by Mark Gimenez
"I'm still in shock," the accountant said.
At nine the next morning, Scott sat in Tom Taylor's office located a block down from the Grand Opera House and above an art gallery in a renovated Victorian building on Postoffice Street in the Strand historical district. Tom had been Trey's CPA.
"I can't believe he's dead."
Tom Taylor looked more like the lead singer for the Beach Boys than a certified public accountant. He wore jeans, a wild shirt, and a white puka shell necklace. His skin was tanned and his hair long and gray and held back by blue reading glasses pushed up over his forehead. His face was grim, and his hands were small.
"You really gonna do that? Defend your ex?"
"Apparently."
"Well, I called Rex to make sure it was okay for me to talk to you, then Melvyn, since he's representing the estate. He said there's no accountant-client privilege, said you could subpoena me and the records anyway. So what do you want to know?"
"Who killed Trey?"
"That detective, on the morning show, he said your wife did."
"Ex-wife. She didn't."
"So, what, you're searching for the real killer, like Harrison Ford in that Fugitive movie? How does that involve me?"
"You handled Trey's money. People kill for money."
"And love."
"I'm betting on money."
"I suppose you would."
"How long had you known Trey?"
"Since he was born. I grew up with his dad, Jim Rawlins. Rex and Jim and me, we went to Kirwin High School together, played golf … Jim was the club pro."
"Rex said his parents died in a car accident."
Tom gave a somber nod. "Six years ago. They were driving home from Austin, Trey's college graduation. He was all set to turn pro, but their deaths hit him hard. The boy was lost without his dad to coach him. Came home and started drinking, didn't stop for two years. I'd drive the seawall, see him sitting out on a jetty, drinking alone."
"How'd he get it back together?"
"One day he just showed up at the club, started practicing again. Took him two years to get his game back. He worked up at that Dallas country club—" Tom grimaced. "Sorry. Anyway, the rest is history."
"Did Trey have problems with anyone?"
"What kind of problems?"
"Lawsuits, enemies …"
"You'll have to ask Melvyn about lawsuits, but we don't do enemies here on the Island, Scott. We're Sin City, live and let live—hell, you gotta be laid-back to live on a big sandbar waiting for the next hurricane to wash it away. Or half-crazy. We got our share of crazies but not enemies. You want enemies, you live in Houston. Galveston, it's more a state of mind than a place on a map. Think Key West with Catholics."
"Did he still drink a lot?"
Tom shrugged. "This is Galveston. Define 'a lot.' "
"Did he ever get arrested for DUI?"
"Not that I know of."
"Did he owe anyone?"
"No, and I'd know if he did. I paid all his bills. Tried to get him to put money away for after the tour, but I wasn't too successful with that."
"He spent a lot of money?"
"He burned through cash, damn near every dime he made. Paid four million for the beach house, half a million for the cars, two million for the boat, a million for the Malibu condo, about that much for the ski lodge in Beaver Creek …"
"You ever go inside the beach house?"
"Once. He had a party when they moved in."
"Did he pay his taxes?"
"Every penny he owed. I did his returns. His tour earnings were wired directly to his bank account. His endorsement money was paid quarterly, went to SSI, they deducted their commissions, wired the rest to his account. I got all the statements."
"Were you a signatory on the account?"
Tom nodded. "Like I said, I paid his bills." He looked Scott in the eye. "I didn't steal his money. It's all documented."
"You do the books for his foundation?"
A slight smile. "Well, the Trey Rawlins Foundation for Kids, that was just a bank account. More of a PR deal."
"Did you handle any money for Rebecca?"
"What money? As far as I know, only money she's got is what Trey gave her."
"Did you do her tax returns?"
"No income to report."
"Did he say anything to you about marrying her?"
"No. But you might ask Melvyn."
"I will. What's SSI?"
"Sports Score International. Big sports agency. They represent hundreds of pro athletes."
"Who's his agent?"
"Nick Madden. He's in their Houston office."
