The first book in the Deadly Sports Mystery series, 2007

There were many people who helped me get this book from the original draft to what it has become today. I want to thank Marlene Fisher and family for their help with the original editing. Marlene, your kind words and editing capability gave me hope in the beginning. Your insight helped me turn that original pile of dreck into a story with publishing potential.

I want to thank all those who helped edit this novel: Bill Greenleaf, Nancy Ellis (my Agent), Jennifer, Megan and everyone else at SterlingHouse who helped bring life to this project.

To Howard Bruck, my very good friend and golfing partner. Your critique with the golfing information in the book was excellent. For a computer guy you sure have an eye for the written word. Thank you.

Thank you to all my friends who helped with ideas along the way, especially my extended family at Alure Home Improvements. Sal, Carl, Bob, and Mike – without your support I never would have been able to complete this project.

I want to thank Joan LaMorte, aka my Mom, who seems to believe in me no matter how hair-brained my ideas sometimes are. Mom, you watched, listened, and as usual gave your opinion every step of the way with this project. For someone who always says ‘I wish I could do more for you,’ your support and encouragement help keep me writing. You could not do any more than that for me.

To Betsy, Hunter and Reid, my beautiful children, you each added so many words, sentences and ideas to this book that sometimes I think you guys deserve more credit than I do as the author. You are the reasons for everything I do and I'm so proud of each of you.

To my wife Greer, who has supported me through many questionable endeavors. I could not have written this book without your daily help. Reading each chapter as it was written. Letting me know when I was on track and otherwise. This project is a celebration of my love for you. Thank you for being you.

I would like to dedicate this book to Hermenia Mann, my mother-in law. Half way through this project she revealed to us, her family, that she has cancer. Not just any old cancer, mind you, this was a very rare, smallcell, aggressive cancer. Watching this woman fight through her ordeal was truly an inspiration to me. First, she survived through a botched surgery. Then she conquered four heavy chemotherapy sessions. Then pulled through another surgery where they removed most of her insides. We watched her turn from a kitten to a Tigress. Her attitude alone probably scared the cancer right out of her. Hermie, it’s a good thing they made all that extra room inside you, because it’s obvious to all who know and love you that your heart is so big, it needed the extra space. I dedicate this book to you and your new beautiful hair. Love ya.

I would also like to dedicate this book to Jack Nicklaus, a true Master of the game of golf, who retired as I was writing this book. You will be missed by many as we watch our favorite game on the weekend.

Finally to two of my cousins whose lives were taken far too early while I was writing this book:

Jim Runsdorf: Although I didn’t know you very well, the outpouring of love as your friends spoke at the Celebration of your Life made me wish I did. New York misses you.

And to Benjamin Balkind: Always the polite, dapper, well spoken gentleman at family gatherings. You are loved and missed.

Plunk. The unique sound of Reid Clark’s golf ball hitting the bottom of the cup was, without question, the most satisfying sound he could hear. But in this case, he had to settle for the roar of the massive crowd as he sunk his 12-foot putt, winning his sixth PGA tournament this season. The intense pleasure, undeniably the best high a professional golfer can experience, was surging through Reid.

Another win in his pocket, another cool million in his bank account. No longer was money the goal. Now it was the win, only the win. The adrenaline rush was all consuming.

After the trophy presentation, Reid wanted to get back to the hotel. He quickly changed in the locker room, doing his best to avoid the press and the crowds. Nothing irritated him more than cameras flashing in his face.

He made it all the way to the parking lot before a paparazzo jumped out from between the cars, almost hitting Reid with his lens before snapping his picture. Enraged, Reid reached out, snatched the camera and launched it over his shoulder. The photographer watched in horror as his camera smashed onto the pavement.

Consumed with fury, Reid pushed the paparazzo. “Maybe next time you’ll stay a little further away.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” yelled the photographer as he returned Reid’s shove. As Reid wound up to hit the guy, his arm was grabbed at the top of his backswing. Holding Reid’s arm in his vice-like grip, Buck Green, Reid’s agent, muttered, “Down, boy! Walk away now!” It took a moment, but Reid drew a lung-filling breath and slowly let it escape through his nose. All the while, his eyes were fixated on the paparazzo in an evil stare. He turned abruptly and walked away with Buck to their car.

“Man, you certainly know how to ruin a good day, don’t you?” Buck seethed.

“Fuck you. You know, sometimes you’re just like my mother, you don’t know when to stop.”

“You bastard! I just saved your ass from another probable law suit, and this is the thanks I get?” “Why can’t the paparazzi just stay out of my way?” “Because it’s their job, and you need to smarten up and get used to it already.” Buck turned to look around. “I only hope no one saw it this time. Let’s get out of here.”

Several hours later, the bright flash of the camera in Reid’s face was more than he could tolerate. He reached out, grabbed the paparazzo’s camera and tossed it over his shoulder. Seeing the photographer’s eyes quickly grow wide, he turned in time to see the camera smash through the windshield of a passing Rolls Royce.

Reid woke with a start. Damn! he thought. Déjà vu in a dream, how strange. The dreams had been haunting Reid for a couple of months. Lately, after waking abruptly from a bad dream, he would lie in bed analyzing it, trying to figure out what was bothering him. He had a constant nagging feeling that something terrible was going to happen. He searched his memory for past events that could be haunting his subconscious. It had to be that anonymous e-mail sent to the Inner City Sports Foundation (ICSF), a charitable foundation Reid and Buck had started. It read “ICSF has a new meaning – I can see a fatality.” The e-mail had been declared a hoax by The Internet Fraud Complaint Center. Everyone but Reid had been able to forget about it; he felt personally threatened, and the feeling wouldn’t go away. It wasn’t just the nightmares; his typically high stress level was becoming unbearable at times. His tolerance of even small irritations, which was normally minimal, had practically dissolved.

He looked at the clock: 4 a.m. His sleep had been restless; he was over flowing with anxiety. It was a travel day. He had to be at the airport by 5:30, which meant leaving the hotel by 5. What a life, he thought. Why is everyone so envious of the golfer’s life? It’s not fun! In fact, he contemplated quitting every day. (The word that people used was retiring, but he knew better). The next thing he knew, his phone was ringing and someone was banging on his door.