Accused (34 page)

Scott couldn't have sent Carlos with photos of Pete and Billie Jean Puckett—that would have blown his cover. But Scott was sure the big man was Pete and the blonde girl was Billie Jean. They had been in Trey Rawlins' house the day he was murdered. Once Scott got their prints, he would know for sure. And so would the D.A.

"What?"

"What they said happened. Said right after lunch, the blonde girl drives up in a black Mustang, goes inside, they don't see her for maybe four hours. Then a cab drives up and the big man gets out. This was after five 'cause they were already drinking beer. The big man, he don't go in the front door like the girl, he goes around back. Maybe fifteen minutes later, he comes out the front door dragging the girl by her arm, puts her in the Mustang, and they drive off. She was crying."

"How could they tell she was crying from that far away?"

"Binoculars."

"They had binoculars? What for? To watch the birds?"

"Uh … no, boss. To watch the red-haired woman go out on the back deck … naked. Said she had a tattoo."

TWENTY-NINE

Two days later, Scott woke early, drove to Hobby Airport in Houston, caught a Southwest flight to San Antonio, rented a car, and drove to the La Cantera Golf Club on the north side of town where the San Antonio Open was being played. He found Nick Madden talking on his cell phone and watching Pete Puckett putt on the ninth green. When Nick ended the call, he had a big grin on his face.

"Never thought I'd be so happy to hear someone say 'erectile dysfunction.' They want Pete to endorse for them." He gestured at the green. "Twenty years, he couldn't win a fucking putt-putt tournament, then he wins the U.S. Open. I'm getting a dozen endorsement offers a day."

"He suffers from ED?"

"He does?"

"Why would he endorse that stuff if he doesn't?"

Nick gave Scott a dumbfounded look. "Money. You watch golf on TV—what are the commercials for? Drugs to make your dick harder, your prostate smaller, your hair darker, and your golf ball go farther. How to get it up, keep it up, look younger, and hit it longer—that's the WM squared fantasy, Scott, and sponsors pay big bucks to anyone who can help them tap into it. Old fart like Pete whips the young studs out here to win the Open, he's the perfect pitchman for that stuff: 'Guys, if I can win the U.S. Open, you can win the babe. All you gotta do is color your hair and swallow this pill.' " He paused. "I guess you want his prints?"

Scott nodded. "And Billie Jean's. What kind of car does she drive?"

"Black Mustang. Why?"

"A blonde girl in a black Mustang was seen at Trey's house the day he was murdered."

"Shit."

"And a big man came and dragged her out of the house."

"Double shit."

"That's why I need their prints. I need to know."

"I'll help you."

"Why?"

"Because I need to know, too. I'm working these endorsement deals, last thing I need is him involved in Trey's murder. Sponsors get nervous when criminal stuff's involved, unless it's an NBA player, then it's just part of the deal. Sooner you mark Pete off the list, sooner I can close these deals and make some money." He paused. "Did you mark me off the list?"

Scott nodded. "Did you know Trey used cocaine?"

Nick didn't react for a moment. Then he exhaled and nodded.

"I told him, snorting coke, he'd never win the Open. But he said he had it under control. Famous last words, right?"

"I thought the tour was drug testing now?"

"They are."

"How'd he pass?"

"He didn't. I did." Nick shrugged. "I peed for him. He kept a clean sample in his locker. They tell him it's his turn to pee, he'd sneak it into the john, pour it into the cup. It ain't exactly San Quentin out here."

"Did you know he owed his dealer half a million dollars?"

"
Half a million?
Shit. No, I didn't know. Why?"

"He thought the dealer cheated him."

"Jesus, he was in deeper than I thought. You think the dealer killed him?"

"Maybe the
Muertos
."

Nick nodded. "They executed some people in Houston. I wouldn't want those bastards after me."

"Why didn't you get him into rehab?"

"He didn't want to go. Besides, he goes into rehab, the whole world knows about it the next day—and his endorsements dry up. WM squared don't like dopers, Scott."

"You just sat back and watched him go downhill so you wouldn't lose your commissions?"

"Scott, I couldn't make him go straight. But I sent him to a sports psychologist."

"Who?"

"Dr. Tim. Timothy O'Brien. He works with a lot of athletes, helps them keep their heads on straight when the world's telling them they're gods. Usually doesn't work."

"He wasn't exactly the Trey Rawlins you sold, was he?"

"Neither was Tiger." Nick blew out a breath. "Scott, we sell what people want. They want that all-American golden boy image. They want their heroes. They need them. The public doesn't want reality, hell, they can get depressed enough watching the evening news with Katie Couric. Last thing the public wants is the truth."

"Well, Nick, they're going to learn the truth about Trey Rawlins at trial."

"When?"

"Twenty-six days."

"Not much time to find the killer."

They found Billie Jean Puckett sitting in a tree. She was eating a cherry snow cone with her fingers.

"Hi, Billie Jean," Nick said.

He had startled her. She almost dropped the snow cone. She stared down at them and said, "What do you want?"

"Come on down, kiddo."

"No."

"He just wants to talk to you."

"No."

"Billie Jean," Scott said, "did you go to the Florida tournament with your dad?"

"No. I stayed in Austin."

"But you didn't stay in Austin, did you? You drove to Galveston. You were in Trey's house the day he died, weren't you?"

"No."

"You drive a black Mustang."

"No, I don't."

"He knows you do," Nick said.

"So?"

"So witnesses saw a blonde girl in a black Mustang at Trey's house that day," Scott said.

