“Any suspects?”

“I already told you what I thought-you need to talk to Freddy.”

“Funny you should say that. I was thinking pretty much the same way you are, that the time had come, even if I didn’t have anything on him and it might tip him off that he was under suspicion. So after we got back from our moonlight fiasco, I gave Freddy a call. He’s disappeared.”

“What? As in-?”

“As in, no one knows where the hell he is, even though he was specifically instructed to stay put.”

“This is very curious.”

“It’s more than that. Get this, Conner-no one knows where he was tonight.”

“O’Brien, I think you need to pick him up.”

“Way ahead of you. I’ve got an APB out. We’ll get him.”

“Good. So… how is Liponsky taking the news?”

“Not well. Her home office is all over her for botching the nab.” A smile spread across her face. “As a fellow law enforcement officer, of course, my hearts bleeds for her.”

“I can see that. Mine, too.”

O’Brien pushed herself out of her chair. “I’ve got to check in with my office. I’ll be in touch.”

“Sure I can’t buy you a drink?”

O’Brien hesitated. For half a second, Conner almost thought she might go for it. “Rain check,” she said. She left the clubhouse.

Well, Conner asked himself, what next? What exactly does one do as a follow-up to acting as the bag man for a million-dollar extortion scheme?

Fortunately, he didn’t have to think about it for long. The question was answered for him when the PGA’s main man Richard Peregino entered the bar and made a beeline for Conner’s table.

Conner braced himself for another lecture about PGA standards. What had he done this time, he wondered? Mussed a sand trap while discovering a corpse? Worn the wrong color socks to deliver the payoff?

Without waiting to be invited, Peregino pulled out a chair and sat at his table. “Can I talk to you, Conner?”

Conner, Conner noted. Not Cross. “It’s a free country. Unless you’re in the PGA, of course.”

Peregino didn’t smile. “I need your help.”

Conner tried not to appear astonished. “You need my help?”

Peregino nodded. “We think there’s a leak.”

“What, in the plumbing?”

“No, you-“ He cut himself short. “To the press.”

“A leak about what?”

“About the extortion scheme. The threat from the killer.”

Conner shrugged. “Shouldn’t they know? It seems like a matter that might be of some public interest. Isn’t that what the press is for?”

“No, it isn’t. There’s already been way too much turmoil surrounding this tournament, what with one murder on the course and another not far away. If they find out about this, it could be the end of the Masters.”

Conner nodded. That was a distinct possibility.

“At the least, there’ll be a call for us to terminate the tournament. They’ll accuse us of risking lives to keep the income flowing.”

“Aren’t we?”

“No. We’re demonstrating that we won’t be pushed around by some bully with a big knife.”

The distinction seemed pretty thin to Conner. “Tenniel told me he couldn’t afford to cancel the tournament, regardless of how big the knife was.”

Peregino ignored him. “This issue has ramifications that go well beyond the Masters tournament. This could affect the whole PGA.”

“How so?”

“The PGA has an image to maintain. We have a tradition of excellence, of athleticism pushed to-”

“Stop, stop,” Conner said, holding up his hands. “I’ve heard this rhapsody before. What you’re saying is, you want the PGA to be associated with middle-aged guys in knit leisurewear, not psychopaths whacking players in the head with their Pings.”

“That would be one way of putting it, yes.”

“So what do you expect me to do about it?”

Peregino tapped his finger against the aromatic candle centerpiece. Conner could tell he was dreading asking him for a favor, a fact which gave him a great deal of pleasure. “Given your performance on the course today, you’re likely to have some press swarming around you tomorrow. In fact, a great deal of press. You’re now considered a contender. A strong contender.”

Conner’s head reeled. A strong contender? Him? Talk about music to your ears…

“I’m sure they’ll be firing questions at you-including questions relating to the murders. I would… um…” His fingers absently twiddled a sugar packet. “I would take it as a personal favor if you would not mention what happened tonight. You know. About the… the…”

“The payoff?”

“Well, yeah…”

“The extortion scheme?”

“Yeah…”

“The bungled FBI operation.”

“Yes, Conner. All of those. Is there any chance you could keep your lips sealed? At least until we have a chance to get the killer behind bars?”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Why did I know it would come to this? All right, here’s the deal. You keep mum about the blackmail, and I’ll wipe your slate clean.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m talking about your lengthy record of PGA infractions and violations. I’ll erase the whole ugly mess. Like it never happened.”

Conner gave him an indignant look. “Peregino, I’m surprised at you. You’re the PGA Ethics and Morality cop. And now you’re trying to buy me off.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way…”

“Tell me, Peregino-is this ethical?”

A familiar look returned to Peregino’s eyes-the look of contempt. “It’s necessary. So-are you in?”

“I don’t know. What do I care about my PGA record? It hasn’t done me any harm so far.”

“Get with the program, Cross. I’ve got enough material to kick your butt off the tour two times over. And don’t think I won’t do it, either.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “It would be a shame if that happened now, wouldn’t it? Just when it looked as if you might actually win a major tournament.”

“You’re going to kick me out on the last day of the tournament, for alleged violations that happened well before? No way.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“I’ll go to the press. I’ll tell them everything. Including that you tried to blackmail me into silence.”

“Maybe you will. Maybe you won’t. But even if you do-you won’t finish the tournament.”

Conner felt a hollow spot in the pit of the stomach. “I’ll give it some thought.”

“I need an answer now, Cross. So I know whether to approve you for play tomorrow.”

Conner pondered before answering. “Well, here’s the straight scoop, Peregino. I made a promise to Jodie McCree, and if I’m going to keep that promise, this tournament needs to continue-with me in it. So I don’t see any reason to volunteer any information to the press.”

“Good thinking.”

Conner held up a finger. “I won’t lie. But I won’t volunteer anything.”

“Good enough.” Peregino pushed himself up from the table. “Uh… thank you. For doing the right thing. You’ll feel good about this.”

I feel, Conner thought, like I’ve been dickering with the devil. But that’s life on the PGA.

“If you’d like, we could hold a mock press conference. Let you practice dodging questions.”

“Gosh, that does sound-“ Conner’s eyes were diverted by a figure moving rapidly down the corridor outside the bar. “Excuse me, Peregino. Gotta run.”

Conner jumped out of his chair and bolted down the hallway. “Wait!”

The figure at the end of the corridor stopped. Conner increased his speed, catching him near the outside door.

It was Ed Frohike, the President of the John McCree Fan Club. “How ya been, Ed?”

Ed’s face was a mix of surprise, confusion, apprehension. “I’m fine.”

“I haven’t seen you around the last day or two. Where ya been?”

Ed answered awkwardly, diverting his eyes toward the floor. “Well, you know. Without John in the tournament… it hasn’t been so… interesting for me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. What are you doing here today?”

“Oh…” He craned his neck. “I… just had to get my things.”

“Your things?”