William Bernhardt - Final Round

“ I’ve got work to do,” Conner said, pushing past her. Where did he leave his clothes, anyway? “I’ve got a golf tournament. And I don’t want to be distracted.”

“Relax, your tee time isn’t until afternoon. And in the meantime, we need you.”

“You need me?” Conner picked up his boxers and a pair of pants. He started to drop his towel, then realized she was still watching. “Could you possibly turn your back for just one tiny moment?”

O’Brien obliged.

“Haven’t I done enough already?” Conner asked, yanking his clothes on. “I ran all over the golf course. I delivered your money. I helped tackle the drunk.”

“Ha ha.”

“Plus, someone was taking pot shots at me last night.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, oh.”

“Did you call the police?”

“I didn’t see the point. He got away. And besides, I was exhausted.”

“That was stupid. Who knows-we might’ve found something.” She frowned. “This is disturbing. Particularly in light of the latest development.”

“Well, just don’t tell me about it, okay?” Conner said, pulling on his shirt. “Fitz says focus is the most important part of playing pro golf. He says focus could be the secret to improving my putting game-which definitely needs improvement. So I intend to stay focused. Don’t be distracting me or luring me out to play cops and robbers, okay?”

“You’re not interested?”

“I’m not.”

“You don’t want to know what’s happened?”

“I don’t.”

“We’ve received another fax.”

Conner slowed. “Am I mentioned?”

O’Brien’s head bobbed up and down. “Oh, yeah. Big time.”

Five minutes later, Conner was in the downstairs level of the clubhouse. It was Tenniel’s office, but the passage of another day had created further changes; now it resembled a set from a TV cop show. Conner noted that there were twice as many agents, as before, twice the equipment-and twice the tension.

On the other hand, one component from the previous day was missing: Agent Liponsky.

“I understand she’s been removed from the case,” O’Brien explained.

“I’m all torn up,” Conner replied.

“I figured you would be. They’ve put some guy named Stimson on the case. I like him better.”

Conner arched an eyebrow. “Cute?”

“Think Ben Affleck.”

“Wonderful. So where’s the fax?”

O’Brien handed him a copy of the faxed message that arrived a few hours before, while most people, including Conner, were snoring in their beds. It had been sent from a convenience store, just as before. The clerk in attendance vaguely remembered sending it but never got a proper look at the man who brought it in. The customer’s face had been obscured by sunglasses, a hat, and a high-collar coat, an extremely unhelpful description confirmed by the security camera.

Conner scanned the fax. It appeared to have been typed, or perhaps word-processed, on the same machine as before-and without distinguishing characteristics. “Want to give me the highlights?” he asked.

“Why? Can’t read anything longer than a beer label?” She jabbed a finger toward the bottom of the page. “He wants another million.”

“You’re joking!”

“You hear anybody laughing?”

Conner turned and spotted his nemesis Andrew Spenser hovering in the background. “He says if we don’t supply him with more money, people will start dropping like flies. Players, spouses-even spectators.”

“But we paid the man!”

“Apparently he wants more.”

“Then why didn’t he just ask for two million in the first place?” Conner frowned. “Something here doesn’t make sense. Are you sure it’s the same extortionist?”

“Positive,” O’Brien answered. “The message has been scrupulously analyzed. It matches the first one in every possible way.”

“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Spenser said firmly. “We’re not paying it.”

“But what if he-“ Conner began.

“We can’t keep doling out a million dollars a day, just to keep an extortionist at bay.”

“But if you don’t-”

“It would be different if we felt the money would ensure everyone’s safety. But clearly, this man cannot be trusted. He intends to keep milking us endlessly.”

Conner handed the fax back to O’Brien. “I think maybe you’d better discuss this with Tenniel before you make any rash decisions.”

“This is Tenniel’s decision,” Spenser corrected him. “He’s laid down the law. Not a cent more.”

“Playing the tough guy, huh?”

“Confidentially, I don’t know that we have much choice. I think Mr. Tenniel mentioned our financial difficulties to you.”

“Did anyone confirm if you have insurance coverage?”

Spenser seemed surprised. “Of course we do.”

“Maybe the safest thing would be to cancel the tournament, then collect damages for your loss.”

“It’s not that simple. The policy doesn’t pay off in the event of disruption or cancellation by us. Only if the tournament is rendered impossible or canceled as a result of forces outside our control. Like an act of God. Or a court order.”

“Or maybe being shut down by the police.” Conner turned toward O’Brien. “Why don’t you do it? Give them the excuse they need.”

“I’m ahead of you,” she said. “I floated that idea by my boss this morning. He didn’t go for it.”

“Why not?”

“Not sure exactly. I think maybe he has friends who are members of the Augusta National.”

“Give me a break.”

“Still-we’re working on it. But for the moment-no cancellation.”

“Let me tell you something, people,” Conner said. “I don’t like what I’m hearing. This is a very dangerous game you’re playing.”

“Don’t look at me,” Spenser said, holding up his hands. “It’s outside my control. We can’t pay off this blackmailer if we don’t have the money.”

“Perhaps we should make a withdrawal from your private stash, Andrew.”

All heads in the room turned. Artemus Tenniel had quietly entered the room. And his expression was not a happy one.

“My… stash?” Spenser said, pressing his hand against his chest. “Good heavens-whatever are you talking about?”

“Game’s up, Andrew.” Tenniel slapped a thick blue folder on the table beside them. “The police found this among the late John McCree’s belongings. They forwarded it to me this morning.”

“Really? And-what could that be?” Slowly but surely, Spenser’s stoic resolve was eroding.

“It’s a report of a subcommittee of the board of directors. The financial oversight subcommittee, to be precise. John McCree was the chairman. They were trying to figure out why profits have been down of late. To that end, they had a comprehensive audit performed.”

“Do tell?” Spenser stammered. “I didn’t know of this.”

“I’ll bet you didn’t,” Tenniel shot back.

“Okay,” Conner interjected, “I’ll bite. What did they find out?”

Tenniel’s face was the picture of controlled rage. “They discovered that Mr. Spenser here has been skimming off almost ten percent of the club’s fluid income.”

“Fluid income?”

“Cash. Green fees, pro shop grosses, membership dues-which are not at all insignificant. He took everything he could get his hands on.”

“It wasn’t me,” Spenser pleaded. “There must be some mistake!”

“Please don’t insult my intelligence, Andrew. There’s no one else it could have been. All the club’s income flows through you.”

“Perhaps there was an error in the accounting-”

“The fact is, Mr. Spenser has pocketed an amount in the high six figures-in less than two years.”