Once in the hotel, the pretense of austerity stopped. The enormous atrium could’ve been used as a hangar for the space shuttle. The sun’s rays filtered through skylights high above. Terraced gardens with café tables faced the central corridor with its artificial lagoon and schools of koi. Ubiquitous black spheres housing security cameras peeked from the foliage and the corners. Nautical trim and prints of sailing ships decorated the walls and furniture.

The corridor led into the lobby. Gigantic chandeliers of amber glass hung from the vaulted ceiling. The carpet was plush enough to hoe and sow corn.

I checked in and went looking for Goodman. I followed a map of the resort, which took me through the lobby mezzanine, across a glassed-in corridor that bridged over the outside sidewalks, and to the adjacent clubhouse.

The corridor emptied into a foyer. Arrows on the wall read: PRO SHOP, LEFT. GOLF COURSE ADMINISTRATION AND TRAINING, RIGHT.

I went right, down a hall to an arched threshold with double doors and beveled glass inserts. Both doors were open, revealing a round vestibule lined with office doors. In the middle of the room squatted a wide, circular desk of teak trimmed with brushed aluminum.

Behind the desk sat a slender black woman, who looked to be in her early thirties. The brushed aluminum nameplate on the desk said that she was Mrs. Mikala Jamison. Sitting perfectly upright, dressed in a tailored business suit that matched the room décor, Jamison looked like she’d been ordered out of an office-supply catalog. She stared at a thin monitor screen. A headset boom jutted around her left cheek. Her manicured fingernails clicked across the keyboard. She had a gold wedding set so heavy and ornate that it would have been the envy of any Babylonian queen.

Large paintings of fairways at famous golf courses hung along the walls around us. Corporate plaques and trophies filled the spaces between the paintings and office doors.

The only golf pro I had ever known before, my uncle Pancho, would have found such sumptuous digs beyond comprehension. His office was a plastic crate behind the pro shop at the Fresno public links, where he used to sit, smoke, and hold court.

I announced myself to Mrs. Jamison and added, “I’d like to see Dan Goodman.”

She nodded and raised a hand, gesturing that I wait. Her fingers tapped on the keyboard while she muttered in business-speak, as if talking to herself. She clicked some buttons and turned toward me. “And your business, sir?”

I raised my sunglasses.

Her eyes popped open, the whites broad, concentric circles around the caramel rings surrounding the dilated pupils. Her aura lit with a luminescent burst of crimson.

I closed and locked the doors.

I stepped next to Jamison and swiveled her chair toward me. Cupping her chin, I stared deep into her eyes to strengthen my hold. Her chin was sharp and delicate. Her skin had the texture of a fresh rose petal.

I gave her another stare. “Is Goodman here?”

Jamison didn’t answer. She held her breath. I stroked her cheek with my thumb.

She slowly exhaled. “The colonel is not in.”

Colonel? Interesting. Goodman was vain enough to use his rank despite being retired.

“Where is he?”

Another pause and a breath. I took Jamison’s hand and massaged the web of flesh between her thumb and index finger, to deepen the hypnosis.

I repeated my question.

She answered in a whisper: “Chicago.”

“When is he expected back?”

Jamison’s jaw muscles tightened. Hypnotic interrogation wasn’t a simple process. Press a reluctant victim too hard and her subconscious could tighten into a protective ball, like an armadillo’s hide. Better to gently coax the answers from her.

I let go of her hand and touched her neck. My fingertips traced across the tender spots of her throat. Her aura simmered into a low burn of contentment.

She said, “I don’t know.”

I looked about the vestibule. “Where’s his office?”

“Over there.” Jamison lifted a finger in the direction of the widest door on the opposite side of the entrance.

Figuring the door might be locked, I asked Jamison for a key. She groped in a desk drawer and brought out a key on a ring with the logo of the resort.

I took the key and was about to tell Jamison to close her eyes when I thought to ask: “Is his room under surveillance?” I hadn’t seen a security camera in here.

Jamison shook her head. Good.

I told her to fold her arms on her desk, close her eyes, and lay her head down. I kissed the back of her taut, delicious neck. “Be a nice girl and take a nap.”

I entered Goodman’s office, a cavernous, opulent space. I expected to find a throne. Tall windows along the far wall overlooked palmettos, myrtle, and a green fairway. His desk was to the right and matched the materials and design of the other furnishings in the hotel.

The nameplate on his desk read: COL. DAN GOODMAN, RET. U.S. ARMY. Laminated diplomas and certificates hung behind his desk. To the left was Goodman’s “me” wall: photos of himself with other people. The photos were of Goodman in various stages of his life, always a group shot with other golfers. In some of the photos he wore a polo shirt or windbreaker with U.S. ARMY written across the front. He shared the lens with dozens of celebrities: entertainment, business, sports, political. It was as if he had served his military career on the pages of People magazine. In one older color print, a boyish Dan Goodman-in the dress uniform of a West Point cadet-received a trophy from Arnold Palmer.

At the far end of the photos was a framed certificate of his commission as an officer into the regular army. Next to that was a shadow box displaying awards and decorations. Along the top were rank insignia arranged left to right, from second lieutenant to colonel. Under those were his decorations, two of which surprised me: Bronze Star and Purple Heart.

How did a career duffer end up with a medal for bravery and another for wounds as the result of enemy action? Who had he played against? Did the Taliban field a golf team?

His cabinets were unlocked. I thumbed through the files and found tournament invitations, resort brochures, invoices for lessons and equipment, nothing out of the ordinary for a golf pro. Instead of a computer, he had a docking station for a laptop, which was missing. I searched his desk drawers and looked for a note, a business card, a scrap of paper, anything that could point the way forward.

Nothing.

I set the door lock from the inside and left the office.

Jamison snored like a hibernating bear. Her arms dangled to the floor. Both of her feet had twisted out of her pumps and wrinkled the panty hose around her ankles.

I stroked the top of her head and commanded her to wake up.

Jamison’s eyes fluttered open. She smacked her lips and straightened in her chair. Her eyes turned toward mine and I gave her a hard stare, to refresh my hypnotic hold.

“When did Goodman leave for Chicago?”

“Yesterday.”

“What’s he doing there?”

Her eyes blinked lazily. “Consulting.”

“For whom?”

“RKW.”

I knew enough about current events to recognize the initials. RKW stood for Rockville Kamza Worthington, the military and security subsidiary of Cress Tech International. Cress Tech built oil wells, highways, shipyards, bridges, airports, pretty much any project measured in the billions of government dollars. The running joke on late-night TV was that the White House was the marketing branch of Cress Tech.

“What was Goodman consulting for?”

“Government work.”

“What kind of government work?”

“I don’t know.”

I had to trust Jamison. Victims couldn’t lie under hypnosis. “Where’s he staying?”

Another “I don’t know.”

“You have an itinerary?”

Jamison turned her eyes to her computer monitor. She tapped robotically on the keyboard.