Conner found Jarrett’s grunt incomprehensible, but O’Brien obviously took it as an affirmative reply. Conner wasn’t sure if this was a sign of greater comprehension or simply greater optimism.

“Can you estimate the time of death?”

At last, Dr. Jarrett took a break from his slicing and dicing. He drew himself up and squinted at O’Brien, as if he were having a hard time focusing. “Estimates are difficult, given the time that expired before the corpse was discovered. But based on an analysis of relative body temperatures, correlated with an analysis of the stomach contents, I’d say the victim died Tuesday night. Between ten and midnight.”

Conner nodded. “Shortly after he left his cabin. After Jodie saw him last. That explains why he never showed up at the driving range.”

“What was the cause of death?” O’Brien asked.

Dr. Jarrett didn’t look up. His reply was barely audible. “That is what I am endeavoring to discover.”

“C’mon, doctor. Give me a break.”

“Gladly,” he replied, holding up a ball-peen hammer. “Where would you like it?”

O’Brien smiled thinly. “I know the drill. You haven’t finished all your tests and the lab work isn’t in and you haven’t filed a report. When you do, I’ll read it and I’m sure I’ll be riveted by every word. But in the meantime… give me something to go on, okay?”

Dr. Jarrett’s lips pursed, considering. Conner wasn’t sure if he was considering whether to talk or whether to cause bodily injury.

At last, Jarrett spoke. “See this?”

He pulled down a goose-necked lamp and shone it directly on the side of John’s head. Conner winced. Under the harsh light, John’s face seemed scarred by a translucent blue-green spider web. Conner looked away.

“You going to be all right?” O’Brien asked.

“Yeah,” Conner said, barely above a whisper.

“Close your eyes and think of Pebble Beach.” She turned back toward Jarrett. “All right, doctor. What’s the point?”

“Death was, in all likelihood, caused by a sharp blow by a metal object.”

“Like a golf club?”

“That would be consistent with all the external evidence.” He paused. “There may have been two or three blows, but no more than that, I think. And if there were multiple blows, they were delivered with considerable skill and accuracy to the same region of the head to such an extent that I can’t be certain. At least not yet.”

O’Brien arched an eyebrow. “Hear that, Cross? You got any suspects who are good with a golf club?”

“Yeah,” Conner grunted. “All of them.”

“The blow or blows ruptured the meningeal artery,” Dr. Jarrett continued, “and caused an immediate brain hemorrhage. After that, death would have soon followed.”

“Would he-“ Conner drew in his breath and tried again. “Would he have felt much… pain?”

For once, Dr. Jarrett’s face softened a bit. “It’s impossible to know with any certainty. Death would have come quickly. But how quickly… well, I just can’t say. I’m sorry.” He looked down abruptly and returned to his work.

O’Brien tried another question. “What can you tell us about the place of death, doctor? Are we dealing with a DRT? Or was the body moved?”

A state of extreme irritation blanketed the doctor’s face. “If you don’t mind, Lieutenant, I’m working.”

“So am I. What about it?”

Conner saw Jarrett’s eyes flicker toward his instruments’ table. Was this when target practice would begin? He took a step toward the door, just in case. “If the body was moved, it wasn’t moved much. Probably just pushed into the sand trap and buried.”

“Then John was already out on the course,” Conner said, thinking aloud. “Either that, or he was lured there by the killer.”

“Maybe he was forced out there,” O’Brien offered. “Like at gunpoint.”

“I find that hard to believe. Too risky. John was strong and smart-he’d have figured a way out. And what if they’d been seen? No, he must’ve had a reason to go out there. Someone must’ve persuaded him to go.” Conner’s face suddenly went white.

“What?” O’Brien said, staring at him. “What is it?”

“Don’t you see? Security has been at its peak since before the tournament began. I know at least one person who slipped in, sure, but the fact remains-security is tight. But someone still got to John. Someone lured him onto the eighteenth green and killed him.”

“So?”

“So,” Conner said slowly, “all the evidence points to one conclusion. The killer must’ve been someone John knew.” He paused. “Probably someone connected to the tournament.”

17

As soon as he could escape the morgue, Conner hitched a ride back to the Augusta National, where Fitz was anxiously awaiting him at the first tee. He still couldn’t believe he was actually going to play golf, after all that had happened. It didn’t seem right, even after everything Jodie had said, and all he had promised her. On the other hand, given the most recent developments, he was lucky he wasn’t in prison. And playing golf was definitely preferable to prison.

For once, Fitz didn’t appear to be in his attack-dog mode, perhaps because he knew where Conner had been and what he must have been through. “How was it?” he said, not quite looking Conner in the eye.

“ ’Bout like you’d expect,” Conner replied. He preferred to avoid details that he’d rather forget.

“Learn anything?”

“Not really.” Conner paused. “Well, one thing. I’m pretty certain John’s killer must be someone here at the tournament.”

Fitz nodded. “Stands to reason.” He laid a hand on Conner’s shoulder. “Think you can play golf?”

“Think I’d better.” Conner shook himself, trying to rouse himself out of his stupor. “Don’t want to disappoint my groupies.”

Fitz led Conner toward the first tee-off, where he already had Conner’s clubs ready to play. Once again, Conner had been paired with Barry and Ace, but today Harley Tuttle joined their little group as well.

“Big crowd, isn’t it?” Harley said, gazing at the large collection of fans gathered behind the ropes beside the first tee.

“Yeah,” Conner agreed. “Biggest I’ve seen in a long while.” He would’ve liked to have believed the legions were gathered to see him play, but a quick reality check told him they were more likely assembled to observe Ace. “That bother you?”

Harley shrugged. “I don’t much like the razzmatazz. I usually try to stay away from the superstars. All this attention blows things out of proportion. You know what my daddy used to say?”

“I have a hunch I’m about to.”

“You can’t hang pumpkins on a morning glory.”

Conner nodded thoughtfully. “Harley, what the hell does that mean?”

“Beats me. Guess I should’ve asked daddy.”

Conner gave him a slap on the shoulder. “You’ll get used to the crowds.” He tried to be reassuring, although in truth, he sympathized with Harley. Normally he loved attention, but this morning, he wasn’t in the mood. For someone who tended to be reserved and reclusive like Harley, and who was new on the tour, he could see how having an entourage could ruin his game. “Block them out of your mind. Pretend they’re not there.”

“Easy to say.” Harley wandered off toward his golf bag and took a few practice swings.

Ace emerged from the clubhouse, and the instant the crowd saw him, a tremendous cheer went up. Hats flew into the air, people pumped their fists, and a group in the rear began chanting: “Ace! Ace! Ace!”

“Is he running for something?” Conner inquired.

“As opposed to you,” Fitz replied, “who are usually running from something.”

Ace waved to the gallery, bowing his head in feigned humility. The crowd cheered again. Ace flashed a perfect dentally-enhanced smile, then strolled over to Conner. “Did you see that? Did you hear it?”

“We saw it,” Conner replied. “We heard it.”

“Man, those people love me. They just… love me!”

Conner nodded. “But will they respect you in the morning?”