"No one's gonna believe a bunch of Mexicans."

"I didn't say they were Mexican."

"Oh. Still, wasn't me."

"Will you give me your fingerprints?"

"What for?"

"So he can cross you off the list," Nick said.

"What list?"

"The list of suspects, people who might've killed Trey."

"I didn't kill Trey."

"I know that, honey. But he doesn't."

"I'm not coming down."

"Well," Scott said, "we're not going anywhere until you do."

He leaned against the tree and whistled a tune.

From ten feet above: "You can't carry a tune in a bucket."

"Thank you. How long were you and Trey involved?"

"A few weeks … I said I don't want to talk."

Scott started whistling again.

"I'm gonna tell my daddy and he's gonna beat you up."

"Did he beat up Trey?"

Nothing.

"Did he kill Trey?"

More nothing.

"I've got all day, Billie Jean."

"I gotta pee."

"If I let you down, will you talk to me?"

"If you don't let me down, I'm gonna pee on your head."

Scott looked up at her. "Please don't run."

She sighed. "I won't." She held the snow cone down to Scott. "Hold this."

He took her snow cone while Nick reached up to help her climb down. Her hands were red with the juice, which was now running down Scott's hands. He held the snow cone out to her.

"Here."

In a quick movement, she punched the bottom of his hand, sending the red snow cone splashing onto his shirt. Then she ran.

"She's running again!" Nick said.

Scott dropped the snow cone, and they ran after her. They chased her across fairways and around greens, through crowds and tents and between concession stands … she was fast … and she was again heading to the ladies' locker room. And they couldn't catch her. She hit the thick glass door with both hands up high, pushed it open, turned and gave them a little red-handed wave, then disappeared from sight. Scott put his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath. He ran five miles every morning on the beach and this teenage girl had run him into the dirt.

"You really think Pete might've killed him?" Nick said. "He's got a bad temper, but sticking a knife in Trey?"

An older woman gave Scott a look as she stepped past him to the door, grabbed the handle, and pushed the door open. The door shut behind her, and as it did, the sunlight caught the glass—and Scott stood straight at what he saw: two red handprints.

"Don't let anyone touch that glass," he said to Nick.

He jogged over to the concession tent and bought paper towels, a bottled water, and clear packing tape—the tape wasn't technically for sale; Scott had to pay $50 for a half roll. He wiped his hands on the towels, drank the water, and went back to the ladies' locker room door where Nick stood guard. Scott overlapped long tape strips across the glass to form one large piece of tape and smoothed the tape. Then he peeled the tape off the glass in one clean stroke. He held the tape up to the sunlight.

He had Billie Jean Puckett's fingerprints.

After securing the tape in a baggie in the rental car, Scott returned to the eighteenth hole where Nick was waiting. They watched as Pete Puckett putted out to complete his round. When he walked off the eighteenth green he stuck a cigar in his mouth just as cameras and reporters mobbed him.

"That's what winning the U.S. Open does for you," Nick said. "Two weeks ago, he couldn't buy an interview."

"There's Goose."

They caught up with the caddie, who was lighting a cigar and who wasn't excited to see Scott.

"Go away."

"Goose, I talked to Tess, Lacy, and Riley."

Goose chuckled. "Every moment in Trey's life was a Cialis moment."

"He took Viagra."

"That works, too."

"Any others?"

"Some guys like Levitra."

"Women."

"You want them in alphabetical or chronological order?" He chuckled again. "I was with a couple gals before I got married, he was with a couple gals before lunch. Hell, I felt more like a pimp than a caddie. We'd be walking down the fairway, in the hunt for a win, and he'd spot a gal standing outside the ropes, tell me to get her number. One tournament, he screwed a two-piece in a corporate hospitality tent during a rain delay. Most guys pack protein bars in the bag—he packed condoms." Goose shook his head. "Trey cut a wide swath through the WAGs. You'd think he'd've been happy with the groupies and your wife."

"We also know about Trey and Billie Jean. Did Pete kill him?"

"I don't know. But I sure as hell would've, if she was my daughter." Goose spit. "She's just a goddamned kid without a mama."

"Why was he like that? Trey?"

Goose inhaled on the cigar then blew out a cloud of smoke.

"Back when I started out here the big stars—Palmer, Nicklaus, Trevino—they gave back more than they took and they didn't always take the best for themselves. Young guys today, they figure they're entitled to the best and screw the world. They've got no sense of responsibility, just a sense of entitlement. Trey was one of those guys. He took what he wanted, whether it was a Bentley or another man's wife. But you already know that, don't you?"

Goose hefted the big bag onto his shoulder and trudged off. Scott stared after him. He did know that.

"Goose is something of a philosopher on tour … and an asshole." Nick slapped Scott on the shoulder. "Come on, Pete's freed up."

Scott followed Nick over to Pete. He was smoking the cigar and signing autographs. Fans were pushing their caps, programs, balls, and breasts forward for him to sign. Scott tried to make friends this time.

"Congratulations on the Open, Pete."

Pete continued signing autographs on autopilot. He didn't look up at Scott.

"What do you want, lawyer?"

Okay, forget friendship. Scott pulled Karen's compact case from his pants pocket. He opened it and held it out to Pete.

"I want your fingerprints on this mirror."

"Why?"

"He wants to cross you off the list," Nick said.

"What list?"

"List of suspects. People who might've killed Trey."

"His wife killed Trey."

"Will you take a polygraph?" Scott asked.

"Did she?"