Mark Gimenez - Accused

"It's only a four-hour drive from Austin to Galveston. You could've been there by nine at the latest. Time of death was after midnight."

"I didn't kill him."

"You ever been to his beach house?"

"I ain't never been to Galveston."

"You didn't travel with Trey?"

Goose snorted. "Don't work that way. Players, they travel in private jets. Caddies fly commercial. Coach, 'cause we pay our own way. Players stay in five-star hotels. We double up in cheap motels by the highway."

"Will you take a polygraph?"

"To prove I stayed in cheap motels?"

"To prove you didn't kill Trey."

"No one said I did."

"You stayed in Austin Thursday night?"

"I live there."

"Any witnesses?"

"That I live there?"

"That you stayed in Austin that night."

Goose finished off the beer, belched, and dropped the can by the golf bag.

"I got drunk that night."

"Where?" Scott said.

"Broken Spoke."

"Anyone who'd remember you being there Thursday night?"

"The other regulars won't remember they were there."

"What about the bartender?"

"It ain't that kind of place. It's a dance hall."

"So you got drunk in a dance hall but no one can vouch for you. Pretty vague alibi, Goose."

"Didn't know I needed one."

"Six days since he died-you don't seem too upset."

"He treated me like shit."

"And he fired you."

"You think I killed him 'cause he fired me?" He spit. "Hell, if caddies killed their pros for firing them, tour wouldn't have enough players to field a foursome."

"Trey owed you a hundred thousand."

Goose eyes flashed dark. "Damn right he did. I was gonna sue the bastard. I can't now… Can I?"

"And he humiliated you on TV, replaced you with a Mexican girl."

"He banged her after the round."

"What?"

"Yeah, Rebecca got the runs, drinking the water. While she's stuck in the bathroom, Trey's humping the Mexican gal in a pool cabana."

Scott glanced at Nick; he gave Scott a "heck if I know" shrug. Scott turned back to Goose. "A hundred-thousand-dollar debt-that's a pretty good motive."

"So is screwing my wife."

"You don't have a wife," Nick said.

Goose gestured at Scott. "I meant him… and Brett."

" Brett? " Nick said.

"Who's he?" Scott said.

"Brett McBride. Tour player, ranked two-eighty-seven in the world."

Scott turned to Goose: "Trey was-?"

Goose nodded. "Screwing his wife."

Nick's mouth dropped open. "Trey was screwing Tess?"

Goose chuckled. "Who wasn't?"

"When?" Scott asked.

"Whenever he could."

"How long do you think he was?"

Goose shrugged. "I don't know. I never saw him naked."

"No. How long do you think he was screwing Tess?"

"Oh. They hooked up at the Hope back in January."

Scott turned to Nick. "You didn't know?"

Nick shook his head. "I tell my athletes, if I don't get twenty percent, I don't want to know about it."

"You know her? This Tess?"

Nick nodded. "Everyone knows Tess, if you know what I mean. Brett was a judge in the Miss Hooters pageant in Vegas last year. She was runner-up, they got married five months later, at the Reno tournament."

"And you represent him, too?"

Nick nodded again. Scott turned back to Goose.

"A jealous husband… Did Brett know?"

"They're still married."

"Did Rebecca know?"

"I don't think so." He pulled a thick cigar out of the golf bag, bit off the tip, and spit it across the practice tee. "Trey was an idiot, taking a chance on losing her over Tess. I mean, Tess is hot, sure, but Rebecca's world-class gorgeous. She had options out here, could've switched bags anytime she wanted."

"Trey ever mention to you that he was going to marry her? Rebecca."

"Nope."

Goose dug around in his shirt pocket, pulled out a wooden match, and struck it on the bottom of the golf bag until it ignited. He put the flame to the cigar and puffed until the cigar caught fire. He took a long drag and exhaled smoke then gave Scott a thoughtful look.

"Lawyering for your ex-what's that all about? She must be paying you a boatload of Trey's money."

"She's indigent."

"Hell, I'd be pissed off, too, way Trey treated her."

"Not indignant. Indigent. Means she doesn't have any money. All of Trey's money goes to his sister."

Goose grunted. "He stiffed her, too, huh? Figures." He sucked on the cigar and blew out smoke. "You know, I've always wondered something, about Rebecca?"

"What's that?"

"Is she a natural redhead?"

"Goose, as a general rule, I don't punch caddies, but I'm willing to make an exception with you."

Goose grinned. "Still touchy about the ex, huh? Wait'll you got three of them." He stood and said, "I gotta pee… fucking prostate."

Goose hefted the big bag. He ducked under the rope that kept the fans off the range and walked off. He didn't pick up his beer can.

"Are they here? Brett and Tess?"

Nick shook his head. "Brett played this morning-today's the pro-am-then had a corporate gig this afternoon. Tess goes with him, makes him seem more attractive, if you know what I mean."

"They'll be here through Sunday?"

"If his play this year holds true, Brett'll miss the cut, fly home Friday night. You want to talk to them, you'd better come out tomorrow or Friday. I'll be here."

Scott pulled a pen from his pocket. He squatted and inserted the pen into the top opening of Goose's beer can.

"I'll buy you a beer, Scott."

"I don't want the beer. I want Goose's fingerprints."

"Why?"

Scott looked up at Nick. "Because Goose might've stuck that butcher knife in Trey Rawlins' chest."

"Galveston nine-one-one. What's your emergency?"

"There's a knife in his chest!"

"Whose chest?"

"There's blood everywhere!"

"Whose blood?"

"I think he's dead!"

"Who's dead?"

"Someone killed him!"

"Who?"

"Trey! Trey Rawlins!"

"The golfer?"

"Yes!"

"Ma'am, I'm dispatching police to your location."

"Thank God! Hurry!"

"Who killed him?"

"I don't know."

"Is anyone else in the house?"

"I… I don't know. I hope not."

"Where are you?"

"In our bedroom."

"Stay there. Stay on the phone until the police arrive."

"I hear the sirens. Tell them to come up the back stairs. The doors are open. I'm right inside."

"What's your name?"

"Rebecca Fenney."

"Stay with me, Rebecca."

A few minutes passed. The dispatcher's voice could be heard in the background and Rebecca's intermittent "Oh, God" and "Trey" and "So much blood."

Then the dispatcher's voice came back on. "You still with me, Rebecca?"

Her voice sounded weak: "Yes."

"Rebecca, the police are there."

In the background: "Police! We're coming in!"

"I'm in here! Thank God you're here!"

"Ma'am, are you okay?"

"Yes."

"Don't move until we clear the house."

Only her breathing could be heard and then a voice in the background: "House is clear. Ma'am, hang up the phone, I've got dispatch on my radio… Dispatch, it's a murder scene. Send out homicide, M.E., crime scene… Shit, send everyone." A pause. "The poor bastard."

The tape ended, and they sat without speaking. It was the next morning, and Scott and Bobby were sitting in the Jetta in the parking lot across 34th Street from St. Patrick's Catholic Church listening to the 911 call on the CD player and looking at the crime scene photos of Rebecca with Trey Rawlins' blood streaked down her face like war paint. Parked on the street was a satellite TV truck; loitering outside the church doors was Renee Ramirez in a tight short skirt.

"The D.A. was right," Bobby said.

"About what?"

"Renee. She does have great legs."