A Sergeant Turnbull from the Augusta police department had responded to Conner’s call. He was a short, stocky pit bull of a man in a tacky suit. They’d been over Conner’s testimony about a thousand times, or so it seemed to Conner. What was there to tell? They were playing the course, his club went down in the sand, and he found… John. All Conner had done was brush some of the surface sand away from his head and shoulders and flip over the body, which wasn’t buried all that deeply. If Conner hadn’t discovered him, someone else would’ve, and soon.

Conner could tell Turnbull wasn’t satisfied, but didn’t know what to do about it. Or perhaps he just had other priorities at the moment. “Don’t leave town,” he said curtly.

“Of course not,” Conner mumbled. The whole thing seemed unreal to him, like a bizarre dream from which he couldn’t wake himself.

John was dead. This had to be a dream-a nightmare.

“Who did this?” Conner said suddenly, not really expecting an answer.

To his surprise, Turnbull offered one. “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Unfortunately, the perp doesn’t seem to have left many clues.”

“Clues?”

“Right. They’re always helpful when you’re trying to track a killer.”

“A-“ Conner eyes widened. “Then you think it’s-”

“Murder? Course it is. You thought maybe he beat himself to death on the side of his head? And then buried himself in a sand trap? I don’t think so.”

“But-who-?”

“We were hoping you might have some thoughts on that subject. Know anyone who had a grudge against McCree?”

Conner racked his barely functioning brain. “I can’t think of anyone.”

“We’re not finding any hair or fibers, although it would be a miracle if we could recover trace evidence from a sand trap. This fairway is cut so short it can’t hold onto anything, much less a footprint or a stray hair. No fingerprints on the body. Basically, we’re at square one. A very unpromising investigation. Glad it isn’t my problem.”

“It isn’t?”

“Nah. I’m just a lowly sergeant. I was just the highest rank in the office when your call came in. They’ll assign this to a lieutenant-Lieutenant O’Brien, probably. I expect you’ll get to tell your story all over again. Probably several times.”

Great, Conner thought silently. I can hardly wait.

“Y’know, if there’s… anything else you might know about this mess, I’d sure be obliged if you told me.”

Conner cocked one eyebrow.

“Maybe right now it seems best to clam up, but let me tell you from experience-the truth always comes out eventually, and it’ll go easier for you if you come clean.”

“I didn’t kill him,” Conner said, almost choking on his words. “He was my best friend.”

“Oh, I’m sure, I’m sure. But you know how these things happen. One thing leads to another. Situation gets out of control. First thing you know, someone does something they regret later. It’s no one’s fault, really. It just happens.”

“I did not kill my friend.”

“Now, if you were to give me the straight skivvy, I would be extremely grateful. I’d make sure you got every break in the book. It would mean a lot to me.”

“Like maybe a promotion to lieutenant?”

Turnbull seemed unperturbed. “God knows I put in enough time to deserve it. So whaddaya say, Cross?”

Conner’s expression was as sheer as a cliff wall. “I say I didn’t kill my friend. Get your promotion from someone else’s misery.”

Conner pushed his way out of the circle of investigation and, to his surprise, Turnbull allowed him to go. He supposed the cops had no reason to keep him under lock and key, no matter what they thought. He wouldn’t be hard to find when they wanted him.

Conner paced the length of the eighteenth hole, then made a beeline for the clubhouse. He should just head back to his cabin, he thought to himself. He really wanted to be alone right now. At the same time, he also felt a serious need to partake of an adult beverage. Maybe several.

Conner found a table in the corner by himself and ordered multi-ple martinis. Somehow, he had to get a grip on himself, to try to make some sense out of the day. How could this have happened? What was John doing out there?

And why the hell did Conner have to be the one who found him?

He downed the first martini in a single swallow, then bit down on the olive. He was trying to shock his system back to life, trying to shift his body back into first gear. But it didn’t work. No matter what he tried, his mind’s eye kept revolving back to the same grisly image.

His best friend, buried in white sand. His face streaked with blood.

John, he thought, and the word throbbed like someone was pounding a hammer against the inside of his skull. John!

Conner was nursing his fourth martini when he saw Jodie McCree rush into the clubhouse.

Jodie! he thought. Here he’d been swilling and feeling sorry for himself, and Jodie hadn’t even crossed his mind. He considered running after her, trying to comfort her. If he could just get his legs working again…

As it turned out, the decision was made for him. As soon as Jodie entered the clubhouse, she made a quick visual sweep of the bar area, spotted Conner, then burned a path in the carpet toward him. As she neared, Conner saw her red-blotched face, streaked and wet. Her hands were trembling. She stared at him, as if willing words she could not speak.

“How-“ she said, in a voice that sounded like rusty hinges. “How-”

Conner could only shake his head. He certainly couldn’t respond to the unspoken question; he had no answers to give. There was only one thing he could give, and so he did. He stood up, put his arms around her, and hugged her tight.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. He felt her tears spilling onto his shoulder. “I don’t know.”

Nearly an hour later, Conner and Jodie were seated in a small lounge adjacent to the clubhouse bar. There had been no healing; there hadn’t been nearly sufficient time for that. But there had at least been acceptance. They had both come face-to-face with the horrible truth, and were beginning to try to figure out how they could possibly go on with their lives.

“I-I just don’t understand it,” Jodie said. Her voice was still raw from crying. “Everyone loved John.”

Conner agreed. It didn’t make any sense.

“Have you heard anyone complain about John? Anyone nursing a grudge?”

“Never,” Conner said firmly. “Not in three years on the tour.”

Jodie’s hands clenched. “Then who could have done it? And why?”

“I don’t know,” Conner replied, trying to be comforting. “But the police are working on it…”

Jodie frowned. “I talked to Sergeant Turnbull. I gather you did, too?”

Conner nodded.

“So, Mr. Oddsmaker, what would you say is the likelihood that he’ll be able to find John’s killer?”

Conner shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t want to distress her unnecessarily, but…

“That’s what I thought,” Jodie said firmly. For the first time, Conner realized that she was not simply devastated-she was angry. “About zip. The golf world is so insular, so closed-door. Unless the murderer has an attack of conscience and confesses, we’re never gonna know.”

Conner wanted to argue with her, to give her some comfort. But the truth was, he agreed with her conclusion.

All at once, Jodie reached over and grabbed Conner’s hand. “Conner, I want you to try to find out who killed John.”

“Me? Are you kidding?”

“I wouldn’t kid about this, Conner. This is serious.”

“I agree. Which is why I shouldn’t have anything to do with it.”

“We have to know-”

“Look, Jodie, if you don’t trust the cops, fine. Hire a private investigator.”

“A private investigator wouldn’t be allowed through the front gates at the Augusta National.”

“Still-”

“You, on the other hand, are already on the grounds. You have access to all the players and staff. You’re an invited guest. Everyone will expect you to hobnob with the players and participate in all the activities.”