Mark Gimenez - Accused

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, he 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.