With my bag in hand I strolled around the clubhouse and out onto the course. There weren't too many old duffers hacking around, so if Ricky-boy was here, he wouldn't be too hard to find. I kept to the edges of the fairways, keeping an eye peeled and an ear open for any calls of , 'FORE!'. Last thing I needed was 'Titleist' imprinted on my forehead.
I worked backwards, from the 18th hole, that way I'd be in position to intercept, rather than chase down from behind. I figured he was at least halfway through, so I wouldn't have to cover so much ground. I deftly sidestepped an approach shot on 17. The white-haired hacker who launched it was staring me down as I approached. I held up my tool bag and pointed at it. He looked confused, but shook his head and mounted his trusty electric steed.
I paused on the 16th green. Good vantage point. No Ricky. I heard electric whine and the tinkling of glass and ice. The beer cart pulled up alongside me. "You thirsty, Mister?" an exceedingly cheerful voice asked.
"No, thank you," I replied, almost as cheerfully. "I'm just trying to locate the junction box that controls the hydro-filtration monitoring point. I was told it was on the fritz and it was between the 16th and 15th hole. I have no idea what I'm looking for."
The owner of the cheerful voice gave me a good once-over. She was young, early-20's. She wore the Course's mandatory polo shirt, with the sleeves gathered at the shoulders, the way volleyball players do. She wore khaki shorts that may have been a bit too short and a bit too tight, but they hadn't caused a heart attack, yet. Her long legs were tanned by her long hours of toil in the noon-day sun. She had flip-flops in the cab, but not on her feet. Her toes were polished, and matched her shirt, intentionally or not. Her long, dark hair was pulled back into a loose pony-tail, which protruded through the back of a ball cap. The brim shaded her eyes, which looked to be a steely blue. The best way I could describe her face is, 'fresh', a certain shape and symmetry that could be the starting point if you were to design wholesome. Her smile, though, has slightly lopsided, and the way she lounged on the plastic seat belied a certain disregard for the straight and narrow.
"Hop in," she said. "I can take you up to 15. I'm not supposed to, but it's not like Mr. 'call me Bill" McGuire is going to drag his lazy ass out of his office to check on me."
I liked this kid.
So I hopped into her little bar on wheels and she zoomed off, cutting course through the smooth seas of the cart path, terrorizing squirrels and blackbirds with equal abandon. "You don't belong here, do you?" she asked, smiling, as she made a gradual left turn.
"Sure, I do," I replied. "I was asked to come out here and do some repairs, I just got a little lost."
"Uh-uh," she clipped. "The groundskeepers have a whole team for stuff like that. Even if they did need to bring in someone from outside, they would have escorted you to the point in question on a cart." She finished my skewering with a big smile.
"Not bad," I said. "Are you sure you're with concessions, and not security?"
"My dad was a cop," she said dismissively. "30 years in three agencies, four, if you count the military. He always taught me that if something looks out of place, it probably is, and it's probably hinky."
"So, are you going to escort me from the premises?" I asked. :If so, you'll win the award for best-looking bouncer I've ever been thrown out, by. Finally, someone takes Lizzie the Lez out of first place."
"Tell me why you're really here, and I'll consider letting you stay. I don't know who Lizzie the Lez, is, but I'm not sure I want to challenge her for the belt."
I blitzed through the Reader's Digest version of the case. Does anyone even read that anymore? I mentioned Ricky-Boy and his missing wife, the girl seemed intrigued.
"Ok," she said. I want to help. This is the most interesting thing to happen here since that state Senator from Chadron 'accidentally' spilled beer on me. I head-butted his nose, 'accidentally'. Beer comes out in the wash much easier than blood."
I really like this kid.
I spotted Ricky-boy and his crew getting ready to tee-off on 15. I had the girl drop me off. She decided to stay and watch the show. "Good afternoon, Mr. Brewer," I greeted, stopping for a moment to snatch a 3-wood out of a bright red Nike golf bag with a white swoosh. "You are a tough man to get a hold of, did you know that?"
"Who are you? What do you want? Do I have to call Security?"
Ah, the Holy Trinity of my life.
"I'm Sam Hammet," I replied, taking some practice cuts with the club. "I've been retained to investigate the disappearance of your wife, Jamie, and you can call if you want, I'm not here to threaten you, and I've been escorted from lots of places, so you know, not scared."
"I don't know what to tell you," he said. "That was a long time ago. The cops tried to pressure me into telling them something that didn't happen. They kept hammering me with 'where did you dump the body', 'how did you do it', 'why did you do it' type questions all night long."
"Yeah, I've read the files on that, " I said, imagining a nice, 300-yard drive. "They did brace you pretty hard. Nothing in the files, not your interview or anyone else's has come up with a plausible theory as to why she jetted."
"Why are you wasting my time?" he asked. "Did you really come all this way to tell me nearly 20-year-old information that was useless then, is still useless now?"
I decided it was time to take a swing at it. There was a dog-leg at 200 yards, so I decided to lay up. "Do you remember an officer by the name of Jim Tompkins?"
"Yes. He's the one that tried to play 'Bad Cop' while the detective played 'Good Cop'.
"Were you aware of any association between Tompkins and Jamie, at the time?"
"No," he said, eyeing me warily.
"So, you never talked with her friend, Stacy, about a suspicion she had regarding the two of them?"
"Look man, I can see where this is heading, so get it off you chest."
"Did you have any reason to believe that Jamie was having an affair?" I held back the with whom, just so I kept one card back.
Ricky-boy reddened, a little. "Yes. I talked to a few people, back then, and that's the conclusion I reached, too. That she ran off with bikers, or gypsies, or a circus, or whoever was actually paying attention to her, because I guess it wasn't me."
"Sorry, man. I had to ask." I was actually feeling a little contrite. It would pass.
"You can leave, now. I'm done talking. Come near me again, anywhere, and I will get your ticket pulled."
I raised my hands, in surrender, dropping the club. I turned and walked back to the cart.
"So how did it go?"
"Another dead end," I said. "This is getting to be a tougher nut to crack than I thought. This woman went 'poof' and has not wanted to reappear. The one point it keeps returning to is both the client and the one with the most to lose."
"Now what?" the kid asked, she looked like she was having a ball.
"Home, James. Well, parking lot, anyway," I said.
"The name's Betty, by the way."
"Well, hello, Betty." I fished a card out of my wallet. "You want to become an operative?"
"Maybe. What do I have to do?"
"Just keep your ears open for anything out of the ordinary about Mr. Brewer. Give me a call if you hear anything good."
She smiled a big, dazzling smile. "I can do that. I'll be in touch Mr. Hammet."
"Just call me Sam'" I said as I grabbed the tool bag and headed for the car.
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