William Bernhardt - Final Round

“I don’t know.” He tried to recall the exact phrasing. “Come to think of it, I think Ace said precious. Yeah, that was it. Precious. Definitely. I think. What difference does it make?”

“A hell of a lot.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Ace Silverstone is from the South, isn’t he?”

“Yeah… so?”

“Well, down South we have our own vocabulary. If he said she was precious-that’s a compliment. But if he said she was sweet-that’s the kiss of death. And if he said she was nice-that’s the kiss of death with the coffin sealed.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind.” Conner glanced at the clock radio beside the bed. “Look, I hate to break up this fascinating etymological discussion, but see, I’m in this golf tournament thingie. And I’m not even dressed.”

“You can get dressed. But you’re not going anywhere near the golf course.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t worry. You’ve been given a late tee time. For a reason.”

Conner tapped his foot impatiently. “And that would be…?”

O’Brien looked at him gravely. “Sorry. I got distracted. There’s been another development in the case.”

Conner felt his blood go cold. “And that would be?”

“Get dressed. You can see for yourself.”

O’Brien led Conner into the office of the club chairman. But sometime between his last visit and the present, the entire room had been transformed. People were scrambling all over the place-mostly men in black suits and white shirts and thin black ties. He spotted a reel-to-reel recorder and some high-tech communication equipment. And he couldn’t miss the stiff-necked men with solemn expressions lining the wall closest to the door. Security officers, he surmised.

“This doesn’t seem like Tenniel’s usual decorating style,” Conner remarked. “What’s going on?”

“Mr. Tenniel’s office has become FBI Headquarters South.”

“Because of the murders?”

O’Brien shook her head. “There’s more to it than that. Let me introduce you to someone.”

She waved a hand in the air. A few moments later, a woman about O’Brien’s age walked toward them.

“This is Special Agent Liponsky,” O’Brien explained. Liponsky was wearing a close-fitting gray suit with a scarf tie. To Conner’s disappointment, she looked nothing like Scully on The X-Files . “She’s one of the FeeBees in charge. We’re liaisoning.”

Conner looked at the two women. “Is that legal in Georgia?”

O’Brien gave him a wry grin. “I’m her local contact.”

“Contact on what? Isn’t someone going to tell me what’s going on?”

O’Brien glanced at Liponsky, who returned a curt nod. O’Brien retrieved a piece of paper from a nearby desk, then passed it to Conner.

“Mr. Tenniel received this fax about two this morning. It was sent from a local convenience store. The clerk doesn’t remember the sender, who was probably wearing a disguise anyway, and the security camera wasn’t working, so don’t bother asking.”

Conner quickly scanned the one-page fax. It was typewritten, all in block capital letters. The fax copy was dim; he couldn’t make out all the words. But it didn’t much matter; he could get the gist of it. He scanned the note quickly, drinking in the salient facts-and the big number at the bottom.

The author of the fax claimed to have killed John McCree and his wife. He-or she-further stipulated that unless the tournament officials paid one million dollars in unmarked bills-there would be more murders.

“This can’t be real,” Conner said, clutching the paper in his hands. “Must be a copycat. Someone trying to cash in on the murders.”

“We considered that.” Agent Liponsky’s voice was flat and direct. “But as you’ll see when you read the letter, so did the killer. He’s provided numerous details about the first killing-how John McCree was killed, what was the weapon, where on the body it struck. None of this information has been released to the public. No, we don’t think there’s much doubt. Whoever wrote this letter is the killer-or at the least, is working with the killer.”

“Why does he think the tournament officials will pony up?” Conner asked, reading as he talked.

“The negative publicity has already hit them hard. Imagine if a third person is killed, and word gets out that the tournament officials could’ve stopped it, but didn’t, because they didn’t want to part with any of their profits.”

“That would be devastating.”

“That would be the end of the Masters. Tenniel and the rest of the board don’t have any choice, and they know it. They’ve already started assembling the cash.”

“And you’re going to let them pay?”

“It’s the safest course of action,” Liponsky explained. “We don’t want to see anyone else get killed, either. Of course, when the drop goes down, we’ll be watching.”

“That goes for the FBI and the Augusta PD,” O’Brien added.

Conner’s eyes returned to the faxed message. “There’s still one thing I don’t understand. Why are you telling me about this?”

Liponsky and O’Brien exchanged another look.

“Read the fine print,” O’Brien advised.

Conner’s eyes darted down the page. Details about the murder… threats and intimidation… demands for unmarked bills…

“Down here,” O’Brien said. She pointed to the key line at the bottom of the page.

Conner read the sentence in question, then gasped.

The killer demanded that the million in cash be delivered to a yet-to-be-designated location late that night-

By Conner Cross.

Alone.

“Wow,” Conner said, staring at the paper clutched in his hands. “Double wow.”

“That was pretty much our reaction,” O’Brien replied.

“But why me?”

“Actually,” Liponsky said, “we were hoping you might be able to answer that question for us.”

“I’m clueless,” Conner said.

“Our first thought was that you’re the killer, and you’re planning to take the money and run. But Lieutenant O’Brien assures that that is… well, only one possible explanation.”

Conner looked at O’Brien. “You did that for me? I’m touched.”

Artemus Tenniel emerged from somewhere in the rear of the office. To Conner’s surprise (and partial horror), the man smiled faintly and placed his hand on Conner’s shoulder.

“I know we’ve had our differences in the past,” Tenniel said quietly. “But I’m hoping you’ll be able to put that aside for the time being and do what’s right.”

Conner shrugged his shoulder free. “What’s right, meaning-helping your sorry butt out of a tight spot. Being the bag man for the Augusta National.”

Tenniel was unfazed. “Needless to say, if word of this situation gets out-it could destroy the tournament. Permanently.”

“That would be a tough end for the bastion of tradition and excellence.”

“Yes, it would. So we’ll pay the money. But it must be kept confidential. The club has been having some serious financial problems of late.”

“Say it ain’t so.”

“I’m afraid it is. Our funds are unaccountably lower than average this year, and thus far we have been unable to determine why. Believe me when I say we can’t afford the losses we’d suffer if the tournament were canceled.”

As astonishing as it seemed, Conner knew it was possible. Whatever other faults and foibles the Masters might have, it was well known to be one of the few major professional sporting events in the universe that hadn’t succumbed to greed. The tournament resolutely refused to compromise itself to obtain a corporate sponsor or celebrity huckster. And it forewent millions in potential television dollars in order to restrict commercials and dictate standards to broadcasters. The Masters had a long and unbreachable litany of commandments announcers were required to observe. Thou shalt not refer to the gallery as a mob-or even a crowd. Thou shalt not refer to golfers’ earnings. Thou shalt never liken the holes at Augusta to those at any other course.