William Bernhardt - Final Round

“Get him!” Liponsky shouted.

The agents rushed forward, tackling the man. Without resistance, he fell to the ground like a wet sack of potatoes.

Conner couldn’t stand the suspense. He ran forward, desperate to see who it was. He pulled away a few of the agents on top, straining to get a better view of…

Barry Bennett. And he was potted. Totally.

“Whass goin’ on?” Barry slurred. His eyes were wild and he seemed dazed, which was not all that surprising, given the circumstances.

“Cuff him!” Liponsky shouted, just over their shoulders. One of the agents rolled Barry onto his stomach, pulled back his wrists and slid on the cuffs.

“Look, Liponsky,” Conner said, “I think possibly you’ve-”

“Did someone read him his rights?” Liponsky shouted. “I don’t want any procedural errors screwing up my collar. We’ve got to read him his rights.”

The same agent who’d done the cuffs whipped a card out of his shirt pocket and began to read. “You have the right to remain silent…”

“Look,” Conner said, trying again, “I think maybe you’ve made a mistake.”

“I don’t make mistakes,” Liponsky fired back. “Criminals make mistakes.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. But I don’t think Barry is your man.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I know him. He’s on the tour.”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t be the killer.”

“Look at him, will you? He’s smashed!”

“What?” Liponsky’s head jerked down toward the ground.

“He’s drunk! If you don’t want to take my word for it, smell his breath.”

“I can smell it from here,” O’Brien said, somewhere behind them.

“Iss thiss my cabin?” Barry said with a hiccup. “I been trying to find my cabin…”

Conner rolled his eyes. “You’re a little off-track, Barry.”

The tiniest trace of concern flickered across Liponsky’s brow. “This could be a front. An acting job to put us off.”

“No one’s that good an actor, Liponsky. He’s wasted. Probably been drinking all day. And there’s no way the man I was talking to on the phone was drunk.”

Liponsky bit down on her lower lip. “There must be some explanation.”

“Yeah, there is. You screwed up.”

A look of horror suddenly spread across her face. “Oh, my God. If he’s not-”

“What?” Conner said. “What is it?”

Without another word, Liponsky raced toward the parked golf cart. She ran like there was no tomorrow, probably doing twice the time Conner had out on the course. She didn’t stop running until she practically collided into the cart.

“Oh, no!” she cried. “No, no, no !”

Conner and O’Brien followed close behind her. “What is it?” Conner asked.

She didn’t need to answer. One look was all it took.

She was holding the black bag in her hands. And it was empty.

An hour later, Conner was back in the clubhouse listening to O’Brien try to explain what had happened.

“But how did he get the money? You had the place surrounded.”

“Above ground, yes,” O’Brien said. “Below ground, no.”

“Below ground? I don’t get it.”

“Turns out there’s a fairly extensive sewer system under part of the golf course. Including the part the eighteenth hole is on.”

Conner nodded. “That’s true. I remember Fanboy Ed telling me about it. That’s how he got in.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Seems the Augusta National has heavy water demands-for watering the course and whatnot. So they built this underground sewer system. Tunnels are small-but passable.”

“So I hear from our dear friend Agent Liponsky. She’s got agents crawling through every branch of the system. But they haven’t found the culprit. And I don’t think they’re going to, either. He probably grabbed the money seconds after you put it down, then hightailed it.”

“But how did he grab the money without being seen?”

O’Brien reached out across the small round table, then popped a handful of beer nuts into her mouth. “Turns out the golf cart was just a decoy. It was parked over a manhole cover-an access tunnel to the sewer system. The insides of the cart had been hollowed out so a person could crawl up through it, pull the seat cover off, cut the bottom of the bag, take the money, and disappear-without ever being seen above ground. The bag never moved-but our extortionist got the cash just the same.”

“That’s pretty damn smart.”

“I would have to agree with you on that point. He outfoxed us but good.”

“A genius golfer. Who the hell would that be?”

O’Brien gave him a sharp look. “Do you know something I don’t? What makes you so sure the killer is a golfer?”

“It was my conversation with him,” Conner explained. “While he was running me all over creation. He talked like a golfer-talked about divots and bogies. And stuff not just any golfer would know-like about PGA penalties. And he was familiar with my golfing performance this week-even though the TV people never got close to me before today.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “No, I’m sure of it. Our killer is a golfer. Or at the very least, someone intimately connected to this tournament.”

“Any suspects?”

“I already told you what I thought-you need to talk to Freddy.”

“Funny you should say that. I was thinking pretty much the same way you are, that the time had come, even if I didn’t have anything on him and it might tip him off that he was under suspicion. So after we got back from our moonlight fiasco, I gave Freddy a call. He’s disappeared.”

“What? As in-?”

“As in, no one knows where the hell he is, even though he was specifically instructed to stay put.”

“This is very curious.”

“It’s more than that. Get this, Conner-no one knows where he was tonight.”

“O’Brien, I think you need to pick him up.”

“Way ahead of you. I’ve got an APB out. We’ll get him.”

“Good. So… how is Liponsky taking the news?”

“Not well. Her home office is all over her for botching the nab.” A smile spread across her face. “As a fellow law enforcement officer, of course, my hearts bleeds for her.”

“I can see that. Mine, too.”

O’Brien pushed herself out of her chair. “I’ve got to check in with my office. I’ll be in touch.”

“Sure I can’t buy you a drink?”

O’Brien hesitated. For half a second, Conner almost thought she might go for it. “Rain check,” she said. She left the clubhouse.

Well, Conner asked himself, what next? What exactly does one do as a follow-up to acting as the bag man for a million-dollar extortion scheme?

Fortunately, he didn’t have to think about it for long. The question was answered for him when the PGA’s main man Richard Peregino entered the bar and made a beeline for Conner’s table.

Conner braced himself for another lecture about PGA standards. What had he done this time, he wondered? Mussed a sand trap while discovering a corpse? Worn the wrong color socks to deliver the payoff?

Without waiting to be invited, Peregino pulled out a chair and sat at his table. “Can I talk to you, Conner?”

Conner, Conner noted. Not Cross. “It’s a free country. Unless you’re in the PGA, of course.”

Peregino didn’t smile. “I need your help.”

Conner tried not to appear astonished. “You need my help?”

Peregino nodded. “We think there’s a leak.”

“What, in the plumbing?”

“No, you-“ He cut himself short. “To the press.”

“A leak about what?”

“About the extortion scheme. The threat from the killer.”

Conner shrugged. “Shouldn’t they know? It seems like a matter that might be of some public interest. Isn’t that what the press is for?”