William Bernhardt Read online

  William Bernhardt

  FINAL

  ROUND

  BALLANTINE BOOKS ♦ NEW YORK

  Table of Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Part 2

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Part 3

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Part 4

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Part 5

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  Other Books by William Bernhardt

  Copyright

  * * *

  The Club wants no publicity except with respect to the Masters tournament. Our members wish to enjoy the seclusion of a private club and prefer their visits at the Club not to be publicized . . . It is expected that [members] shall actively discourage any form of publicity pertaining to the Club, about which they have advance knowledge, if it is unrelated to the tournament—and especially if it is to be commercial in form.

  —from The Annual Report to Members

  a cognizant original v5 release november 12 2010

  Acknowledgments

  * * *

  First, I want to thank my friend and literary agent Robert Gottlieb for suggesting a crime novel set at the Masters tournament. The research alone has made this book a personal favorite. And I want to give equal thanks to my friends at Ballantine, Gina Centrello and Joe Blades, for being receptive to this departure from the courtroom and all my usual stomping grounds. I want to thank my wife, Kirsten, for her always invaluable contributions, including her assistance with the considerable research necessary to steep this book in the history and ambience of the Masters tournament.

  Finally, I must thank my golf experts, Richard T. McNeil and Frank Hurka, for reviewing an early draft of the manuscript and making many priceless suggestions. Any errors, however, are mine, not theirs, and they are similarly not responsible for the occasional dramatic license I have taken. I know, for instance, that the par-three tournament is usually played on a different course, but the allure of the legendary Masters course was so great I decided to let Conner and his friends play it out there. Similarly, I am aware that Conner makes some spectacularly long drives, and that the Masters players typically do not stay on the Augusta National Golf Club grounds, but I preferred to keep the suspects on the premises of that magnificent golf course whenever I could.

  Readers are invited to e-mail me at: [email protected]. You can also visit my Web site (www.williambernhardt.com) and learn more about this and my other novels.

  Best of luck on the links.

  Prologue

  * * *

  Tuesday Night

  Death came so suddenly he didn’t even have a chance to scream. All at once, the lights were out—as if someone had thrown a switch inside his brain. Blood and bits of flesh burst from the side of his head. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  The man standing over him swung his golf club in the darkness, smiling with satisfaction. Dead in one stroke—not bad at all. Almost like a hole in one, in a perverse sort of way.

  Why hadn’t the man listened to him? he wondered. He swung the club angrily back and forth, chopping at the air. A boiling rage consumed him. Why, why, why? He hadn’t wanted it to happen this way. But what choice had the man left him? None, that’s what. None at all. He had tried to be reasonable. He had offered to be accommodating. But in the end, it had made no difference. In the end, he simply had no alternative.

  Now there was the question of what to do with the corpse. It would have to be disposed of in some way or another. He peered down at the motionless body. Blood still poured out of the huge gash on the side of his head, seeping into the white sand, creating a sticky sanguine pool. Dark and . . . disturbing.

  A thought occurred. Why do anything at all? He’d had no time to plan for body disposal, and anything he did now would create a risk that he would be seen. Why not just . . . leave it where it was? Sure, the body would be found in time, but that was inevitable in any case. The key was not whether it would be found—but when. And who would be around when it happened.

  Yes, that was the solution. All he had to do was scrape the sand around in this unusually deep bunker until nothing was visible . . .

  That worked perfectly. And how could anyone complain? They were called hazards, after all. His victim probably didn’t realize that meant it could be hazardous . . . to his health.

  The man smiled, laughing to himself at his little joke. And there was a certain pride in having once again taken care of himself, once again protected himself from those who would bring him down. Those who fought him. Those who tried to deprive him of what was rightly his. Who wouldn’t take pride in that? He was a self-made man, after all. In every possible sense of the word . . .

  Somewhere behind him, back on the fairway, he heard something. He froze. What was it? Was anyone out there? Was someone listening? Could someone see what he had done?

  He whirled around, trying to look in every direction at once. He didn’t spot a soul. Perhaps it was a bird, perhaps just the rustling of the branches on that huge maple tree. Or nothing at all. But he couldn’t be sure. There could have been a witness.

  He hoped not, though. Because if someone had seen, if someone had the slightest hint of what he had done . . .

  Then he’d have to do what was necessary. Again. And again and again, if it came to that. Whatever it took.

  Part One

  * * *

  The Bastion of Excellence

  In the 1947 Masters, as Freddie Haas lined up a putt on the eighth green, Johnny Bulla (who was in the group behind him) hit a ball onto the green. This was not only a breach of golf etiquette but a safety hazard. “Hey man,” Haas said to Bulla, “you hit into me. Someone could have gotten hurt.”

