Fifteen minutes had passed since Conner had made the drop, and the bag was still on top of the seat, just where Conner had left it. Despite all his elaborate preparations, the killer didn’t seem to be in any hurry to collect his prize.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Conner said. “The time to grab the bag was immediately-before I had a chance to call in the reinforcements. Why would he do this if he doesn’t want the cash? Besides, he told me he did. He said he needed the money.”

“He’s just being cautious,” Liponsky whispered. “Making sure the coast is clear before he makes his move. As soon as he’s sure no one’s watching, he’ll go for it. That’s why we have to stay quiet-and stay out of sight.”

“Fine,” Conner said, folding his arms. She was the professional; they’d play it her way. But for some reason, he wasn’t convinced. A glance at O’Brien told him she wasn’t particularly convinced either.

Fifteen more slow, tedious minutes passed. Conner wondered if all stakeouts were this exciting. Sitting in the dark, doing nothing. Not exactly a thrill-packed adventure. He wasn’t even angry at the creep anymore. He just wanted this night to be over.

On cop shows, stakeouts never lasted more than a minute or two before the culprit appeared. It seemed reality was something else again. Conner supposed it hadn’t actually been that long. In truth, he’d only been waiting a little over half an hour, but he was ready to call it a day and run to the clubhouse for a sandwich. Maybe a margarita to wash it down. From their position near the eighteenth, Conner could see the clubhouse. He could even smell the food-or so he imagined. It was just too tempting to resist.

“Look,” he said quietly, “not that this isn’t the most exciting time I’ve ever had with my clothes on, but I think I’m going to call it a night.”

“Shh,” Liponsky whispered. She was peering through infrared binoculars.

“No, seriously, I can’t take it any longer.” Conner started to push up to his feet.

Liponsky grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him back down. “I think I see someone.”

Conner froze. Could it be? Finally-?

Liponsky whispered into her mouthpiece, which transmitted to the earpieces each of the agents was wearing. “See ’im? Yeah, me too. On my signal.”

A few moments passed. Conner began to perceive a tall silhouette weaving its way across the fairway. It was hard to be certain, but-

Yes! The silhouette took a sudden veer to the left. It was definitely moving toward the golf cart.

“That’s it,” Liponsky whispered breathlessly. “One… two… three… move!”

All at once, a dozen figures appeared out of nowhere, surging forward, forming an increasingly tight circle around the mysterious figure.

The man stopped suddenly. He’d spotted them. But he didn’t turn away, didn’t run. He just stood still, as if staring in disbelief.

“Get him!” Liponsky shouted.

The agents rushed forward, tackling the man. Without resistance, he fell to the ground like a wet sack of potatoes.

Conner couldn’t stand the suspense. He ran forward, desperate to see who it was. He pulled away a few of the agents on top, straining to get a better view of…

Barry Bennett. And he was potted. Totally.

“Whass goin’ on?” Barry slurred. His eyes were wild and he seemed dazed, which was not all that surprising, given the circumstances.

“Cuff him!” Liponsky shouted, just over their shoulders. One of the agents rolled Barry onto his stomach, pulled back his wrists and slid on the cuffs.

“Look, Liponsky,” Conner said, “I think possibly you’ve-”

“Did someone read him his rights?” Liponsky shouted. “I don’t want any procedural errors screwing up my collar. We’ve got to read him his rights.”

The same agent who’d done the cuffs whipped a card out of his shirt pocket and began to read. “You have the right to remain silent…”

“Look,” Conner said, trying again, “I think maybe you’ve made a mistake.”

“I don’t make mistakes,” Liponsky fired back. “Criminals make mistakes.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. But I don’t think Barry is your man.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I know him. He’s on the tour.”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t be the killer.”

“Look at him, will you? He’s smashed!”

“What?” Liponsky’s head jerked down toward the ground.

“He’s drunk! If you don’t want to take my word for it, smell his breath.”

“I can smell it from here,” O’Brien said, somewhere behind them.

“Iss thiss my cabin?” Barry said with a hiccup. “I been trying to find my cabin…”

Conner rolled his eyes. “You’re a little off-track, Barry.”

The tiniest trace of concern flickered across Liponsky’s brow. “This could be a front. An acting job to put us off.”

“No one’s that good an actor, Liponsky. He’s wasted. Probably been drinking all day. And there’s no way the man I was talking to on the phone was drunk.”

Liponsky bit down on her lower lip. “There must be some explanation.”

“Yeah, there is. You screwed up.”

A look of horror suddenly spread across her face. “Oh, my God. If he’s not-”

“What?” Conner said. “What is it?”

Without another word, Liponsky raced toward the parked golf cart. She ran like there was no tomorrow, probably doing twice the time Conner had out on the course. She didn’t stop running until she practically collided into the cart.

“Oh, no!” she cried. “No, no, no!”

Conner and O’Brien followed close behind her. “What is it?” Conner asked.

She didn’t need to answer. One look was all it took.

She was holding the black bag in her hands. And it was empty.

25

An hour later, Conner was back in the clubhouse listening to O’Brien try to explain what had happened.

“But how did he get the money? You had the place surrounded.”

“Above ground, yes,” O’Brien said. “Below ground, no.”

“Below ground? I don’t get it.”

“Turns out there’s a fairly extensive sewer system under part of the golf course. Including the part the eighteenth hole is on.”

Conner nodded. “That’s true. I remember Fanboy Ed telling me about it. That’s how he got in.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Seems the Augusta National has heavy water demands-for watering the course and whatnot. So they built this underground sewer system. Tunnels are small-but passable.”

“So I hear from our dear friend Agent Liponsky. She’s got agents crawling through every branch of the system. But they haven’t found the culprit. And I don’t think they’re going to, either. He probably grabbed the money seconds after you put it down, then hightailed it.”

“But how did he grab the money without being seen?”

O’Brien reached out across the small round table, then popped a handful of beer nuts into her mouth. “Turns out the golf cart was just a decoy. It was parked over a manhole cover-an access tunnel to the sewer system. The insides of the cart had been hollowed out so a person could crawl up through it, pull the seat cover off, cut the bottom of the bag, take the money, and disappear-without ever being seen above ground. The bag never moved-but our extortionist got the cash just the same.”

“That’s pretty damn smart.”

“I would have to agree with you on that point. He outfoxed us but good.”

“A genius golfer. Who the hell would that be?”

O’Brien gave him a sharp look. “Do you know something I don’t? What makes you so sure the killer is a golfer?”

“It was my conversation with him,” Conner explained. “While he was running me all over creation. He talked like a golfer-talked about divots and bogies. And stuff not just any golfer would know-like about PGA penalties. And he was familiar with my golfing performance this week-even though the TV people never got close to me before today.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “No, I’m sure of it. Our killer is a golfer. Or at the very least, someone intimately connected to this tournament.”