“That’s why you’re wearing those pretty silver bracelets.”

“There must be some mistake.”

O’Brien’s lip curled. “My only mistake was not locking you up the second I laid eyes on you.”

“But-“ Conner paused, trying to gather his thoughts. “I haven’t been near any weapons. What was it, a knife? A blunt instrument?”

O’Brien looked at him levelly. “A golf club.”

If Conner’s eyes were wide before, they were twin balloons now. “A golf club?”

“What are you, a parrot? Yes, a golf club. A golf club with traces of blood and hair embedded in the indentations on the metal base. Your golf club.”

“How can you be sure?”

“You play with Excalibur clubs, don’t you?”

How did she know that? “I’m not the only player in the PGA to use Excaliburs.”

“Damn near. But at any rate, we traced the serial number on the base of the club. You made the mistake of buying direct from the dealer. They have your name in their files.” She leaned close to his ear. “Word of advice. Next time you’re buying a murder weapon, go retail.”

As O’Brien continued dragging him toward her car, Conner tried to process all this new information. If the serial numbers matched, then it had to be his club. But how could that be? He hadn’t killed John. And his club hadn’t been buried since Tuesday night, either. He’d had all his clubs with him during the par three Wednesday, and yesterday, too. Unless…

“Lieutenant O’Brien…” He stopped just outside the red Tercel that appeared to be her unmarked vehicle. “What club did you find buried in the rough?”

“The boys in the office tell me it’s a nine-iron. Why?”

“Of course…” he murmured. Why hadn’t he figured it out himself? He hadn’t hit a decent shot with his nine-iron since Tuesday. Why?

Because it wasn’t his nine-iron.

“O’Brien,” he said slowly, “there’s been a horrible mistake.”

“Yeah. Yours.”

“No, I mean it. I think someone switched the clubs.”

“Do I look like I’ve got grits for brains?”

“I’m serious. I’ve been framed.”

“Cross, we’ve already confirmed that it’s your club.”

“The killer must’ve taken my club and planted a look-alike in my bag so I wouldn’t notice it was gone.”

O’Brien placed one hand on her hip. “And I suppose you can prove this cockamamie story?”

“Well…”

“Tell me this, Fantasy Man. How could this purported killer get to your clubs?”

“I don’t know,” Conner said, biting down on his lower lip. “We need to talk to Fitz.”

On their way back to the clubhouse, Conner explained that, as his caddie, Fitz was the official Keeper of the Clubs. It was his job to make sure they were always where they were supposed to be. He made sure they were polished, clean, and ready to play. Golf pros and their caddies were notoriously-and understandably-protective about the clubs. They locked them up in the locker room before going to sleep. Conner also explained that Fitz was a man of honor, a man of his word. He wouldn’t lie for anyone-least of all Conner.

They found Fitz in the coffee shop enjoying a light breakfast of toast and a poached egg. At least, until they showed up.

“Hiya, Fitz,” Conner said amiably. His attempt at nonchalance was pretty feeble, considering he was being shoved forward by a police officer and had his hands cuffed behind his back. “How are the eggs this morning?”

“A bit runny, but I don’t like to complain.” His eyes lighted on the handcuffs, then on the woman close behind him. “A new paramour, Conner?”

“A new homicide detective. Lieutenant O’Brien. I’m under arrest.”

“What a novel idea. I wish I’d thought of that.” He smiled at O’Brien. “Would there be any possibility of a gag?”

Conner frowned. “I need you to explain to her about golf clubs.”

“Is the lieutenant thinking of taking up the game?”

“Hardly,” she snarled.

Conner quickly summarized what O’Brien had told him about the clubs, and what he had managed to deduce. “Fitz, I think someone must’ve taken my nine-iron and planted a ringer.”

Fitz nodded thoughtfully. “A distinct possibility. It would explain a great deal.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin and rose to his feet. “Let’s go find out.”

Fitz led them to the locker room, and the special row of lockers designed to hold the players’ golf bags. “As you can see, there’s room for an entire set of clubs.”

“And you’ve been using these lockers?” O’Brien asked.

“Absolutely. Without exception. If his clubs weren’t in play or in my possession, they were in locker 42. During the day, there’s a security guard posted outside, and at night the door is locked and bolted.”

“Then it wouldn’t be possible for someone to make a switch.”

“Unless,” Conner interjected, “Fitz did it.”

“Very astute of you,” Fitz said through thin lips.

“Fitz has been rather cranky lately. Perhaps the combination of bad temper and advanced years caused some sort of breakdown…”

“Very droll. But seriously-”

“Seriously,” O’Brien said. “I don’t see how any switch could have been made if the security on these clubs is so tight.” She grabbed Conner’s bracelets. “You’re coming downtown.”

“Wait,” Fitz said. “We’re forgetting something.”

“And what would that be?” O’Brien asked.

“Tuesday night.”

Conner shook his head. “Believe me, Fitz, Tuesday night is indelibly stamped on my brain.”

“You’re forgetting the driving range.”

Conner’s lips parted. “Oh, my-”

“The driving range?” O’Brien said.

“Tuesday night Conner took out his clubs so he could hit a few balls on the driving range,” Fitz explained. “It’s something he and John do-did-before the first day of every tournament.”

“John never showed up,” Conner continued.

“And I guess now we know why,” Fitz added.

“So I started hitting the balls myself. Then Freddy lured me to the locker room so I could peep through his-“ He shot a quick glance at O’Brien.

“You were saying?” she inquired.

“-his… stock portfolio.”

She looked at him levelly. “He wanted you to peep through his stock portfolio?”

“Right. Had some new company he was promoting that’s invented a better… um… better battery.”

“A better battery?”

“For video cameras and stuff. A battery that doesn’t have a memory so you don’t have to worry about draining it completely before recharging.”

“But why-”

“Anyway,” Conner said hurriedly, “I left the driving range with Freddy. Afterwards, I met someone in the bar and we got to talking and-”

O’Brien took out her notebook. “Who did you meet?”

Conner stopped. “A… an old friend.”

“And your friend’s name?”

Conner glanced at Fitz, who shook his head, then back at O’Brien. What was that student’s name? “I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember your old friend’s name?”

Fitz cut in. “It’s the brain seizures, ma’am. They strike without warning. Some mornings he can’t even remember where he is.”

“Brain seizures?”

“It’s a tragedy. Especially with a man so young.”

“Brain seizures?”

“Well, of course.” Fitz leaned close to her ear and whispered. “How else could you explain the way he dresses?”

“Good point.”

“Anyway,” Fitz said, forging ahead, “the gist of it is, this maroon left his clubs on the driving range. I found them, maybe an hour or so after he left, and I locked them up for the night. But before that anyone could’ve gotten to his clubs.” Fitz put the key in the lock, opened the door, and pulled out Conner’s bag.

O’Brien peered over his shoulder. “Which one of these is the nine-iron?”

“This one,” Fitz said, pulling the club out of the bag. “And if I’m not mistaken…” He pulled one of the other irons out and held the two next to one another. “See for yourself. The nine-iron is shorter than the other.”

“What does that mean?”