The Feathery (10 page)

"Scott Beckman…Sarah Covington here. Straight away, I don’t suppose I can talk you out of taking the feathery from the auction. I’m quite disappointed since I planned to bid on it myself."

Scott answered a voice that seemed disgruntled. "Sorry, I’ve made up my mind to keep it."

The phone was silent for ten seconds…"Gamby tells me you’re a professional golfer on the tour. Are you playing in our Open at Turnberry?"

 "Yes I am."

"Could you stop over in London so we may sort out the contract issue?"
After a brief check with Matt, who’d just finished making their travel reservations to confirm their stop-over in London, Scott answered her. "We have an overnight flight scheduled to arrive London on Tuesday morning, before we fly on to Prestwick, Scotland on Wednesday. Could I meet with you some time on Tuesday in London?"
"That will be fine. You may come to the gallery around one in the afternoon, if that’s all right." She gave Scott directions to the Covington Gallery in London.

H
is deep telephone voice came at her with a command. "I’ve sent my plane to pick you up. It will be there in one hour. I want you on board and on your way here."
She was used to his demands. They usually came sans explanation and she would respond in kind without question. After all, he paid her well. She packed a few things in a small leather carry-on and called the taxi that took her to the private plane terminal. The plane was there with engines running. After she boarded the sleek jet it was soon speeding down the runway and airborne.

When the Gulfstream V landed a limo was waiting on the ramp to whisk her to the meeting. It took place in his large Tudor style mansion. A butler escorted her to his viewing room where he sat in a swivel chair at a huge desk among other leather furniture. Persian carpeting covered the floor and display cabinets depicting antique golf memorabilia filled the room.

Without an offer of tea or indulging in small talk he gruffly explained the reason for his urgent beckon call. "My sources tell me that the McNair feathery ball has been removed from the auction in London."

"Oh, I’d not heard that," she said
"I pay you quite well to keep your ears and eyes open relative to my collecting thrust," he snarled. "As you know, I was going to out-bid all to possess that McNair feathery." He glared at her. ‘Now, it’s been pulled from the auction and we can’t execute that plan."
"What now?" And she was sorry she asked, knowing anything she might say would trigger more of the ire stemming from his disappointment.
His answer came in a near scream. "I called you here to execute a recovery plan. He slammed his fist down on the mahogany desk. "You will obtain that feathery ball for me any cost."
She took a deep breath before asking the obvious question in support of his order.
"Where’s the feathery at present?"
"My sources tell me that the feathery was being prepared for shipment from the Covington Gallery in New York City to London when the owner decided against auctioning it. It’s either still in New York or it’s or it’s on the way to London. I want you to contact the New York and London people you’ve used previously and execute a plan.
She was shaking when she asked. "Are the funds for this task available at the usual place?"
"Yes, I wired $500,000 to the Barkley Bank in your name." He stood up behind the desk and his eyes narrowed to stare at her. "I want that feathery ball in my collection! Get it for me!"

NEW YORK CITY

D
etective Francis X. Riley was ordered to investigate a murder and attempted robbery at the Covington Gallery on Madison Avenue in New York City. He started to question one of the NYPD officers who’d first arrived at the crime scene. Riley squinted to read the officer’s name tag. Straining to see small print signaled his need for glasses again. During a yearly physical the doc recommended bifocals. But the rugged forty-year-old detective thought glasses would detract from the image he wanted to present to bad guys. When the letters on the cop’s name tag cleared he asked, "What’ve ya got, Grabowski?"

"The manager, Gamby, and some workers were preparing a shipment to England of some antique golf stuff." Officer Grabowski said. "A guy with a handgun burst into the room where they were packing the things."

"He came in through the Lobby?" Riley interrupted.

"Yeah, the guard on duty there must have tried to stop him and got shot."

After the coroner finished his work, one of his men zipped the guard’s body into a rubber bag and they lifted it up on a gurney for transport to the morgue. Riley knew the coroner, Dr. Jacob Stansfield. They’d met on many grim occasions like this one.

"A large caliber from something like a 357 went through his heart, tore up a lung and exited, making a big hole under his left shoulder blade, Francis." Dr. Stanfield said, and then added, "the forensic people have put the bullet in an evidence box."
"Can I take a look at the victim, Jake?"
The coroner unzipped the body bag halfway, and the face Riley saw wasn’t just another homicide victim…It was Lem Shattuck’s face. As a rookie he’d been assigned to partner with the veteran cop, and they’d become friends. After his assignment to homicide he would meet Lem occasionally at a Knicks game, have a fast beer afterwards and talk of old times. He’d lost track of Lem since attending his retirement party and figured he’d gone to Florida as planned.

The deep sigh from Riley was close to a sob as the coroner zipped the bag back over Lem’s face. He got it back together after a few minutes and started doing what he was there for. "Did anyone ID the shooter?" he asked Grabowski.

"Best you talk to the manager, Mr. Gamby. He’s in his office, detective."

