“We considered that.” Agent Liponsky’s voice was flat and direct. “But as you’ll see when you read the letter, so did the killer. He’s provided numerous details about the first killing-how John McCree was killed, what was the weapon, where on the body it struck. None of this information has been released to the public. No, we don’t think there’s much doubt. Whoever wrote this letter is the killer-or at the least, is working with the killer.”
“Why does he think the tournament officials will pony up?” Conner asked, reading as he talked.
“The negative publicity has already hit them hard. Imagine if a third person is killed, and word gets out that the tournament officials could’ve stopped it, but didn’t, because they didn’t want to part with any of their profits.”
“That would be devastating.”
“That would be the end of the Masters. Tenniel and the rest of the board don’t have any choice, and they know it. They’ve already started assembling the cash.”
“And you’re going to let them pay?”
“It’s the safest course of action,” Liponsky explained. “We don’t want to see anyone else get killed, either. Of course, when the drop goes down, we’ll be watching.”
“That goes for the FBI and the Augusta PD,” O’Brien added.
Conner’s eyes returned to the faxed message. “There’s still one thing I don’t understand. Why are you telling me about this?”
Liponsky and O’Brien exchanged another look.
“Read the fine print,” O’Brien advised.
Conner’s eyes darted down the page. Details about the murder… threats and intimidation… demands for unmarked bills…
“Down here,” O’Brien said. She pointed to the key line at the bottom of the page.
Conner read the sentence in question, then gasped.
The killer demanded that the million in cash be delivered to a yet-to-be-designated location late that night-
By Conner Cross.
Alone.
21
“Wow,” Conner said, staring at the paper clutched in his hands. “Double wow.”
“That was pretty much our reaction,” O’Brien replied.
“But why me?”
“Actually,” Liponsky said, “we were hoping you might be able to answer that question for us.”
“I’m clueless,” Conner said.
“Our first thought was that you’re the killer, and you’re planning to take the money and run. But Lieutenant O’Brien assures that that is… well, only one possible explanation.”
Conner looked at O’Brien. “You did that for me? I’m touched.”
Artemus Tenniel emerged from somewhere in the rear of the office. To Conner’s surprise (and partial horror), the man smiled faintly and placed his hand on Conner’s shoulder.
“I know we’ve had our differences in the past,” Tenniel said quietly. “But I’m hoping you’ll be able to put that aside for the time being and do what’s right.”
Conner shrugged his shoulder free. “What’s right, meaning-helping your sorry butt out of a tight spot. Being the bag man for the Augusta National.”
Tenniel was unfazed. “Needless to say, if word of this situation gets out-it could destroy the tournament. Permanently.”
“That would be a tough end for the bastion of tradition and excellence.”
“Yes, it would. So we’ll pay the money. But it must be kept confidential. The club has been having some serious financial problems of late.”
“Say it ain’t so.”
“I’m afraid it is. Our funds are unaccountably lower than average this year, and thus far we have been unable to determine why. Believe me when I say we can’t afford the losses we’d suffer if the tournament were canceled.”
As astonishing as it seemed, Conner knew it was possible. Whatever other faults and foibles the Masters might have, it was well known to be one of the few major professional sporting events in the universe that hadn’t succumbed to greed. The tournament resolutely refused to compromise itself to obtain a corporate sponsor or celebrity huckster. And it forewent millions in potential television dollars in order to restrict commercials and dictate standards to broadcasters. The Masters had a long and unbreachable litany of commandments announcers were required to observe. Thou shalt not refer to the gallery as a mob-or even a crowd. Thou shalt not refer to golfers’ earnings. Thou shalt never liken the holes at Augusta to those at any other course.
“Don’t you have insurance?” Conner asked.
Tenniel seemed taken aback. “Yes. I mean… I suppose we do.” For the first time in Conner’s experience with the man, he seemed unsure of himself. “Of course, that’s not the preferable way to proceed but… now that I think of it, we do have some insurance. Quite a generous policy, as I recall.”
“As you recall?”
“Haven’t looked at the thing in years.” Tenniel turned abruptly and returned to his desk.
“So,” O’Brien said to Conner, “are you on board?”
Conner looked at her, then at the fax, then back at her. “You’re asking if I’ll risk my neck and go out all by myself to make this drop, possibly facing the killer on my own against impossible odds and getting myself killed in the process?”
“That probably isn’t how I would’ve phrased it, but… yeah.”
“Sure,” he said, handing the fax back to her. “Sounds like fun.”
By one in the afternoon, Conner was ready to tee off for the third-and penultimate-day of the tournament. He spotted Fitz several yards before they actually met. He was running a fast interception course, obviously intending to cut Conner off before he made it to the first tee.
Conner checked his watch. “Almost one, Fitz. We’d better get to the tee-off.”
The caddie’s lips were pursed tight. “I’d like a word with you in private first.”
“I’d love to, Fitz, but see, I’m in this golf tournament-”
“That’s why I want to talk to you.”
“-and if I don’t show up on time, they’ll disqualify me.”
“If you don’t play any better than you have so far, you’d be better off disqualified.”
“That would be humiliating.”
“It would be a mercy killing. Now, listen up, buster, and listen up good.”
Conner scrutinized the stern expression on Fitz’s face. “Is this another trip to the woodshed?”
“You’re damn right. And long overdue, too.”
“Look, Fitz-I’m in no mood for a lecture.”
“Just shut up and listen.”
Conner did precisely that.
“How long have you been on the tour now?”
As if Fitz didn’t already know. “This is my third year.”
“And in that magnificent stretch of time, what exactly have you accomplished?”
Conner tilted his head to one side. “I like to think I’ve developed a sense of personal style.”
Fitz grimaced. “And what exactly has that gotten you?”
“I have a following.”
“Charles Manson had a following. So what? What else has it gotten you?”
Conner frowned. “Hearty chuckles?”
“I’ll tell you what it’s gotten you. Absolutely nothing.”
“I have my own personality, Fitz, and I plan to keep it. I’m not going to turn into one of those PGA zombies.”
“I’m not talking about your attitude, sorry though it is. I’m talking about your game.”
“You said I have one of the best drives in the business. As good or better than Tiger Woods.”
“Yeah, but your putting game stinks. Because putting requires concentration, focus, resolve-all the qualities you’ve held back. And for that matter your driving game is erratic, because it can’t overcome your unfailing tendency to make stupid decisions!”
“Aren’t you being a bit harsh?”
Fitz ignored him. “This tournament is a perfect example. Your performance has been abominable.”
“Now wait a minute. There have been some pretty damn extenuating circumstances, Fitz. My best friend died!”
“I know that. Why do you think we’re having this talk?” His eyes were narrow and electric. “John McCree made a lot of personal sacrifices to get you on the tour. And you’re throwing it all away!”