by Mark Gimenez
Scott nodded. "And Billie Jean's. What kind of car does she drive?"
"Black Mustang. Why?"
"A blonde girl in a black Mustang was seen at Trey's house the day he was murdered."
"Shit."
"And a big man came and dragged her out of the house."
"Double shit."
"That's why I need their prints. I need to know."
"I'll help you."
"Why?"
"Because I need to know, too. I'm working these endorsement deals, last thing I need is him involved in Trey's murder. Sponsors get nervous when criminal stuff's involved, unless it's an NBA player, then it's just part of the deal. Sooner you mark Pete off the list, sooner I can close these deals and make some money." He paused. "Did you mark me off the list?"
Scott nodded. "Did you know Trey used cocaine?"
Nick didn't react for a moment. Then he exhaled and nodded.
"I told him, snorting coke, he'd never win the Open. But he said he had it under control. Famous last words, right?"
"I thought the tour was drug testing now?"
"They are."
"How'd he pass?"
"He didn't. I did." Nick shrugged. "I peed for him. He kept a clean sample in his locker. They tell him it's his turn to pee, he'd sneak it into the john, pour it into the cup. It ain't exactly San Quentin out here."
"Did you know he owed his dealer half a million dollars?"
"Half a million? Shit. No, I didn't know. Why?"
"He thought the dealer cheated him."
"Jesus, he was in deeper than I thought. You think the dealer killed him?"
"Maybe the Muertos."
Nick nodded. "They executed some people in Houston. I wouldn't want those bastards after me."
"Why didn't you get him into rehab?"
"He didn't want to go. Besides, he goes into rehab, the whole world knows about it the next day—and his endorsements dry up. WM squared don't like dopers, Scott."
"You just sat back and watched him go downhill so you wouldn't lose your commissions?"
"Scott, I couldn't make him go straight. But I sent him to a sports psychologist."
"Who?"
"Dr. Tim. Timothy O'Brien. He works with a lot of athletes, helps them keep their heads on straight when the world's telling them they're gods. Usually doesn't work."
"He wasn't exactly the Trey Rawlins you sold, was he?"
"Neither was Tiger." Nick blew out a breath. "Scott, we sell what people want. They want that all-American golden boy image. They want their heroes. They need them. The public doesn't want reality, hell, they can get depressed enough watching the evening news with Katie Couric. Last thing the public wants is the truth."
"Well, Nick, they're going to learn the truth about Trey Rawlins at trial."
"When?"
"Twenty-six days."
"Not much time to find the killer."
They found Billie Jean Puckett sitting in a tree. She was eating a cherry snow cone with her fingers.
"Hi, Billie Jean," Nick said.
He had startled her. She almost dropped the snow cone. She stared down at them and said, "What do you want?"
"Come on down, kiddo."
"No."
"He just wants to talk to you."
"No."
"Billie Jean," Scott said, "did you go to the Florida tournament with your dad?"
"No. I stayed in Austin."
"But you didn't stay in Austin, did you? You drove to Galveston. You were in Trey's house the day he died, weren't you?"
"No."
"You drive a black Mustang."
"No, I don't."
"He knows you do," Nick said.
"So?"
"So witnesses saw a blonde girl in a black Mustang at Trey's house that day," Scott said.
"No one's gonna believe a bunch of Mexicans."
"I didn't say they were Mexican."
"Oh. Still, wasn't me."
"Will you give me your fingerprints?"
"What for?"
"So he can cross you off the list," Nick said.
"What list?"
"The list of suspects, people who might've killed Trey."
"I didn't kill Trey."
"I know that, honey. But he doesn't."
"I'm not coming down."
"Well," Scott said, "we're not going anywhere until you do."
He leaned against the tree and whistled a tune.
From ten feet above: "You can't carry a tune in a bucket."
"Thank you. How long were you and Trey involved?"
"A few weeks … I said I don't want to talk."
Scott started whistling again.
"I'm gonna tell my daddy and he's gonna beat you up."
"Did he beat up Trey?"
Nothing.
"Did he kill Trey?"
More nothing.
"I've got all day, Billie Jean."
"I gotta pee."
"If I let you down, will you talk to me?"
"If you don't let me down, I'm gonna pee on your head."
Scott looked up at her. "Please don't run."
She sighed. "I won't." She held the snow cone down to Scott. "Hold this."
He took her snow cone while Nick reached up to help her climb down. Her hands were red with the juice, which was now running down Scott's hands. He held the snow cone out to her.
"Here."
In a quick movement, she punched the bottom of his hand, sending the red snow cone splashing onto his shirt. Then she ran.
"She's running again!" Nick said.
Scott dropped the snow cone, and they ran after her. They chased her across fairways and around greens, through crowds and tents and between concession stands … she was fast … and she was again heading to the ladies' locker room. And they couldn't catch her. She hit the thick glass door with both hands up high, pushed it open, turned and gave them a little red-handed wave, then disappeared from sight. Scott put his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath. He ran five miles every morning on the beach and this teenage girl had run him into the dirt.
"You really think Pete might've killed him?" Nick said. "He's got a bad temper, but sticking a knife in Trey?"