Riley left the lobby and went to Gamby’s office. He found Gamby sitting at his desk trying to regroup from the horror of what had happened. He removed both hands from his face and looked up at Riley. Riley introduced himself and flashed a wallet with his detective badge attached.
"I can’t believe it.. Jesus, Joseph and Mary! He was going to retire at the end of the month. Lem was a loyal employee and my friend, detective."
"Mine too," Riley was quick to reply.
Riley’s response that he was a friend of Lem confused Gamby, but he didn’t question it, and in his present state of mind any explanation by the detective seemed unimportant.
Riley had his notebook and a pen in hand. "Tell me what happened here, Mr. Gamby."
Gamby started to put his hands to his face again, as if he wanted to hide from the vision he was recalling. "I was supervising the packing of a golf antique and memorabilia shipment to London when what sounded like a gunshot came from the lobby. A few seconds after, a masked man rushed into the room pointing a gun at us."
"What did the perpetrator look like?" Riley asked.
"A male, tall and heavyset. Over six feet, and I’d guess at least two hundred pounds. A ski mask covered his face…his eyes were glassy… wore a black leather jacket."
"What was he after, Mr. Gamby?"
"He wanted an item he thought was in the shipment we were preparing, but it was sent to our London gallery earlier today by courier."
"Then what?"
"He made a threat to blow my head off if I was lying about it being sent already. He rummaged through the shipment, ripping boxes open and cursing. After not finding what he was looking for, he left and ran toward the lobby."
"What’s the item the guy was looking for, Mr. Gamby?" .
"The feathery."
Riley was confused. "What the hell is a feathery?"
"Oh, sorry. It’s a rare, antique golf ball. Quite sought after by collectors."
Riley stared at Gamby, trying to understand how an old ball would be a reason to murder someone. After five seconds he expressed his shock in words spaced two seconds apart."A…golf…ball…Lem…Shattuck… was…killed…because…of…a…fucking…golf…ball?"

S
ix hours after leaving New York, the Boeing 777 approached Heathrow through fog and drizzle. The landing jolted Mike Edwards awake, and he looked out at the dank darkness of early morning England. As a courier, Mike made many trips, but most times he didn’t know what was in the packages he carried in the leather case. This time it was different. Gamby knew Mike was an avid golfer who lined up at four in the morning to play courses like Bethpage Black and others around New York City and had told him he was delivering a valuable antique feathery golf ball and a bronze statuette of a woman golfer.

Mike had read an article in a golf magazine about feathery golf balls. It explained that the USGA at Golf House in New Jersey ran a test on an ancient feathery ball comparing it to a modern one. They’d used a robotic driver at the same swing speed of 100 miles per hour for each drive. The result was that the feathery, made in the nineteenth century, was driven 178 yards compared to a distance of 240 yards for the modern ball. Mike was surprised that a golf ball filled with feathers and covered with leather could be driven only 62 yards less than a modern, high-tech golf ball. He would’ve liked to take a peek at the feathery, but the leather case was locked and sealed.

Mike presented the paperwork relating to the feathery and the bronze to a customs agent. When the antiques cleared, he proceeded to the terminal concourse where he handed the leather case to Bernard Brooks, an employee of Covington Gallery, who held a sign that read: MR. EDWARDS
.
The hand-off to Brooks completed Mike’s courier task. In two hours he would be on a flight for his return to New York.

Two men lurking nearby watched the leather case change hands from Edwards to Brooks. They’d been tipped off on the arrival details of the feathery, and after observing the exchange they followed Brooks to the garage parking lot, virtually deserted in the early morning hour. When they caught up to Brooks, one of them grabbed the leather case and ran, while the other pulled a gun out of his jacket and aimed it at Brooks’ chest. He fired just as Brooks brought up a kung fu kick at the gun. The gun was knocked out of the guy’s hand, and it slithered across the cement floor, coming to rest under a parked car. The bullet smashed into Brooks’ left shoulder, instead of his chest where it was aimed.

As Brooks lay injured on the garage floor, his assailant rushed to retrieve the gun. Just then the getaway car screeched to a stop, and the driver opened the passenger door frantically beckoning for his partner to get in. After he picked up the gun, the shooter ran to the car, and barely made it there before tires squealed a fast lurch toward the exit.

Brooks reached for his cell phone and touched the emergency numbers. He was able to ask for help and give his location before slipping into darkness.

A
n hour after Edwards’ flight landed, Scott and Matt arrived at Heathrow. They retrieved their luggage and Scott’s clubs, cleared customs and took a taxi to their hotel, not knowing one man was dead and another seriously wounded because of Scott’s feathery and bronze statuette.

Shortly after they checked into the hotel, Scott left for the Covington Gallery to meet Sarah Covington. Matt planned to spend the morning strolling around London.

After a twenty-minute drive through the streets of London, Scott exited the taxi in front of a building made of granite and covered with ivy vines. He walked along the cobblestone pathway and up five pink marble steps. He opened a solid oak door and entered the Covington Gallery’s foyer.

The receptionist picked up a phone and called Sarah Covington. After a few minutes she came down a corridor toward Scott. He’d expected an older lady and was surprised by her youth and beauty. Her ash blond hair was pulled back, with a few tendrils touching each side of her face. She walked up to him, held out her hand and grasped Scott’s hand firmly. She didn’t release it right away, and her green eyes looked into his with concern.

"Scott, I’ve just received some dreadful news." She told him about the killing at her New York gallery and the robbery and shooting at Heathrow.

Scott stood still with a blank expression on his face while the loss of the feathery and the bronze registered. But the killing of one person and the wounding of another over his golf antiques was much more difficult to grasp.

"Chief Inspector Bradshaw of Scotland Yard notified me of both events. He’s in my office now. He has informed me that a homicide detective from New York City will arrive in London this evening. They suspect a link between the shootings here and in New York."