  Club chairman Cliff Roberts immediately summoned not Bulla, but Haas, to his office. Haas had violated the Augusta National rules by raising his voice above a conversational level. “Fred, we don’t tolerate that kind of attitude around here.” Roberts promptly yanked his credentials and tossed him out of the tournament. “If you will write a letter of apology,” Roberts added, “we might have you back again.” Haas thought he was more sinned against than sinning, but he learned an important lesson. At the Augusta National, it seemed, it was more important to be well behaved than to be right.

  Haas wrote the letter. To the surprise of many, he was invited back the next year.

  The Day Before . . .

  Chapter 1

  * * *

  Monday

  “It’s Silly Putty,” Conner Cross said with an air of finality that defied anyone to disagree with him. “I’m certain of it.”

  “It is not,” John McCree replied. He’d been defying Conner since they were kids and
had no trouble doing it again. “It’s a specially treated ball of monofilaments, packed and compressed for maximum durability and flexibility.”

  “Monofilaments! Give me a break. It’s Silly Putty.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “I’m not. This is a subject on which I have a certain expertise.”

  “You can’t even spell expertise.”

  “I’m telling you, it’s Silly Putty. I was reading a magazine article about this just last week.”

  “I find that highly unlikely, unless maybe it was mentioned as some playmate’s pet peeve.”

  Conner raised his hands to his mouth and shouted. “Fitz!”

  An older man sporting a shoeshine-boy cap and toting a large bag of clubs strolled toward the two men at the first tee. “You called, Master?”

  Conner Cross smiled. “Look, Fitz, we need you to settle an argument.”

  “Caddies don’t settle arguments.” Fitz, ever the dapper dresser, was attired in a Lacoste golf shirt, a Lyle & Scott cashmere sweater, and Italian gabardine light wool slacks—quite a contrast to Conner himself, who sported a bright floral Hawaiian shirt, yellow bicycle shorts, and a tattered Panama straw hat. “We counsel. We strategize. We tote. But we don’t settle arguments.”

  “Be a sport.”

  Fitz folded his arms across his chest. “No,” Fitz said emphatically. His full name was Daniel Fitzpatrick, but he’d been caddying forever, and everyone had long ago reduced his name to the single syllable.

  “C’mon. For me?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “What, are you afraid you’ll be fined by the caddies’ union? Look—if you’ll just settle this dispute, I promise I won’t make fun of that silly yellow sweater.”

  “What a charmer.”

  “Puh-leeze?” Conner wheedled.

  Fitz twisted his craggy, weathered face. “I caddied for Gary Player for six years and he never once asked me to settle an argument.”

  “Then you’re overdue. Here’s the thing: what do you think they put inside golf balls—Silly Putty, or super-compressed monofilaments?”

  Fitz rolled his eyes. “I assume you stand in the Silly Putty camp.”

  “I shouldn’t say. It might prejudice your decision.”

  “For your information, you dimwits, they put rubber inside golf balls. That’s all it is. Rubber.”

  Conner Cross and John McCree looked at each other. “Rubber?”

  “That’s right,” Fitz said emphatically. “Plain ordinary rubber.”

  Conner and John continued staring.

  “He says it’s rubber,” Conner said.

  “I heard that,” John replied.

  Conner’s eyes crinkled. “Nah. Can’t be.”

  “Definitely not,” John agreed. “No way.”

  “Can’t be,” Conner said, making a clicking noise with his tongue. “Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Agreed,” John said. “If golf balls had rubber inside, they’d bounce all the way down the fairway. Or in Conner’s case, the rough.” The two golfers exchanged a look.

  Fitz threw up his hands in despair. “I don’t know why I even bother talking to you two reprobates!” He marched past them toward the first tee. “C’mon. If you don’t get your practice round started, you’ll lose your tee time. And if you don’t log enough practice hours, they’ll toss you out of the tournament.”

  It was possible, Conner groused, as he followed his caddie to the tee. Anything was possible at the Masters. This annual event, hosted by the Augusta National Golf Club, was one of the most prestigious, if not the most prestigious, of the tournaments on the tour. But it was also a pain in the butt. The Masters was full of rules, regulations, and hoity-toity guidelines of decorum, all of which drove Conner crazy.

  During his three years on the tour, Conner had developed a reputation as the PGA’s bad boy. According to the press, he was the “gonzo golfer” who delighted in flouting convention. This had made him the hero of some—but not the PGA authorities and officials, and definitely not the top dogs at the Augusta National Country Club. Safely ensconced in the deep South, the Club—which still only accepted male members—was determined to maintain the high standards of a more genteel era. It made Conner want to barf.

  John nudged him in the side. “Smell that?”

  Conner inhaled deeply. “Cheeseburgers?”

  John looked at him pitiably. “Honeysuckle.”