An older woman gave Scott a look as she stepped past him to the door, grabbed the handle, and pushed the door open. The door shut behind her, and as it did, the sunlight caught the glass—and Scott stood straight at what he saw: two red handprints.
"Don't let anyone touch that glass," he said to Nick.
He jogged over to the concession tent and bought paper towels, a bottled water, and clear packing tape—the tape wasn't technically for sale; Scott had to pay $50 for a half roll. He wiped his hands on the towels, drank the water, and went back to the ladies' locker room door where Nick stood guard. Scott overlapped long tape strips across the glass to form one large piece of tape and smoothed the tape. Then he peeled the tape off the glass in one clean stroke. He held the tape up to the sunlight.
He had Billie Jean Puckett's fingerprints.
After securing the tape in a baggie in the rental car, Scott returned to the eighteenth hole where Nick was waiting. They watched as Pete Puckett putted out to complete his round. When he walked off the eighteenth green he stuck a cigar in his mouth just as cameras and reporters mobbed him.
"That's what winning the U.S. Open does for you," Nick said. "Two weeks ago, he couldn't buy an interview."
"There's Goose."
They caught up with the caddie, who was lighting a cigar and who wasn't excited to see Scott.
"Go away."
"Goose, I talked to Tess, Lacy, and Riley."
Goose chuckled. "Every moment in Trey's life was a Cialis moment."
"He took Viagra."
"That works, too."
"Any others?"
"Some guys like Levitra."
"Women."
"You want them in alphabetical or chronological order?" He chuckled again. "I was with a couple gals before I got married, h
e was with a couple gals before lunch. Hell, I felt more like a pimp than a caddie. We'd be walking down the fairway, in the hunt for a win, and he'd spot a gal standing outside the ropes, tell me to get her number. One tournament, he screwed a two-piece in a corporate hospitality tent during a rain delay. Most guys pack protein bars in the bag—he packed condoms." Goose shook his head. "Trey cut a wide swath through the WAGs. You'd think he'd've been happy with the groupies and your wife."
"We also know about Trey and Billie Jean. Did Pete kill him?"
"I don't know. But I sure as hell would've, if she was my daughter." Goose spit. "She's just a goddamned kid without a mama."
"Why was he like that? Trey?"
Goose inhaled on the cigar then blew out a cloud of smoke.
"Back when I started out here the big stars—Palmer, Nicklaus, Trevino—they gave back more than they took and they didn't always take the best for themselves. Young guys today, they figure they're entitled to the best and screw the world. They've got no sense of responsibility, just a sense of entitlement. Trey was one of those guys. He took what he wanted, whether it was a Bentley or another man's wife. But you already know that, don't you?"
Goose hefted the big bag onto his shoulder and trudged off. Scott stared after him. He did know that.
"Goose is something of a philosopher on tour … and an asshole." Nick slapped Scott on the shoulder. "Come on, Pete's freed up."
Scott followed Nick over to Pete. He was smoking the cigar and signing autographs. Fans were pushing their caps, programs, balls, and breasts forward for him to sign. Scott tried to make friends this time.
"Congratulations on the Open, Pete."
Pete continued signing autographs on autopilot. He didn't look up at Scott.
"What do you want, lawyer?"
Okay, forget friendship. Scott pulled Karen's compact case from his pants pocket. He opened it and held it out to Pete.
"I want your fingerprints on this mirror."
"Why?"
"He wants to cross you off the list," Nick said.
"What list?"
"List of suspects. People who might've killed Trey."
"His wife killed Trey."
"Will you take a polygraph?" Scott asked.
"Did she?"
"Not yet."
"Let me know when she does."
"Then give me your prints."
"Come on, Pete," Nick said. "Cooperate so we can get on to the new endorsement deals. With that Open trophy, I can set you up for life—heck, you can buy more guns. We gotta move fast before the window of opportunity closes."
Pete chewed on that and his cigar a moment, then said, "No."
Scott decided to push Pete. "You were at Trey's house the day he was murdered. You went there to get Billie Jean. You found them having sex, didn't you? We have witnesses who saw her black Mustang there, and both of you."
"A buncha goddamn …"
Pete caught himself. He wasn't going to make the same mistake Billie Jean had made. He turned and faced Scott straight on, as if he were about to hit him—and for a moment, Scott thought he might have pushed Pete Puckett too far. His jaws were clenched so tight Scott thought he might bite the cigar in half.
"I was in Florida … and you can go to hell."
Pete Puckett pivoted and walked off.
"That went well." Nick shook his head and sighed. "He's never gonna get a network announcing job when he retires, not with that attitude. He makes Johnny Miller seem lovable."
"I'm not leaving without his prints."
Scott followed Pete to the clubhouse. Pete ducked into the players' lounge and went straight to the bar. Scott stood just outside the door. The bartender filled a shot glass with hard liquor and pushed it in front of Pete. He reached out for the glass but froze. He turned—Scott ducked out of sight—and gave the room a suspicious glance. Pete then turned back to the bar, picked up a napkin, wrapped it around the shot glass, and downed the liquor. He stood and went over to the far side of the lounge where a security guard manned a door with a sign that read "Men's Locker Room." The guard opened the door and Pete walked through, then the guard shut the door behind him.
