“My God,” Conner said. He turned away, holding his stomach, feeling his gorge rising. “You can’t think-You can’t think that I-”

“We don’t think. We know.” O’Brien pushed him away from the bed, then jerked him toward the door. “You have the right to remain silent. If you decide to waive that right, anything you say can and will be used against you…”

34

Back at Augusta police headquarters, Conner sat in an interrogation room surrounded by half a dozen law enforcement officers. O’Brien had apparently won the coveted right to take the lead; she sat opposite the small table from him, a look of disbelief permanently etched on her face. Two men in uniforms stood behind her, their mouths closed but molded into something like a sneer. There was an older matronly woman administering the cautions and operating the tape and video equipment. And finally there were two huge burly men guarding the door.

“I’m tired of playing cat and mouse,” O’Brien said impatiently. “Just come clean. Tell us the truth. Then everybody can go home.”

“Everyone except me, you mean.”

O’Brien did not smile. “Well, Conner, I don’t see you going home for a good long time, no matter what you say.”

“You really know how to inspire a guy.”

She leaned across the table. “You must be racked with guilt by now. Killing your oldest and best friend-and his wife?” She shook her head sadly. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through.”

“I’ve been telling you-I didn’t kill anyone.”

“And I have to admit-I bought it for a while. I went along with you. Played your game. But the game’s over now. You’ve been caught red-handed.”

“There’s no red on my hands. Not a trace of blood. If I committed this murder, where’s the blood?”

O’Brien was unimpressed. “I learned how to wash my hands back in kindergarten, Conner. It’s not a big trick.”

“How did I manage to not get any blood on my clothes?”

“Practice makes perfect.” She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “Give it up. No one’s buying it anymore.”

“Look, talk to the people at the clubhouse. Talk to the bartender. Talk to Harley or some of the other pros. I’ve been in that clubhouse for the last three hours. I never left once.”

“We’re checking your story. We know you were in the clubhouse. But no one was really keeping tabs on you-a fact you no doubt counted on. So far no one can be certain you didn’t slip away for a short while. After all, five minutes is all it would’ve taken.”

“But it doesn’t make any sense. Why would I want to kill Freddy?”

“I don’t know. Why did you kill John and Jodie?”

Conner’s face screwed up with anger. “I didn’t!” He leaned forward, voice angry. “I didn’t kill anyone!”

His shout rang through the tiny interrogation room, bouncing off the coarse plaster walls. Get a grip on yourself, Conner warned himself. This is exactly what they want. They want you to lose control, to babble.

Conner tried to calm himself. He leaned back in his chair. “I’m not saying anything more.”

“Do you want an attorney?”

Conner blew air through his teeth. That really would be the last resort, wouldn’t it? He might as well stamp I’M GUILTY on his forehead in big black letters. “No, I want you to let me go and leave me alone.”

“Yeah, that’ll happen.” O’Brien turned her head and gave a quick nod to one of the men standing behind her. Seemed it was time to change lobsters and dance.

The other man, a dark-haired middle-aged guy with eyes as deep as a water well, introduced himself. “I’m Sergeant Hopkins,” he said. “For the record, I’m taking the lead in the interrogation as of twenty-two-oh-six P.M.” He looked at Conner and smiled pleasantly. “What was it, Mr. Cross? Professional jealousy?”

Conner peered at him uncomprehendingly. “What are you talking about?”

“Motive, that’s what I’m talking about. I’ve got no problem with guilt; it’s obvious you did it. Finding John McCree’s body yourself was a nice touch; that threw us off for a while. But you had clear means and opportunity. The only thing I can’t figure is motive.”

“So I killed John because he was a better golfer? That’s really pathetic.”

“To me, maybe. But to someone who spends his whole life knocking those balls around-who knows?” He tilted his head to one side. “Or maybe it was the woman.”

“The woman? Which woman?”

“Jodie McCree. She was your girl, once upon a time, wasn’t she? Don’t bother denying it. We’ve investigated this thoroughly.”

“That was years ago!”

“And I’ll bet it was digging into your craw every single day, wasn’t it?” His face darkened, and his eyes actually seemed to recede. “I’ll bet your hate festered like an open wound, getting worse and worse every day, until finally you just couldn’t stand it any longer. You saw them both at the tournament, maybe sitting across the table at the champions’ dinner, and you couldn’t stand it any longer. You had to do something. You had to strike back against the people who had wronged you. Isn’t that how it happened?”

“No!”

“You’ll feel better if you confess. Really. Just let it all go. You can’t imagine how much better you’ll feel.”

Giving Hopkins a few shots in the face would also make him feel better, but he wasn’t going to do that, either. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Fido.”

“So it was all a coincidence. Just a strange twist of fate that you found the body. That your golf club was the murder weapon. That you were on the scene when Mrs. McCree was killed, too. That you don’t have an alibi for either murder.”

“I didn’t know I’d need one-since I didn’t know there were going to be any murders!”

“Weren’t you a bit jealous of your old buddy John? When he went off to that big West Coast college? When he married your old girlfriend? When he won all those golf tournaments, and you couldn’t seem to win anything?”

“I’ve done all right this week.”

“Sure-’cause John McCree is out of the way.”

“That’s the stupidest-”

“When he was around, you were psychologically incapable of playing a good game. But once he was gone…”

“What is this, Psych 101? You’re on a gigantic fishing expedition. You don’t know anything. And you don’t have anything on me.”

“Other than a bloody mutilated corpse on your bed,” O’Brien replied. “How do you explain that?”

Conner frowned. “I can’t. But it wasn’t me.”

“Why would anyone else want to kill Freddy Granger?”

“I don’t know.”

“And even if they did-why would they do it in your cabin?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the same reason they took my golf club. To frame me.”

“And why would anyone want to do that?”

“I don’t know!”

“Is this going to be your story at trial? Because I have to tell you-it’s pathetic. No one’s going to believe you.”

“How could I know the answers to these questions? I wasn’t there! I didn’t do it!”

“Gee, maybe no one did it. Maybe it was suicide. Maybe Freddy slashed his own throat.”

Conner didn’t feel this remark merited a response.

“Or maybe it was just an accident. Maybe he slipped in the shower.”

Conner looked over at O’Brien. “Do I have to listen to this?”

“Or maybe his death was staged,” Hopkins continued. “Maybe he isn’t dead at all. Maybe this was some wacky fraternity stunt.”

“Would you just shut up!” Conner shouted. Once again, his voice echoed through the tiny room. “I’ve had it with you, understand? I did not kill my friends! I did not kill Freddy Granger! And-And-“ All at once, Conner’s shouts faded.

“Yes?” Hopkins said expectantly.

“And-damn.” Conner fell back into his chair. “I think I know who did.”

O’Brien pushed her way back to the interrogation table. “What are you saying?”

“I know who the killer is.”

“Yeah,” Hopkins snorted. “So do we.”

Conner’s eyes became soft and unfocused. “How stupid could I possibly be? It’s been right in front of my face the whole time.”