William Bernhardt - Final Round

Conner whistled. “That’s some major-league embezzlement.”

“I tell you, I didn’t do it!” Spenser protested.

Conner checked the date on the cover of the report. “That would explain why John went to talk to you the night he was killed, Spenser. He’d just received the audit report, and he wanted to confront you. Boy, I’ll bet that was a heated conversation.”

“I’m telling you, there was no conversation.”

“Don’t bother lying, Spenser. I’ve got an eyewitness.” Conner took a step closer to the man. “What happened when you found out John had the goods on you? I bet you went into a major meltdown. I bet you were ready to do anything, even-”

Spenser’s eyes widened with horror. “You’re crazy, I tell you! I haven’t done anything improper.”

Conner turned quickly toward O’Brien. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

O’Brien nodded. “Covering up an extensive embezzling scheme. Pretty damn good motive for murder.”

“Murder?” Spenser said. “ Murder ?”

“Makes sense,” Conner said. “Spenser, where were you Tuesday night? Say around nine-thirty.”

“I-I-Well, I don’t remember exactly.”

“No alibi?”

“Alibi? I don’t need-“ He stopped suddenly. “That’s it. I refuse to say another word. I want an attorney.”

“The last refuge of a scoundrel.”

“Don’t think you’re going to hide behind some shyster’s coattails, Andrew,” Tenniel said forcefully. “I won’t let you get away with this. I will hound you until every cent is repaid and you are behind bars.”

Spenser’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t stir up any trouble you can’t handle, Artemus.”

“Is that it, then? You think I won’t prosecute because I don’t want a scandal at the club.” He leaned forward ominously. “Don’t be so sure.”

Spenser backed away. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m leaving.” He headed rapidly toward the doors. “But let me warn you. I will not tolerate this unwarranted encroachment on my good name. I have a reputation in this community, and I will not stand idly by and see it sullied. If I learn that you have made any libelous accusations, I will instruct my attorneys to seek redress to the full extent of the law.” He skittered out the door and disappeared in the corridor.

“Well,” Conner observed, “he’s terrified.”

“True,” O’Brien agreed. “But unfortunately, that doesn’t prove anything.”

“Maybe not, but he had a hell of a motive.”

“I’m beginning to think a lot of people had motives. What I need is proof. And I need it fast. Before this maniac strikes again.”

O’Brien glanced at her watch, then gave Conner’s shirt sleeve a gentle tug. “Well, Slick, what say you and I do a little spelunking?”

Conner’s eyebrows rose. “Madam, there are gentlemen present!”

“I’m talking about the sewer tunnels. You know, our killer’s escape hatch.”

“Didn’t Liponsky’s dudes scour the tunnels?”

“Looking for a murderer, yes. Looking for clues, no.”

“And why would you want me along?”

“Because you’re my golf expert. What other reason could there be?”

They made their way to the rough on the north side of the eighteenth hole. After diligent searching, they found the manhole cover that blocked the access into the tunnel system.

“Looks dark,” Conner commented, peering into the stygian hole. “I’d better go first.”

O’Brien pulled a pencil-thin flashlight out of her back pocket and tossed it to him. “Take this, Slick.”

Conner flipped the flashlight on. “Here goes nothing.”

Advancing feet first, he lowered himself into the narrow passage. “Luckily I had a light breakfast.” Once he was in waist-deep, he kicked around, searching for something to hold onto. He found a rusted iron ladder descending the side of the tunnel. “This should help.”

Cautiously, he placed one foot on the first rung of the ladder. It squeaked and wobbled, but held. The next foot followed. He could feel the strain on the metalwork, but the ladder didn’t break free.

“I’m going down,” he announced.

“I’ll alert the media,” O’Brien replied.

Conner worked his way down the rickety ladder. About ten feet under ground level, he reached the bottom. He scanned the area with his flashlight, etching a 360 degree circle with the thin beam of light.

“There’s some kind of recess down here,” Conner shouted up. “Big enough to stretch your legs. Even move around a little bit. And I can see two tunnels going in different directions. Man, they’re small.”

“Big enough to pass through?” O’Brien shouted back.

“Oh, yeah. But it won’t be fun. They’re maybe three feet in circumference, tops.”

“All right. Look out, I’m coming down.”

Conner moved to the side of the ladder. “Be careful. That ladder has seen better days, and the wall is slick and slimy. Don’t hurt-”

Conner was interrupted by a swift whooshing noise down the length of the access tunnel. O’Brien had foregone the ladder altogether-and jumped. She landed in a crouched position, executed a perfect barrel roll on her left shoulder, and ended up on her feet. “You were saying?”

Conner blinked. “That was impressive. Where’d you learn that move?”

“I have a brown belt in tae kwon do.”

“Who doesn’t?” He grinned. “Was that just to impress me?”

“No, that was because I hate to get my fingers slimy.” O’Brien snagged her flashlight and scanned the two tunnels. “Let’s take the north tunnel. They tell me that one leads off the Augusta National grounds. It seems the most likely route for a felon on the run.”

O’Brien crouched down, then duck-walked into the tunnel, using her hands for balance. “I’ll take the lead.”

“You’re the boss.” Conner knelt down and followed, waddling behind her.

Once they were five feet from the entrance, the tunnel was pitch black. The only illumination came from O’Brien’s flashlight. Conner’s fingers came down on something wet and slimy, but he couldn’t see what it was. “Am I the only one getting creeped out here?”

“No,” O’Brien admitted. “This is like something out of Edgar Allan Poe.”

“And then some. If I hear any bats, I’m leaving.”

O’Brien laughed softly. “Bats are okay. But if you hear rats, I’ll join you.”

“Rats? You think there might be rats?”

“Rats? In a sewer? What a crazy idea. Of course not.”

They continued trudging down the tunnel. Conner assumed there had to be an end somewhere, but he couldn’t see it. “Now if this were a Stephen King novel,” he suggested, “we would be in hell now, except we don’t know it, see. We’d just keep trudging along this dark, slimy tunnel for eternity, never reaching an exit.”

“Wonderful imagery,” O’Brien commented. “Very Sisyphean. You read about Sisyphus in college, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” Conner paused. “Is that something to do with your sorority house?”

O’Brien laughed again. “You’re smarter than you look, Conner.”

“Gee, thanks.”

They continued moving along the tunnel. Conner wasn’t sure how much time had passed. It seemed like hours, but the voice inside his head told him it was probably more like ten minutes. His ankles were already beginning to ache. Miss Tae Kwon Do up there might be able to duck-walk for hours, but he felt certain he’d be getting shin splints after fifteen minutes.

He was thinking about suggesting they sing “One Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” when he heard O’Brien let out an abrupt cry.

“What is it?” he asked urgently.