FOURTEEN
An hour later, a sleek young receptionist wearing tight black Capris, high heels, and an intoxicating perfume escorted Scott down corridors adorned with images of famous athletes sporting product logos. She stopped at an open door and motioned Scott into an expansive corner office. At the far end, a young man stood facing the floor-to-ceiling window with an earpiece and microphone fixed to his skull.
"Give me a fucking break, Stu. Half a million a year to endorse your clubs? That's an insult. I won't take any deal to Pete for less than two million."
"That's Nick," the receptionist said. Then she left.
"Yes, Stu, I know Pete hasn't won since Reagan was in the White House … Yes, I know he's forty-nine and heading to the senior tour next year … Yes, I know he's not ranked in the top hundred … or five hundred …"
Nick Madden could have been Jerry Maguire's little brother. His black hair was slicked back and looked wet, he was wearing a blue golf shirt and khaki pants, and he was gesturing at a laptop perched on a table against the window; on the screensaver was a formula: WM2.
"WM squared, Stu, that's the only ranking that matters when it comes to endorsement money, and you know it. And our last poll numbers put Pete's WM squared ranking at eighty-eight percent. That's off the freakin' charts, Stu."
Sports Score International's offices were located on the fortieth floor of a skyscraper in downtown Houston. The windows offered big views of the city and the walls big blow-ups of more famous athletes in action: Kobe Bryant dunking a basketball, A-Rod batting a baseball, David Beckham kicking a soccer ball, Tom Brady throwing a football, Roger Federer hitting a tennis ball, Trey Rawlins swinging a golf club. One corner of the office looked like a golf pro shop with clubs propped against the wall and boxes of balls and shoes stacked on the floor. The rest of the office resembled a sports bar with air hockey and foosball tables, a pinball machine, and a bar with a flat-screen television on the wall above. The TV was broadcasting a golf tournament; the sound was muted but the byline read "Houston Classic."
"A million?" Nick sighed loudly. "Tell you what, Stu—I'll take a million less for Pete if you pay a million more for Paul. He's younger and ranked higher than Pete and he might actually win a tournament this year … What? … Of course I get twenty percent of his, too. Hell, Stu, I'd charge God twenty percent." He laughed. "That's right, we are robbing Pete to pay Paul." Another hearty laugh. "All right, one million for Pete, three million for Paul. Email the contracts, we'll set up a press conference."
Nick disconnected then pumped a fist at the world outside the window.
"Yes! Eight hundred grand in commissions and it's not even noon!"
He had a big grin on his face when he turned and saw Scott standing there. Scott recognized him from the golf broadcast Monday.
"Nick, I'm Scott Fenney."
The grin dropped off Nick's face; his expression turned somber.
"Rebecca's husband."
"Her lawyer."
He came around the desk, and they shook. Nick Madden did not have big hands.
"I can't believe Trey's dead." He sat on the edge of his desk. "A butcher knife … Jesus. Terrible way to go." Nick shook his head, as if he were still in shock. "How can life be so fragile? One day he's here and everything's perfect, and the next"—he snapped his fingers—"gone like that. A hundred milli
on dollars."
"A hundred million dollars?"
Nick nodded. "In lost commissions."
Nick Madden wasn't mourning his dearly departed client but his dearly departed commissions.
"It's been six days since he died, Nick—don't take it so hard."
Nick took offense.
"Hey, I got him deals for clubs, balls, apparel, a sports drink, and chocolate milk. And I had deals in the works for credit cards, candy bars, cell phones, and cars … Japanese, the Americans are owned by the government now. Over his career, I was looking at maybe five hundred million dollars in endorsements—twenty percent of which would've been mine. So excuse me for being a little upset."
"On TV, you said he was your best friend."
Nick offered a lame shrug. "More like I was his best friend … and brother, father, mother, and minister. Athletes are high-maintenance clients, Scott. But bottom line, this is big business"—he pointed out the window; in the distance, dark smoke spewing from the refineries lining the Houston Ship Channel was visible against the blue sky—"just like the oil business. And I just hit a dry hole."
