by Mark Gimenez
"But you married him," Nick said.
" 'Cause he's rich. Sort of. And I was really drunk that night."
"Ah, true love."
"Did Rebecca know about Riley?" Scott said.
"She didn't act like it," Tess said.
"So at the time of his death, Trey was having an affair with Riley Hager?"
"No."
“But you just said—"
"I said he left me for Lacy and Lacy for Riley. But he left Riley, too."
"For whom?"
"Billie Jean."
"Billie Jean Puckett?" Nick said.
She nodded. "He started up with her a few weeks before he …"
Nick, to Scott: "Pete's daughter. She’s seventeen."
"Hard to compete with a teenager who doesn't even know how to spell cellulite," Tess said. "Even for Riley."
They left Tess to the margarita machine and walked outside. Scott needed a breath of fresh air, even if the air were ninety-five degrees.
"Five WAGs plus the Mexican gal, all before the U.S. Open," Nick said. "That's a whole season for most guys."
"Is every WAG out here a Hooter's girl, a porn queen, or an underwear model?"
"No, of course not, Scott. Some are former Playboy Playmates and Penthouse Pets. For gorgeous gals like Tess and Lacy and Riley, those gigs are straight shots to the altar with a rich athlete."
"Why?"
" 'Cause that's where pro athletes shop for wives. Playboy and Penthouse, that's like the social register for them. Guy wins the World Series, he marries a Playmate. Guy wins the NBA championship, he marries a Pet. Guy wins the Super Bowl, he marries a supermodel."
"Why?"
"Because he can. See, Scott, football and basketball stars, they've had gorgeous gals all through high school and college, they ain't suddenly gonna settle for the nice girl next door. Did you? And golfers, they've been dreaming of having a gal like Tess or Lacy or Riley since they were thirteen with acne and whacking off in the shower. They were the guys who had to wear husky pants, who didn't have a date to the prom, who weren't good enough athletes to play football or basketball. So their dads took them out to the golf course. Ten years later, they're on tour and filthy rich. Now they can have those girls they dreamed about. This is their adolescence—with money."
Tess McBride had walked up.
"The margarita machine break down?" Nick said with a smile.
But Tess wasn’t smiling.
"There's something else you should know," she said.
"What?"
"Pete knew … about Trey and Billie Jean."
"How do you know?"
"Pete confronted Trey in the locker room at the Challenge, slammed him up against the lockers. Brett was there and …"
"And what?"
"Pete threatened to kill Trey, if he didn't stay away from Billie Jean."
Scott walked away fast; Nick caught up.
"Pete's temper is legendary on tour," Nick said. "If you haven't been cussed out by Pete Puckett, you either haven't been on tour very long or your name is Tiger."
"Tell me about him," Scott said.
"Pete's ranked five-seventy-eight in the world, which means there are high school juniors ranked higher than him. Won the British Open twenty-four years ago, a few minor tournaments along the way. He's forty-nine now, been running on fumes the last decade, hoping to make it to the senior tour next year, kind of like a pension fund for old golfers."
"Where does he live?"
"Ranch outside Austin."
"Where Goose lives."
Nick nodded.
"Rebecca said he looks like Rambo."
Nick snorted. "Shit, he'd kick Rambo's ass. Pete ain't one of these fat boys out here. He's big, got arms like tree trunks, from chopping cedar on his place. And he's an ornery old cuss. Old-style, smokes big cigars, eats red meat, drinks hard liquor, ain't afraid to say what he thinks—more like an Arnold Palmer than a Tiger Woods, but without Arnie's ability. Or charisma. Pete's a prick."
"Anything else I need to know?"
"Yeah—don't piss him off."
"He threatened to kill Trey a week before he was murdered. Then he DQ'd last Thursday. So if he flew home from Florida with Goose and got into Austin at five, he could've driven to Galveston before midnight. He could've killed Trey." Scott looked at Nick. "Or they could've killed Trey. Both had motives, the golfer and his caddie. Is that just a coincidence? We've got to find Pete Puckett."