  Conner sniffed again. John was right, of course. The sweet scent of honeysuckle permeated the course. Much as the Masters tournament got under his skin, Conner grudgingly had to admit that the Augusta National course was magnificent, particularly when the tournament was held each year in April—often culminating on Easter Sunday. He gazed out at the flowering crabapples, the graceful dogwoods, and the blazing streaks of azalea, all set against a magnificent green expanse of turf and trees. It was a spectacular view.

  “Not much like back home, huh?” John said, grinning.

  Conner silently agreed. He and John had grown up together in the wheatfields and tall-grass prairies of western Oklahoma. They were inseparable throughout junior high and high school. They did everything together—bombed the same classes, got bombed on the same six-packs, and, of course, played golf. Back then, golf had held a special allure for Conner, who’d grown up with his father on a not-very-prosperous farm near the small town of Watonga. Its scruffy nine-hole course was an enchanted oasis in the midst of the red dirt and yellow plains that surrounded it. He and John both fell in love with the sport there.

  After high school, John went off to college in California, while Conner stayed near home and went to OU. After college, John made the PGA tour. Conner didn’t—but John did everything imaginable to get him in, including loaning him money and arranging private golf instruction from Harvey Penick and other golf giants. Ultimately, Conner won his PGA card. John lived in Georgia now and was a member of the Augusta National Golf Club—whereas Conner probably couldn’t gain membership with a recommendation from Robert E. Lee. John was in nearly all respects the antithesis of Conner, but Conner liked him anyway. Fact was, even though Conner hated to admit it, he pretty much owed John for everything good in his life.

  Today was Monday; Conner had flown into Georgia last night. The actual tournament would not begin until Thursday, with a par three mini-tournament on Wednesday. Between now and then, he needed to get in as much practice as possible.

  Conner winked at his caddie. “Shall we get started?”

  Fitz stared at him, appalled. “You mean, you want to play golf now?”

  “Isn’t that what I normally do on golf courses?”

  “Matter of opinion, I suppose.” His eyebrows knitted. “You can’t play golf dressed like that.”

  “And why not?” Conner asked. “All my private parts are properly covered, aren’t they?”

  Fitz’s lips tightened. “Conner, when are you going to get it through your thick skull that being on the PGA tour is a big deal? You should dress in a dignified manner. Not like some . . . Polynesian hobo.”

  “I like this outfit,” Conner said, touching the brim of his battered Panama hat. “I think it has panache. I think it says, ‘Here’s a man who’s at peace with himself.’ ”

  “I think it says, ‘Here’s a man who’s about to be thrown off the tour.’ ”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “I’m not! You know the PGA has strict rules on decorum and appearance. They don’t even allow pros on the tour to have facial hair, for Pete’s sake. And this club has even more rules than the PGA. You can’t dress like a bum.”

  “I’ll dress any damn way I want to.”

  “And you can’t swear, either. That’s an automatic $250 fine.”

  “Enough chatter,” Conner said, turning away. “I’m ready to hit the ball.”

  Fitz pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, as if suffering from a severe migraine. “Great. Just great. Try to remember what I told you, okay? Stance. Swing. Yo
u’re putting too much weight on your left foot. And you’re not bringing your backswing high enough.”

  “Stop being such a mother hen.”

  “Jack Nicklaus paid me big bucks to be a mother hen!”

  “Then go cluck in his coop for a while. You’re making me crazy.”

  “You were born crazy.”

  Laughing, Conner poked the tee into the ground and removed a club from his bag.

  Fitz grabbed his hand. “What do you think you’re doing now?”

  “I’m getting a golf club. I know that must seem strange, but the ball goes farther than if I just blow on it.”

  “You took out a wood. You can’t use a wood on this hole.”

  “I can and I will.”

  “The tee markers haven’t been moved back. It’s not that far to the hole. That’s way too much power.”

  “I’m warming up, okay?”

  “Conner, you can’t—”

  “Stop telling me what I can’t do!”

  “But you—”

  “Fitz!” Conner raised a finger.

  Fitz fell silent.

  “All right then.” Conner squared himself before the ball and drew in his breath, preparing to swing.

  “Stance,” Fitz murmured audibly. “Swing.”

  “Fitz!”

  “All right, all right.” He buttoned his lip.

  Conner brought back his wood and swung. The dimpled white ball soared beautifully into the air, up, up, up . . . and well over the green. The ball dropped onto the cart path, bounced over a retaining wall, and fell into the greenskeeper’s storage shed.

  “Aaarghh!” Conner shouted at the top of his lungs, thrashing about with his club.

  John fell to his knees, convulsed with laughter.

  Conner glared at him. “And what may I ask is so damn humorous?”

  John rolled on the ground, propping himself up with one arm. “What . . . do . . . you . . . think?” he said, squeezing the words out between guffaws and gasps for air. “You.”

  “Damn, damn, damn.” In a sudden fit of temper, Conner whirled the wood around again and inadvertently pulverized the tee marker—which was a lovely miniature of the Augusta National clubhouse.