Scott gestured at the phone. "You have other clients—Pete and Paul."
"They're fillers. Trey was gonna be my Tiger."
Nick stood and walked over to the bar.
"You want something to drink? Beer, bourbon"—Nick held up a bottle—"Gatorade?"
Scott shook his head.
"Tiger signed with Gatorade for a hundred million bucks," Nick said. "If Trey had won the Open, I could've gotten ten, maybe twenty million for his next sports drink deal. You win a major, it's a gold mine—the endorsements."
The look on his face was that of a man recalling the great love that got away. He exhaled heavily.
"So what do you want from me?"
"Information. I need to know about Trey's life on tour."
"Why?"
"Because I'm trying to find his killer."
"I thought Rebecca killed him? The Guilty Groupie."
"She's innocent."
"Is the grand jury gonna indict her? You think they've got probable cause?"
"You sound like a lawyer."
"Agent for pro athletes these days, you learn a lot about criminal law."
"Friday. Unless I find the killer first."
"Two days? Good luck with that."
Nick stepped over to the pro shop in the corner and shuffled through boxes.
"You want some golf shoes? What size do you wear?"
"No thanks."
"Balls, putter, a driver … ?" He picked up a club. "Longest driver on tour."
Scott shook his head. "How long were you Trey's agent?"
Nick practiced his swing and posed as if watching the flight of his ball.
"Since he got on tour, two years ago. I rep our golfers. I played in high school, couldn't get a scholarship, so I majored in business. Hooked up with SSI straight out of college, been here eight years now."
"Tell me about SSI."
"Our motto is, 'We score for our clients.' We represent three hundred athletes worldwide, closed over six hundred million dollars in endorsement deals last fiscal year."
"Offices like this don't come cheap."
"You like it?" Nick put the club down, walked over to the games, and played a pin ball. "Athletes have the attention span of kindergartners, so I got these to keep them occupied while I deal with their lawyers and wives. Especially the football players." He shook his head and smiled like an old aunt pinching her nephew's cheek. "They're just big kids … really big kids."
"You represent football players, too?"
"No choice. They're pain-in-the-ass prima donnas and functional illiterates, but this is Texas." He chuckled. "Still, no better place to be a sports agent. Up in the Northeast, out in California, they spend their education money on math and science. We spend our education money on football. Which is why Texas produces the best football players in the country."
"And California and Massachusetts get stuck with all the mathematicians and scientists."
"Exactly."
Nick apparently wasn't trying for irony.
"Nick, you ever been to Trey's beach house in Galveston?"
"Sure. Nice place."
"When was the last time?"
"Right before Doral. Couple months ago."
That ruled Nick out for the unidentified prints on the kitchen counter—and Scott was pretty sure Nick wouldn't have been in Trey's bed or closet.
"Scott, I was gonna make a lot of money off Trey. I didn't kill him."
" 'Show me the money'—is that the deal with sports agents?"
"What? Oh, from that movie. Yeah, Scott, that is the deal—for agents and athletes. You gotta understand something about Trey—about most pro athletes today. Everyone who was part of his life—me, Rebecca, his sponsors—we lived in Trey's world. He didn't live in ours."
Like a lawyer and his richest client.
"He really would've made five hundred million over his career?"
"Tiger's made a billion, and he's only thirty-three."
"I didn't know golfers made that kind of money."
"Most Nicklaus ever made on tour was three hundred twenty thousand—hell, we got caddies making more than that today. The leading money winner this year will make ten million, twenty if he wins the year-end bonus." He gestured at the golf tournament playing on the TV. "Every week on tour, the winner takes home a million, runner-up half a million. Trey had already won twice this year. With endorsements and corporate outings, he stood to make twenty-five million."
"That's a lot of money."
