Mark Gimenez - Accused

"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."

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: WM ^ 2.

"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 million dollars."