They found Billie Jean Puckett instead.
They were jogging up the eighteenth fairway when Nick spotted her sitting alone under a tree on the far side of the fairway. Between them and her lay forty yards of green grass roped off on both sides. Allowed inside the ropes were the players, caddies, scorekeepers, officials, on-course reporters and cameramen, marshals, and security for the big-name players. Kept outside the ropes were players' wives, girlfriends, groupies, and children, vendors, sponsors, and agents, and a lawyer trying to defend his ex-wife against a murder charge.
They couldn't cut across the fairway. So they jogged all the way around the green and down the far side. When they got to Billie Jean, she didn't look up. She was leaning back against the tree with her knees pulled up and her arms wrapped around her legs. Her face was buried in her arms. She wore shorts and sneakers and a T-shirt. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Nick spoke softly to her.
"Billie Jean."
No response. Nick squatted next to her and touched her shoulder.
"Billie Jean."
She slowly looked up. She was a cute kid. She didn't look like a Hooters girl or an adult movie star or an underwear model. She looked like a high school cheerleader. And she had tears in her eyes.
"Hi, Nick."
Her voice was small.
"You okay, kiddo?"
She wiped her face. "Just sad."
"About Trey?"
She frowned a bit. "What do you mean?"
"I know … about you and Trey."
"You were at his funeral," Scott said.
She glanced up at Scott then said to Nick, "Who's he?"
Nick stood. "Rebecca's ex-husband … and lawyer."
She held her hand up to Nick. He took her hand and pulled her up.
"Thanks."
Without another word, she ducked under the rope and ran across the fairway, dodging the players and caddies and marshals and cameramen.
"Shit."
Scott and Nick looked at each other then shrugged and ducked under the rope and chased her.
"Hey, get off the fairway!" one of the players yelled.
"Nick!" another player shouted. "What the hell are you doing?"
Nick glanced back and yelled without breaking stride, "Hey, Paul—I got you three million, on your club deal!"
"Three million? Wow! Thanks, Nick!"
Paul gave his caddie an enthusiastic chest bump.
They reached the other side, ducked under that rope, and ran on. Billie Jean had a head start, and they weren't gaining on her.
"She's fast for a girl!" Nick yelled.
"She's fast for a human!"
"She's cutting through the margarita tent!"
They ran into the margarita tent. They didn't find Billie Jean, but they found Tess McBride flirting with another Joe College. She pointed to the back exit without being asked or breaking eye contact with her new beau. They ran out back and spotted Billie Jean heading into the merchandise tent. They followed and cut through displays offering golf apparel and equipment and—shit!—Scott knocked over a pyramid of golf balls and sent hundreds of balls bouncing off the concrete floor like pin balls. They lost her. They stopped outside the tent and scanned the crowd. Nick jumped up onto an official's golf cart. He pointed like a hunting dog.
"She's heading to the clubhouse!"
They arrived at the clubhouse just in time to see Billie Jean duck inside the door to the ladies' locker room.
"Damn."
They stood there and caught their breath.
>
"This is fun," Nick said.
"Why's she on tour? Shouldn't she be in school?"
"Pete's wife died five years ago, breast cancer. Pete brought Billie Jean out here with him, raised her on tour. Instead of home schooled, she's been tour schooled. She's a real spunky kid, always pulling pranks on the network guys." He smiled. "One time she mooned—"
The smile suddenly left Nick's face. He was now staring past Scott. Scott turned and found himself face to face with a large, angry man holding a long iron over his right shoulder like an ax.
"You chasing my girl?"
"Scott," Nick said, "meet Pete Puckett."
Pete Puckett was a tall, thick-bodied man with a hard face and a cigar clamped between his teeth. He looked as solid as a brick outhouse, and from his expression, he possessed a similar personality. His shirt sported dark sweat stains under both arms; his gray hair was matted below his white cap. His thick mustache was gray. His skin was leathery and sun-reddened. He was a golf pro, but he had the hands of a roughneck. Pete Puckett had very big hands—and his left hand was now clenching Scott's shirt.
