Mark Gimenez - Accused

"Ex-wife."

Scott held out his card.

"That's my cell phone. If you think of anything, Melvyn, please call me. I don't want an innocent person to go to prison."

"Grand jury indict her?"

"This morning."

Murder is about motive. A reason to kill. The district attorney was right: there's always a reason for one human being to kill another. But Rebecca Fenney had no reason to kill Trey Rawlins. She had no motive to murder.

But Clyde "Goose" Dalton did. Men kill for money. Trey had refused to pay the one hundred thousand dollars he owed Goose. Bobby was also right: in some parts of America a few bucks will get you killed. A hundred thousand was a whole lot of motive.

And Brett McBride had a motive: Trey was having sex with his wife. Men kill in fits of rage and passion. History is replete and prisons are crowded with men who caught their wives having sex with another man and who then murdered that man-although until recently such an act had been deemed justifiable homicide in Texas.

Rebecca Fenney had no motive to murder Trey Rawlins, but she still stood indicted for his murder. She would stand trial and, if convicted, be sentenced to prison for life. Unless Scott found the real killer. Someone who had a motive to murder.

He was betting on a jilted caddie or a jealous husband.

Scott walked through the entrance gate to the Houston Classic just after one that same day. The circus atmosphere and WM squared and two-pieces had returned for the second round. He went into the merchandise tent and purchased an official tournament tote bag then found Nick Madden outside a hospitality tent drinking a beer and talking on his cell phone.

"Shit, is that a felony?… How old was she?… Sixteen?… He could just deny it, say she's lying 'cause he's a big star… Oh, they got DNA evidence?… Dumbass never heard of safe sex?… What's he looking at?… Five to ten?… Jesus, that's gonna kill his endorsements."

He noticed Scott and held up a finger.

Into the phone: "Keep me in the loop."

He disconnected and turned to Scott.

"Football player. His idea of a good time is getting stoned and screwing a high school girl. Sophomore. How am I supposed to make money off guys like that?" He sighed and shook his head. "We create the perfect public image for our athletes, teach them how to say a complete sentence without using the F-word, dress them up, get their teeth whitened, surround them with kids… then they have a fucking Serena moment on national TV or they get caught with drugs or dog-fighting or carrying a loaded gun into a New York nightclub or screwing an under-age girl and their perfect image is blown to kingdom come… and their endorsements with it. WM squared don't like that kind of shit, Scott."

He took a swig of his beer then pointed a thumb at the tent behind him that bore the name of a national bank.

"Bank's broke, using their bailout money for a beer bash." He held up his bottle. "Beer's free-you want one?"

"No thanks."

"So, did the grand jury indict her?"

"This morning."

"Goose still a suspect?"

"The prime suspect."

"But Rebecca's going to trial?"

"Unless I find the killer."

"What if you already have?"

"Why didn't you go to the funeral?"

"I was working a deal for another client, corporate sponsorship-"

"That's more important than Trey's funeral?"

"It was for that client-I got him two million, just to put a company logo on his bag and cap." He drank his beer. "Look, Scott, athletes are high-risk clients. Some are gonna self-destruct, with alcohol or drugs or girls"-he held up his cell phone-"like this guy. He's making ten million this year, next year he's gonna be making license plates. That's just the way it is with pro athletes."

"Did Trey self-destruct?"

Nick averted his eyes just as a loud cheer went up from the eighteenth green.

"Someone made a putt."

"No tour player showed up."

Nick turned his palms up. "Can't have a funeral on Thursday-first round of the tournament." He chuckled. "Some guys out here had their kids' births induced so they wouldn't interfere with their tournament schedules. No way a funeral gets priority."

"Where can I find Brett and Tess McBride?"

"Brett's on the course, which means Tess is in the margarita tent."

Nick led the way toward another white tent.

"Tell me about him."

"Not much to tell. Brett's only claim to fame is that he's a dead ringer for that guy in Sling Blade. Could be why Tess cheats on him. Anyway, Brett's thirty-seven and on the downside of his career, not that he ever really had an upside. Fifteen years on tour, he's never come close to winning."

"How can he make a living out here if he never wins?"

"Because everyone on tour makes at least a million bucks a year. See, Scott, maybe twenty players got a real chance of winning out here, the rest of the guys are just fillers-they fill out the field. But it beats working for a living as a country club pro, giving lessons to old ladies and selling shoes. Brett played every tournament last year, never finished higher than thirtieth, still made one-point-three million. Two years ago, he finished in the top ten at Tahoe-you'd think he'd won the fucking Super Bowl."

"What's Tess's story?"

Nick just grinned.

"Every time I see her, I want to order chicken wings and a beer."

Tess McBride was lean, blonde, and dressed like a Hooter's girl. She wore red short-shorts and a white T-shirt tight across her ample bosom. They were admiring Tess from across the tent where waitresses in miniskirts and cowboy boots served cold beer to WM squared and margaritas to hot two-pieces. A big-screen TV broadcasting the tournament hung on one wall of the tent, a beer booth with neon signs occupied another, and a margarita bar with a tiki hut decor the third. Tess stood near the margarita machine and held a big plastic goblet filled with a slushy green concoction. Two young men who looked like college athletes bookended her.

"She's twenty-four," Nick said as they weaved their way around tables toward her. "Thirteen years younger and a helluva lot better looking than Brett. The money improves his looks, but still…"

When they arrived, Nick interrupted her conversation with the young men like a father breaking up a teenage groping session on the den couch.

"Excuse us, boys, but we need to talk with Missus McBride."

The men recoiled as if Tess had suddenly revealed a nasty rash.

"You're married? " one of the men said.

Tess answered with a lame shrug. The college boys retreated to the beer booth.

"Thanks a lot, Nick."

"You are married, Tess."

"I was just having a little fun."

"You're always just having a little fun."

"You sound like my mother when I was in high school."

"Well, Tess, corporate sponsors don't like their athletes' wives acting like horny high school girls. You keep this up, they'll dump Brett and you'll be back waiting tables at Hooters."

She smiled at Scott. "I finished second in the Miss Hooters Pageant last year."

Nick rolled his eyes. "So you've told everyone on tour."

"Which got me a spread in Playboy."

"And you sure as hell spread 'em."

Tess looked Scott up and down. He had stopped off at the house and changed into jeans, sneakers, and a knit shirt. She leaned into him, close enough for him to smell the tequila on her breath.

"And who are you, cowboy?"

"Scott Fenney."

Her eyes lingered on him for the long moment that it took for his name to register in her cloudy mind. She frowned and leaned away.

"You're Rebecca's…"

"Ex," Nick said.

"Lawyer," Scott said. "I need to ask you about Trey."

"I gotta go."

"I can subpoena you."

"I can lie."