Harley Tuttle.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Harley whispered, just under his breath. “What the hell are you doing out of prison?”

“Is that something your daddy used to say? Or did you think it up on your own?”

“I heard you were arrested. In custody.”

“I got a temporary reprieve, Harley. Just long enough to catch the real killer.”

“Really? Then you’ll be interested in this.” He stepped forward, holding out the knife. “I found this lying on the floor. I don’t know how it got-”

“Harley, please. Don’t bother.”

“Don’t bother?” He twisted up his face. “I don’t get you, Conner.”

“Don’t bother lying, Harley.”

“But what-“ He did a double-take. “Oh, my God. You don’t think-you’re not imagining-that I committed those crimes?”

“Yes, Harley. As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Conner, that’s crazy. Look, I can explain.”

“I’m sure you can. But first, let me take this.” He surged forward and, before Harley had a chance to protest, snatched the blood-stained knife. He wrapped it in a towel, then set it on a counter out of Harley’s reach. “Don’t want you to get any crazy ideas. Like maybe going for four.”

“Conner-are you telling me you honestly believe-”

“I believe this. You killed John. You killed Jodie. You killed your accomplice Freddy, poor schmuck. And you masterminded the extortion plot.”

“Conner-you’re insane.”

“I’ve been certain for some time that the killer was a golf pro. It made sense. It had to be someone who could lure him out to the eighteenth hole in the dead of night. And when the killer had me running all over the course by remote control cellular phone, his knowledge of the course, his terminology, his knowledge of the game all convinced me he had to be somebody on the tour.”

“But even if that’s true,” Harley protested, “why would you accuse me?”

“I didn’t at first. I thought it was Freddy. After all, it was his club that found its way into my bag, right? He’s the only other player here using Excaliburs, and his height would explain why the shaft was shorter than mine. But then you went and killed Freddy, screwing up my theory.”

“Conner-you’re talking like a crazy man.”

Conner ignored him. “I was certain the key to the mystery lay in understanding the meaning of Fiji. It was the last thing Jodie heard John say before he died. She thought it was important-and so did I. I tried to bait the killer into commenting on it over the cellular phone, but he didn’t go for it. So I was left wondering-what could it mean? Was it an acronym? A code word? A geographical reference?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Harley said impatiently.

“Oh, I think you do. But I couldn’t figure it out-until this evening, when I heard a cop make a remark about a fraternity stunt. It was all I needed to jog my memory. A bit of trivia left over from my college days. John was a member of the Beta Theta Pi frat house. They’re called Betas. But there’s another fraternity house in the Greek system called Phi Delta Gamma-right, Harley? And its members are called-Fijis.”

“You’re mad. Stark raving mad.”

“John was a Beta at Stanford, but I felt certain he knew some Fijis-maybe even one who didn’t want to be known. So I had a lieutenant friend of mine call the university and get faxed some pages from the Fiji frat house annual for the years John went to school there. And guess what we found?”

Harley wasn’t smiling any more. “I’m waiting.”

“It wasn’t easy. You were a good deal heavier then, and you’ve changed your name. But once I saw the photos enlarged, there was no doubt in my mind. That kid who used to be called Myron Caldwell is now Harley Tuttle.”

“You’re certifiable,” Harley said. He made for the door. “I’m leaving.”

Conner shoved him back. “Granted, you’ve done everything imaginable to change your appearance. Dyed your hair black, shaved your beard. Ditched the glasses and the earring. Just the same, I made you.”

“This is ludicrous!” Harley protested. “Even if I could do such a thing, why would I want to?”

“You know, I was curious about that myself. So as soon as I ID’d your picture, I got faxes of your-or Myron’s-college records. Seems you were quite a promising golfer back in college, which of course increased the likelihood that John would’ve bumped into you somewhere. But it also turns out you ran into a spot of trouble during your junior year. You got arrested and charged with several offenses-sexual offenses. Including statutory rape.”

“You’re full of it,” Harley said. Once more, he pressed forward, trying to escape.

And once more, Conner shoved him back. “I’ve got proof.”

“You’ve got nothing!” Harley’s voice was rising.

“Wanna see the police report?” Conner whipped a green sheet of paper out of his pocket. “There it is, big as life and twice as ugly. Statutory rape. My God-how can you live with yourself?”

“You’re out of line, Conner.”

“If it had just been petty theft or hot-wiring cars, that would be one thing. Most kids get into a little trouble before they grow up. But sex with minors?”

Harley’s face flushed red. “You don’t know what you’re babbling about.”

“I think I do. And it makes me sick.” He shoved Harley backward. “Come on, you disgusting son-of-a-bitch, talk.”

Harley’s neck tensed. “I’m not-”

Conner shoved him again. Harley slammed into the lockers. “You’re a pervert, Harley. A pervert who takes advantage of children. A child molester.” He kept pounding away at him, shoving him back again with each word. “You’re sick, Harley. You make me want to puke.”

“It was just a frat party, for God’s sake!” The words came tumbling out, like lava spewing from a volcano. “That’s all it was!”

Conner stopped hammering him. Finally, he had the man talking.

“We had some fun, they had some fun. All us horny frat boys, all those equally horny sorority girls running around in their skimpy nighties. We were all drunk and turned on and-and-I don’t know. I guess things got out of control. But no one forced anyone to do anything.”

“But someone turned you in.”

Harley bit down on his lip. Conner could imagine his inner turmoil. A part of his brain knew he should remain silent, but another part was desperate to speak in his defense. “Someone called the cops. They showed up, and-“ Harley cast his eyes toward the floor. “I assumed everyone there was a sorority girl, meaning they were eighteen or older. But it turned out one of them-the one I was with-was somebody’s little sister. Fifteen. And the cops found out.”

“So you were arrested.”

“My attorney said I could get off easy if I pled guilty. So I did. Two years probation. I never served a day in jail. It was no big deal.”

“No big deal-unless you were planning on a career in the PGA. Because, as I’ve been reminded all week long, the PGA has very strict morals and ethics regulations. And there’s no way in hell they’d let a convicted sex offender on the tour.”

“It just wasn’t fair! One stupid mistake, and it was all over. All my plans, all my prospects, all those years of practice-all down the dumper. Myron Caldwell had come to a dead end.”

“So you became… someone else.”

Harley flopped down on the nearest bench, tired and resigned. “Myron disappeared. I changed my looks, changed my name. Eventually created a body of false IDs and fake background records. Then, when I thought enough time had passed, I entered the PGA qualifier. And made it.”

“And so this year you joined the tour.”

“That’s right. But I’ve been careful. Damned careful. I never went anywhere near anyone I thought might be able to make me. That’s why I was so uncomfortable the other day when that crowd followed us all over the course. That’s why I didn’t socialize much. And I’ve thrown tournaments. I figured a guy who consistently places fourth or fifth can remain relatively anonymous-but a champion receives entirely too much publicity. I didn’t want a crowd watching me; I didn’t want to be on television. So I contented myself with placing. Just high enough to rake in the bucks-never high enough to attract attention.”