"Oh, Pete," Nick said—he was obviously trying to defuse the situation—"I got you a million, for your club deal."
Without removing his eyes from Scott, Pete said, "Thought you said not a penny less than two."
Nick gave him a lame shrug. "It's the economy, Pete."
Pete addressed Scott. "What do you want with my girl?"
Scott did not feel physically threatened by Pete Puckett—Pete was bigger, but Scott was younger—although that club would certainly leave a mark. And he wanted Pete pissed-off—a pissed-off witness doesn't think before testifying. So, at the risk of a pro golfer swinging a long iron at him, Scott decided to ramp up Pete's anger.
"Did you kill Trey because he was having sex with Billie Jean?"
Pete put his red face close to Scott's; his breath smelled of whiskey and cigars.
"You leave her out of this."
"She's in it, and so are you, Pete. You threatened to kill Trey. There's a witness."
Pete released Scott's shirt.
"Who are you?"
"Scott Fenney. I'm Rebecca's lawyer."
"He's her ex," Nick said.
"Maybe you killed Trey," Pete said. "For taking your wife."
"I have an alibi—do you? I didn't have a motive. You did."
"She's only seventeen, goddamnit! But that don't mean I killed him."
"Did you?"
"No. Your wife beat me to it."
"How do I know you didn't kill Trey?"
Pete snorted. "That should be obvious."
"Why?"
" 'Cause I wouldn't have stabbed the little bastard. I would've beaten him to death with this fucking one-iron." Pete pointed a gnarly finger in Scott's face. "You leave Billie Jean alone or I swear to God I'll take this one-iron to you."
Pete Puckett pivoted and stormed off. After a long moment, Nick shook his head and chuckled.
"He is such an old-timer. No one carries a one-iron anymore."
NINETEEN
"Mother, did you kill your boyfriend?"
"No, honey, I didn't."
"So you won't have to live in that prison?"
"What prison?"
"The one we drove past coming down here, in Huntsville."
"No, I won't have to live there."
"Good." She hesitated then said, "I had to ask."
"I know."
"I mean, sometimes I beat up boys at school."
"You beat up boys?"
Boo nodded. "When they bully Pajamae. They're big jerks."
"It's normal to feel that way about boys at your age."
"But when I'm older I'll like boys?"
"Yes. You will."
"Are they better then?"
"A little."
"But you liked boys, right?"
"Oh, yes, I liked boys."
Boo's anger at her mother had abated over the last few days. She didn't know what abated meant, but A. Scott said it was natural for her to be really angry at Mother at first and then not so much after spending time with her again. These walks on the beach abated her anger, he had said. All Boo knew was that she didn't like to feel so angry. Especially at her mother.
"Boo, it's okay to like boys, but don't ever depend on a man."
"Except A. Scott. I can depend on him, right?"
"Yes. You can always depend on him."
From down the street, Scott saw Louis and Pajamae shooting hoops on the basketball court next to the beach house. Boo was a tomboy, but Pajamae was an athlete. She was long and lean and faster than anyone in fifth grade, girls or boys. She played point guard on her 11-12U rec team in Highland Park. The rich little white girls couldn't stay on the court with Pajamae Jones-Fenney. Her dream was to get a college scholarship and then play women's pro basketball—after she got braces.
She would have teeth that looked like pearls.
Driving back from Houston, he had made a decision: even though this case would likely cost him the federal judgeship, he would defend Rebecca, he would prove her innocent, and then he would return to Dallas and provide for his girls—even if it meant returning to a corner office on the sixty-second floor, even if it meant representing rich clients who could pay $750 an hour, even if it meant becoming a name partner in Ford Fenney and making a million dollars every year. He would do what he had to do, and he would do it for his girls. His daughters would not be WAGs or groupies or porn stars or seventeen and having affairs with older men. His daughters would go to Wellesley College so they could be strong, educated, independent women who did not have to lie to survive in a man's world. His daughters would have a chance at a good life, even if their father had to give up his chance and be a rich lawyer again.
A man takes care of his children.