"Pete's got a bad back." Nick had come up behind Scott. "After every round, he needs a massage."
"I need his prints."
"Come on." Nick led the way over to the security guard. He flashed his credentials and pointed a thumb at Scott. "He's with me."
The guard opened the door, and they walked down a flight of stairs and into a locker room. Pudgy, pale-bellied golfers in various stages of undress ambled past. Nick grimaced at the sight and whispered, "I'm getting nauseous."
Nick climbed onto a chair and peeked over a row of lockers. He stepped down and again whispered, "Pete's over there."
They backed out of sight. A few minutes later, Pete walked away heading in the opposite direction with only a towel around his waist. Nick motioned to Scott to follow. They hurried around the corner and to an open locker.
"This is Pete's," Nick said.
A locker door stood open with Pete Puckett's personal possessions in plain sight.
"Don't the players lock up their stuff?"
"Only in the NBA." Nick grabbed a set of keys. "Let's go."
Scott followed Nick back upstairs and out the front door of the clubhouse to a massive black RV stationed at the back of the parking lot.
"Pete's home away from home, like the country music stars travel around in," Nick said. "A lot of the players are traveling in these now, at least the ones who can't afford their own jet."
Nick knocked on the door, then used a key to gain entrance. They climbed up and stepped inside.
"Five-star hotel on wheels," Nick said. "Cost a million bucks."
The RV had leather upholstery and wood-paneled walls, a flat-screen TV, and a full kitchen with granite countertops. Nick was glancing around.
"What would have his prints on it?" He snapped his fingers. "Guns."
"He carries guns with him on tour?"
"Pete? Shit, he doesn't get the mail without a gun."
They walked down a narrow hall past a bathroom and into a bedroom at the rear of the RV. Nick opened several closets then said, "Told you."
Fixed in a gun rack in the closet were four rifles and two pistols. Scott pulled out the tape and tore off a piece.
"What's his favorite?"
"The biggest."
Scott reached for a rifle but stopped at the sound of a noise up front. Nick stepped to the bedroom door and peeked out. He came back fast.
"Shit! It's Billie Jean."
They searched for a hiding place.
"Under the bed."
They dropped to the floor and crawled under the bed. They were lying close enough that Scott could smell Nick's last beer on his breath. The bedspread hung down low enough to conceal them, but they still had a line of sight down the hall and into the kitchen at the front of the RV. Billie Jean went to the refrigerator and poured a glass of chocolate milk then turned the TV on and watched a soap opera.
"Shit," Nick whispered, "if she doesn't leave soon, Pete's gonna come back."
"That'll be embarrassing."
"And dangerous."
Billie Jean drank the milk then turned off the TV and walked toward them—they froze—but she entered the bathroom and closed the door. They soon heard the shower running.
"Let's get outta here!" Nick whispered.
They crawled out from under the bed and tiptoed past the bathroom. Once in the kitchen, Scott whispered, "I need his prints."
Nick pointed. "Whiskey."
"No time to drink."
"No—take the whiskey bottle. It's half empty, means Pete touched it."
"Could be Billie Jean's prints."
"She only drinks chocolate milk."
Scott grabbed a paper towel and then the bottle, and they left quietly. They jogged across the parking lot to the rental car. It was a Jetta. Nick laughed.
"Don't you hate these cheap rent
als they give you?"
"I own a Jetta."
"You had a Ferrari and now you're driving a Jetta? Nice career move."
"Yeah, it's worked out well."
"Least you still got your sense of humor."
"And my daughters."
Nick nodded. "Kids are nice … but I'd rather have a Ferrari."
"Where can I find Dr. Tim?"
"Scott, if every professional athlete were a well-adjusted, mature, happy individual, what would psychologists do for a living?"
Timothy O'Brien, sports psychologist, practiced out of an office in downtown Houston. Scott had flown back to Houston and driven downtown. Dr. Tim had agreed to wait for him. Scott felt stupid addressing him as "Dr. Tim."
"We've invested so much in sports today, and not just money. Our national psyche. Who we are. We need to be good at something, but it seems we're good for nothing these days … the economy, education, health care. So we invest our self-esteem in sports, emotionally and financially. How much did the new Dallas Cowboys stadium up there cost?"
"One-point-two billion," Scott said.
"For a football stadium—our twenty-first century monuments." Dr. Tim waved a hand at the world outside the window. "The icons of Houston are no longer oil wildcatters or heart surgeons or even astronauts—they're quarterbacks and point guards and pitchers. We idolize them but we demand perfection from them, at least on the field of play. We treat them special—until they fail us. Then we turn on them. You read the sports pages or listen to talk radio? It's vicious now. A player strikes out or fumbles or misses a shot and his team loses, the media and fans attack him personally, as if he's a bad person for failing. As if he betrayed their city, even their country. I've had athletes get death threats for losing a game. That's a lot of pressure on a young man, too much pressure for some. I've seen the psychological damage it does to them."
"You're telling me rich athletes are victims of society?"
