William Bernhardt - Cruel Justice

Like it or not, though, this was the scene of the crime. Moreover, according to the file, only four men, the four members of the country club’s controlling board, had keys to the caddyshack where Maria Alvarez was murdered. The shack should have been locked that late at night. Therefore, once you eliminated Leeman as a suspect, the question of who could have killed Maria Alvarez necessarily led to the question of access—who could’ve gotten in there?

Inside the main building, Ben found the office of the club’s chairman of the board, Ronald Pearson. As he learned from the sign on the man’s desk, Pearson worked under the title of CAPTAIN PEARSON, although somehow Ben doubted this represented a military rank.

Ben was lucky enough to find the man in his office. He was a large burly sort, mildly overweight, with a deep ruddy complexion and a large speckled nose. He was on the phone when Ben arrived.

Pearson covered the receiver with his hand and whispered, “Just a moment. I’m on the line with the employment agency. Trying to get new help for the dining room.”

Ben nodded, then took the nearest chair.

“Yeah,” he heard Pearson say, “let me talk to Mary. No, not Maria. Not Rochelle. That’s right. Thanks.”

Ben scanned the office. The walls had a rich mahogany finish and were ornamented with fishing and golf trophies.

“That’s fine,” Pearson continued. “Let me have suites fifteen through twenty-five. Yes, that would be very attractive.” Pearson mumbled a few more words, then hung up the phone. “Damn. It’s getting harder to run a country club every goddamn day.”

“Really. Why is that?”

“Oh, ever since Southern Hills had the PGA tournament, everybody acts like it’s the only country club in town. Hell, any lowlife with thirty thousand dollars to burn can get in Southern Hills. You call that exclusive?”

He looked up and seemed to notice Ben for the first time. “I don’t recognize you,” he said to Ben, frowning. “Are you a member?”

“Uh, no. My name is Ben Kincaid. I called ahead and made an appointment with your secretary.”

“I don’t recall being told….”

“I’m a lawyer. I’m representing Leeman Hayes.”

Pearson continued to look at him uncomprehendingly.

“He’s the man who’s been accused of killing Maria Alvarez. In your caddyshack.”

Pearson removed his wire-rim shades and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Christ. Won’t we ever hear the end of that? One lousy murder of one wetback, and we’ve got cops and cameras crawling all over us for the next ten years.”

“All I want to do is tour the grounds and view the place where the murder occurred. And maybe have a chance to talk to a few people who were here way back then.”

Pearson threw himself back in his chair. He was wearing a captain’s cap and a blue blazer with an anchor embroidered over the pocket. He looked like Dick Cavett gone to seed. “Do you have a court order?”

“No,” Ben answered.

“Well, then I can’t allow you on the course.”

“Sir, if I may—”

“Let me tell you something, son. We have people calling in days in advance to schedule a game. These are members who pay sixty thousand smackers down and five thousand more every year to have a nice place to play a round of golf. I’m not going to let you prance around and screw up everyone’s tee times.”

“Sir, it’s just a game. This is a murder—”

“What do you mean, it’s just a game?” Pearson’s temper appeared to be on full boil. “Let me tell you something, sonny. The members of this club run this town. This state, really. Important deals are made out on that course. Decisions that affect the economy. Decisions that affect the well-being of everyone. To my mind, that’s about a million times more important than your pointless little investigation.”

Ben tried to remain cool. “If you want me to get a court order, I will. It won’t be hard. This is a capital murder charge, sir.”

“Damn it all to hell.” Pearson slammed his hand down on his desk. “As if I didn’t already have enough to do.” Ben surveyed the man’s barren desk and wondered what it was exactly that he did. “I guess Mitch might be able to show you around. He’s the operations manager.”

Operations manager, Ben thought. Read: the one who actually does the work around here.

“Of course, he’s not a member, you understand. But he can give you a tour of the toilets or whatever the hell it is you want.” He picked up the phone on his desk and pushed a single direct-dial button. “Mitch? Captain Pearson. Get your butt down here. I need you to give the grand tour.”

A short pause. “Prospect?” he chuckled. “Not hardly. Some kind of lawyer. Yeah. You and me both. Well, you can give him the short version, anyway. See you in a minute.”

He hung up the phone. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t take you around myself. We’ve got a board meeting in less than an hour. I have to prepare.” His oversized chest rose and fell heavily. “I don’t know why I let the board stick me with this captaincy, year after year. I barely have time left over to manage my business.”

“What business is that?”

“I’m an oilman, natch. One of the last of the true believers. One of the men who put this cowtown on the map.”

“And you’re still working? I thought the oil-and-gas business had all but dried up.”

“Maybe for the schmucks. Not for me. I drilled thirty-five gas wells last year.”

“And you found someone to buy the gas?”

“Hell, yeah. I got Dick Crenshaw to make me a sweet deal. I had the gas companies over the barrel with a lot of long-term, take-or-pay contracts when the price went bad. After we beat them over the head with lawyers for a few years, they agreed to my terms. I’ll have a buyer for my gas for the next ten years. Even the sour gas. Even the foreign stuff. Canadian, Peruvian. I can sell anything.”

The office door opened and a tall, dark-haired man entered. “The tour bus is leaving,” he said.

“This is Mitch Dryer,” Pearson said. “Mitch, this is … the lawyer.” He had obviously forgotten Ben’s name. “Show him around.”

“Anything he wants to see?” Mitch asked tentatively.

Pearson peered back at him. “Within reason. But make it quick. Because … I need you at the board meeting. Don’t be late.”

Right, Ben thought. And that gives Mitch the perfect excuse for rushing through the tour, and maybe omitting a few key locations. So he can hold Pearson’s hand at the board meeting.

Ben followed Mitch out of Pearson’s office. He might just have to drop in at that board meeting himself.

18

BEN WAS AMAZED AT how Mitch’s demeanor relaxed the instant they were away from Pearson. He had previously been stiff and obedient—the perfect flunky. A few minutes out of Pearson’s office, however, and he was casual, lighthearted—almost impish. Ben wondered if he just put on an act for his boss, or if he put on an act for whomever he was with at any given moment.

Mitch started the tour in the main dining room. The word impressive did not do justice to the immense majesty of this room. The walls were oak, on all sides. Huge bay windows with burnished drapes provided a breathtaking view of the course. The raised ceiling gave the room a feeling of almost infinite size. The enormous bricked-in fireplace was taller than Ben.

Mitch waltzed Ben through a series of smaller areas—offices and conference rooms. A music room with a grand piano Ben would die for. A stereo system he would die twice for. And the obligatory pro shop overlooking the putting green. Ben quickly surveyed the leisurewear, all sporting the Utica Greens crest. Not a price tag under seventy-five bucks. Not even the sun visors.