"There's a lot of money in sports today, Scott." Nick pointed at the portraits on the wall. "Tom Brady made thirty million last year, A-Rod made forty, Kobe forty-five … but Tiger made a hundred. That's the advantage of golf. Football, basketball, baseball—those are American sports with American endorsements. Even superstars can't go international. Anyone in Europe give a shit what A-Rod drinks? No. But they care what Tiger drinks … and what clubs he swings and clothes he wears. Golf is a worldwide sport played with the same equipment made by the same manufacturers endorsed by the same players wearing the same clothes. Nike, Reebok, Adidas, Under Armour—you can buy their stuff anywhere in the world in any currency. So star golfers are the most marketable athletes in sports. And Trey could've been a big star."
"I need copies of all his endorsement contracts."
Nick frowned.
"I can subpoena them."
Nick nodded. "I know. Every time one of my athletes gets divorced, the wife's lawyer subpoenas all contracts, correspondence, emails, earning statements … I'll have to clear it with legal, but I'm sure I can get you copies without a subpoena."
"What can you tell me about Trey?"
Nick shrugged. "Like what?"
"Did he have any health problems?"
"Trey?"
Nick picked up a remote control, pointed it at the TV screen, and clicked through a menu. The screen abruptly flashed on to the image of Trey Rawlins.
"His marketing video."
The video featured clips of Trey's long drives and winning putts, his life off the course—running the beach without a shirt on, piloting a sleek boat without a shirt on, driving the BMW bike without a shirt on—
"Healthy as a horse," Nick said. "Look at that body. Six foot, one-eighty, ripped. Check out those abs. Those fat boys on tour take their shirts off, you'd fucking throw up. Trey's numbers among women eighteen to thirty-five were off the charts." He froze the video on Trey's bare chest. "He waxed his chest."
"Why?"
"Manscaping. All the movie stars do it. Shows off the pecs and abs better. Women love that."
"Oh."
—giving interviews—"Yes, sir" … "No, ma'am" … "I'm blessed" … "I love my country" …
"Market research tells us which words and phrases resonate with the buying public. Trey was a natural—programmed without sounding programmed. And he smiled. Most of the guys, they
get face time on TV—which is why sponsors pay to put their logos on the players' caps and shirts—they put their game faces on, look like they're passing a goddamned kidney stone instead of playing golf for millions. Trey, he flashed that smile, win or lose. Fans loved that—and that's money in the bank, brother."
The video froze on Trey Rawlins' golden smile.
"That's all the public knows of a pro athlete. They're never gonna meet him in person, so an athlete's public image is derived entirely from a thirty-second commercial. We can craft any image we want, and the public will buy into it—just like they bought into Tiger. See, Scott, ninety percent of a star athlete's income is from endorsements, so his public image is critical. And let me tell you, creating a positive public image for some of these self-centered prima donnas, that takes a fucking magician. Or kids. Guy can be the biggest asshole in the world, but surround him with a bunch of smiling kids, the buying public thinks he's a goddamn saint." Nick stared at Trey's image on the screen. "Trey Rawlins was the golden boy."
"We found prescription drugs at his home, for high blood pressure."
Nick smiled. "He took a beta-blocker."
"You knew?"
"I figured. Hard to make a five-foot putt for par and a million bucks when your heart's punching a hole in your chest. Beta-blockers control the stress hormones, which slows the heart, steadies the nerves. Anti-anxiety drugs work, too."
"He had Prozac."
Nick shrugged. "Covered all his bases."
"He took drugs to putt better?"
"The miracles of science." Nick chuckled. "Hey, baseball and football players take steroids to play better. At least beta-blockers and Prozac are legal."
Porn, Viagra, using kids for PR and prescription drugs to putt better. What else would Scott learn about Trey Rawlins?
"Anyone on tour who might've wanted Trey dead?"
Nick laughed. "You mean other than Goose?"
"Who's Goose?"
"Trey's ex-caddie." Nick held his hands up in mock surrender. "Hey, Goose might've wanted him dead, but he didn't kill Trey … I don't think."