Scott got out of the red Corvette. He had returned from the tournament and picked up Bobby on the way over to Trey's house. The guard had given them entry to the garage. Bobby pulled up in the Jetta and got out with the tote bag containing the fingerprint evidence Scott had collected that day from Tess McBride, Lacy Parker, Riley Hager, and their husbands. He had met Trey's women, all of whom had loved sex with Trey but hadn't loved him and none of whom had heard Trey mention marriage to Rebecca, and their husbands, all of whom seemed completely clueless. They were still suspects, but Pete Puckett was the prime suspect. He wasn't clueless; he knew about Trey and Billie Jean.
"Nice wheels, Mr. Fenney," Louis said.
He and Pajamae had come over to check out the Corvette. Now Boo and Rebecca walked up. She was wearing a confused expression and a green bikini and looking every inch the hottest WAG on tour. He held the keys out to her.
"The car is yours."
"How?"
"Melvyn Burke—Trey's lawyer—he said title's in your name."
"Trey never told me."
"That's not all he didn't tell you."
"Like what?"
"Let's take a walk."
They went to the beach and walked to the water's edge and stood in silence. Far down the beach the white condo towers shone in the bright sunlight. Closer to them the sound of nail guns firing on full throttle could be heard from a new beach house going up on ten-foot stilts. Ike's seventeen-foot storm surge was in the past, and human beings are adept at putting the past in the past. Except Scott. He was living his past.
Rebecca finally sighed and said, "Tell me."
"Tess McBride, Lacy Parker, Riley Hager, Billie Jean Puckett … Trey had affairs with all of them."
Her expression told Scott that she did not know.
"No. He was faithful to me."
"I talked to all of them. They admitted it. Except Billie Jean. She ran."
She looked away, but Scott saw her tears.
"That's why she came to the funeral," Rebecca said. "Billie Jean."
"Pete threatened me with a one-iron today at the tournament."
"That's Pete."
"He also threate
ned to kill Trey if he didn't stay away from Billie Jean. Brett McBride witnessed it. Happened in the locker room at the Challenge, one week before Trey was murdered."
She faced him.
"My God—you think Pete killed Trey?"
"He had a motive. But the grand jury indicted you."
"I don't think they killed him, boss."
Carlos wore work clothes and work boots but looked no worse for the wear after a week on the roofing job when he climbed the back stairs to the deck where Scott was sitting. Rebecca had wanted some time alone on the beach. Carlos plopped down in a chair.
"Why not?"
"They're illegals, up here for the work. But a couple of 'em, they got gang tatts. Bad dudes. They'd slice you up for smokes. And they saw the rich dude and the red-haired woman coming and going."
"So why don't you think they did it?"
" 'Cause after killing him, they would've raped her and then killed her and stolen everything in the place and probably torched the house then made a run for the border. These are not criminal masterminds, boss."
He held up a big plastic bag with five beer bottles inside.
"Still, I got their prints."
"Give those to Bobby. Good work, Carlos. And thanks, I know that wasn't fun."
Carlos held up several green bills. "Hey, I made twenty-five bucks."
"An hour?"
"A day."
Carlos stood and started to the sliding glass door but turned back.
"Oh, boss, those workers, they saw another woman down there, at the house."
"When?"
"Same day he was killed. A blonde girl. And a man—a big man."
TWENTY
Billie Jean was blonde, and Pete was big.
If Scott could obtain their fingerprints and prove they were in the Rawlins house the day Trey was murdered, he could establish (a) motive—Trey was having sex with Pete's seventeen-year-old daughter, (b) means—the knife was in the kitchen drawer, and (c) opportunity—if those were Pete's prints on the counter, that would confirm his presence in the kitchen that day. He could have taken the butcher knife from the drawer and stabbed Trey Rawlins. With that evidence, the D.A. might dismiss the indictment against Rebecca Fenney and ask the grand jury to indict Pete Puckett. So Scott had returned to the tournament the next afternoon to find Pete and Billie Jean Puckett, but he had found Nick Madden instead.
