off of the computer inside the club. Give me a few," he said.

  "Thanks."

  Bill walked out of the shed and headed over to the clubhouse.

  "That was good thinking," Imogen said.

  Half-listening, I opened the swing-out door that led into the shed and closed it.

  "What do you think you're doing?" Imogen asked.

  I started looking around, examining the appointment book that sat right by the window. The entries were in Bill's hand. Who played, who canceled, and who never showed. I pulled out my phone and took a picture of the two pages. The morning and the afternoon tee times. I wanted to make sure Bill's entries matched the print out.

  "I'm busy," I said, busy snapping photos.

  "Max, get out of there."

  I looked around some more. I couldn't find anything.

  "Max, hurry. He's coming!"

  I opened the door and slid right out, next to Imogen once more. And just in time. Out came Bill from the clubhouse with two pieces of paper in his hand.

  "Here you go," he said, handing me the pages. "The complete list of people who were on the course today and the ones who were supposed to be out there this afternoon before, well, all this happened."

  "Thanks, Bill," I said. "One last question, anything funny happen today on the course?"

  "Well, Mark Goldsmith shot a 71. That was something out of the ordinary."

  We both laughed. Mark was a terrible golfer. And if he shot a 71 then something really crazy must have happened out there on the course. It was probably more like a case of lying to yourself on your scorecard.

  "Nope, Max, it was business as usual. Same old, same old."

  "Thanks, Bill."

  Something happened today out of the ordinary, and I sure as hell was going to figure out what.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  John dropped us off at the station. Imogen and I hopped in my car and headed back home for the evening. We fixed ourselves a drink, lounged on the couch, and went over the day's activities. There was certainly a lot to talk about. For starters, we had opened our new office. Furnished it and by the close of the day we had just about made it functional enough to work in. Not to mention we were on our first case, courtesy of Sergeant John Carrington.

  "Why didn't you tell John about the tee-time schedule?" Imogen asked.

  "Why bother? He's a cop. I'm sure he'll get hold of the list soon enough."

  I leaned back on the white art deco couch in my living room. Sipped my Glenfiddich and looked at Imogen.

  "I can't believe it was Carl. Of all people," Imogen said. "He was such a nice guy."

  "If he was so nice he would have bought dinner the other night."

  Imogen laughed.

  "Max, don't joke."

  "Why not?" I asked. "If we don't laugh, we'll cry."

  I meant it. It was troubling that Carl was dead. That we witnessed it firsthand. The body, the blood, the whole thing. But we were in a unique situation. We could make a difference. We could work together to try to bring whoever did this to justice. Catch Carl's killer. I was trying to find the silver lining around the dead body.

  Imogen took a sip of her scotch and soda. Kicked off her high-heeled shoes and put her legs up on the ottoman. Her cream-colored skirt had drifted to mid-thigh when she crossed her legs. Her toes were moving around, finally free from her shoes.

  "When do you want to start? We can go over the list. Interview each person," Imogen said.

  "Just what I was thinking. We can start tomorrow, my love."

  "Start fresh, huh?" she asked mockingly, sipping on her drink.

  "I don't know how fresh we'll be," I said, running my hand up her thigh.

  "Oh, Max."

  Then we kissed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  We slept in. I knew that was going to happen. When we got to the office I began the chore of hooking up our phone line. We had wired the place for internet so all we needed to do was to plug in some VoIP phones and configure everything. It took me about fifteen minutes. The next thing on our agenda was a receptionist. I was hoping that we could find one as quickly as we solved the phone issue. I didn't want to lose any business because we couldn't answer a call.

  "We're all set," I said, calling over to Imogen's office.

  "What?" she called back.

  "We're all set," I yelled.

  I didn't hear anything. Then, while I was sitting at my desk with my laptop open checking on the phone configuration one last time, Imogen spoke. "What?"

  I jumped.

  "What the hell are you doing over here?" I asked.

  "I couldn't hear you," she said. "What were you saying?"

  "Jesus, Ginny, next time knock," I said.

  "The door was open," she answered.

  "Anyway, I was saying—"

  I was interrupted by the front office door opening. Who had walked in?

  "Hello?" someone said from the reception area.

  "I knew we needed to get a receptionist," I said.

  "Coming," Ginny yelled. "Oh, give it a rest, Max," she whispered to me as she walked out of my office over to reception.

  I followed, and we both arrived at reception moments later. The reception area wasn't large. There were two plush chairs to sit on while you waited. Take your pick. We also had a small table that sat in front of the chairs. Hypothetically, the receptionist would be sitting in front of the potential clients, answering the phones, maintaining general order, escorting people into my or Ginny's office.

  Today there was no receptionist. It was just Imogen and I. We walked into the area and saw a tall woman with long, blonde hair and sky-blue eyes standing before us. She was dressed simply in a T-shirt and jeans, but something about her screamed money. I didn't know what kind of shirt or jeans she had on, so it wasn't her clothes. It was more her air, and that was just from her standing in front of us. We hadn't even spoken.

  I walked over to her and extended a hand.

  "Hi, I'm Max Slade. How can I help you?" I asked.

  She shook my hand and introduced herself. "Mrs. Steiner. Alese Steiner."

  "Mrs. Steiner, a pleasure," I said. "Allow me to introduce my partner, Imogen Slade."

  "Oh, you two are married?"

  What? Why was everyone fascinated with my marital status?

  Imogen extended her hand. "Yes, we are."

  "I didn't know that," Alese said. "They didn't tell me there were two of you."

  "They?" I asked.

  "Oh, yes, sorry. The police. They told me you might be able to help. They just never mentioned that you were a married couple."

  "Is that a problem, Mrs. Steiner?" I asked.

  She laughed. "No. No. Don't be silly. Quite the contrary. I'm all for it. Two for one. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Slade."

  She shook Imogen's hand.

  "Likewise," she answered. "So how can we help you?"

  "Is there someplace we can sit?"

  "Of course," I said. "Come with me."

  We walked the few steps out of reception and over to my office. Jabber was curled up in the corner, sleeping. I don't even think Alese noticed her. I had a seat on the couch as did Imogen, and I
left the comfortable leather club chair for Mrs. Steiner. I hated that chair.

  "So, Mrs. Steiner, can I get you something to drink?" I asked. "Martini, scotch…"

  "No thank you, Mr. Slade," she answered.

  Is morning too early for a drink? We needed a coffeemaker in this office. That was next on the list.

  "Please call me Max," I said.

  "I'll pass on the drink, Max," she said.

  "That's better. So, what brings you in here this morning?" I asked.

  I crossed my legs and leaned back into the couch. What had brought this woman into our office this early in the morning? John Carrington? Business was really starting to pick up.

  "I've got a bit of a problem, Max. I first went to the police, but they were no help, so now I'm coming to you—both. I'm hoping that you can be of some assistance."

  "I hope that we can. What's the problem?" Imogen asked.

  Alese sat straight up in her chair. She wrung her hands together, swallowed hard, then spoke. "I've received a few death threats."

  Imogen didn't react. I didn't either. I tried to play it cool, but I was jumping inside. I'm sure Ginny was thinking the same thing. Death threats. Who knew this kind of stuff really happened?

  "Why?" I asked.

  "I own a rather famous painting."

  "A painting?" Ginny asked.

  "Yes, I own a painting that was thought to have disappeared a long time ago. It hasn't seen the light of day in seventy-five years."

  "And what would that have to do with death threats?" I asked.

  "There are some people who wouldn't be very happy if they knew that I owned this particular painting. It was said to have been destroyed. But we've had it secretly in our family. And now someone has gotten wind of the fact that I own it."

  I knew this woman was loaded. Just something about her and the fact that she owned a painting that had to be worth a fortune had confirmed it.

  "How do you think the word would have gotten out?" I asked.

  "We've made some inquiries lately into selling it. But these sorts of discussions are delicate and discreet. I don't know who would have been silly enough to leak it. After all, this sort of thing would be of interest around the world."