"That's why I need their prints. I need to know."
"I'll help you."
"Why?"
"Because I need to know, too. I'm working these endorsement deals, last thing I need is him involved in Trey's murder. Sponsors get nervous when criminal stuff's involved, unless it's an NBA player, then it's just part of the deal. Sooner you mark Pete off the list, sooner I can close these deals and make some money." He paused. "Did you mark me off the list?"
Scott nodded. "Did you know Trey used cocaine?"
Nick didn't react for a moment. Then he exhaled and nodded.
"I told him, snorting coke, he'd never win the Open. But he said he had it under control. Famous last words, right?"
"I thought the tour was drug testing now?"
"They are."
"How'd he pass?"
"He didn't. I did." Nick shrugged. "I peed for him. He kept a clean sample in his locker. They tell him it's his turn to pee, he'd sneak it into the john, pour it into the cup. It ain't exactly San Quentin out here."
"Did you know he owed his dealer half a million dollars?"
" Half a million? Shit. No, I didn't know. Why?"
"He thought the dealer cheated him."
"Jesus, he was in deeper than I thought. You think the dealer killed him?"
"Maybe the Muertos."
Nick nodded. "They executed some people in Houston. I wouldn't want those bastards after me."
"Why didn't you get him into rehab?"
"He didn't want to go. Besides, he goes into rehab, the whole world knows about it the next day-and his endorsements dry up. WM squared don't like dopers, Scott."
"You just sat back and watched him go downhill so you wouldn't lose your commissions?"
"Scott, I couldn't make him go straight. But I sent him to a sports psychologist."
"Who?"
"Dr. Tim. Timothy O'Brien. He works with a lot of athletes, helps them keep their heads on straight when the world's telling them they're gods. Usually doesn't work."
"He wasn't exactly the Trey Rawlins you sold, was he?"
"Neither was Tiger." Nick blew out a breath. "Scott, we sell what people want. They want that all-American golden boy image. They want their heroes. They need them. The public doesn't want reality, hell, they can get depressed enough watching the evening news with Katie Couric. Last thing the public wants is the truth."
"Well, Nick, they're going to learn the truth about Trey Rawlins at trial."
"When?"
"Twenty-six days."
"Not much time to find the killer."
They found Billie Jean Puckett sitting in a tree. She was eating a cherry snow cone with her fingers.
"Hi, Billie Jean," Nick said.
He had startled her. She almost dropped the snow cone. She stared down at them and said, "What do you want?"
"Come on down, kiddo."
"No."
"He just wants to talk to you."
"No."
"Billie Jean," Scott said, "did you go to the Florida tournament with your dad?"
"No. I stayed in Austin."
"But you didn't stay in Austin, did you? You drove to Galveston. You were in Trey's house the day he died, weren't you?"
"No."
"You drive a black Mustang."
"No, I don't."
"He knows you do," Nick said.
"So?"
"So witnesses saw a blonde girl in a black Mustang at Trey's house that day," Scott said.
"No one's gonna believe a bunch of Mexicans."
"I didn't say they were Mexican."
"Oh. Still, wasn't me."
"Will you give me your fingerprints?"
"What for?"
"So he can cross you off the list," Nick said.
"What list?"
"The list of suspects, people who might've killed Trey."
"I didn't kill Trey."
"I know that, honey. But he doesn't."
"I'm not coming down."
"Well," Scott said, "we're not going anywhere until you do."
He leaned against the tree and whistled a tune.
From ten feet above: "You can't carry a tune in a bucket."
"Thank you. How long were you and Trey involved?"
"A few weeks… I said I don't want to talk."
Scott started whistling again.
"I'm gonna tell my daddy and he's gonna beat you up."
"Did he beat up Trey?"
Nothing.
"Did he kill Trey?"
More nothing.
"I've got all day, Billie Jean."
"I gotta pee."
"If I let you down, will you talk to me?"
"If you don't let me down, I'm gonna pee on your head."
Scott looked up at her. "Please don't run."
She sighed. "I won't." She held the snow cone down to Scott. "Hold this."
He took her snow cone while Nick reached up to help her climb down. Her hands were red with the juice, which was now running down Scott's hands. He held the snow cone out to her.
"Here."
In a quick movement, she punched the bottom of his hand, sending the red snow cone splashing onto his shirt. Then she ran.
"She's running again!" Nick said.
Scott dropped the snow cone, and they ran after her. They chased her across fairways and around greens, through crowds and tents and between concession stands… she was fast… and she was again heading to the ladies' locker room. And they couldn't catch her. She hit the thick glass door with both hands up high, pushed it open, turned and gave them a little red-handed wave, then disappeared from sight. Scott put his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath. He ran five miles every morning on the beach and this teenage girl had run him into the dirt.
"You really think Pete might've killed him?" Nick said. "He's got a bad temper, but sticking a knife in Trey?"
An older woman gave Scott a look as she stepped past him to the door, grabbed the handle, and pushed the door open. The door shut behind her, and as it did, the sunlight caught the glass-and Scott stood straight at what he saw: two red handprints.
"Don't let anyone touch that glass," he said to Nick.
He jogged over to the concession tent and bought paper towels, a bottled water, and clear packing tape-the tape wasn't technically for sale; Scott had to pay $50 for a half roll. He wiped his hands on the towels, drank the water, and went back to the ladies' locker room door where Nick stood guard. Scott overlapped long tape strips across the glass to form one large piece of tape and smoothed the tape. Then he peeled the tape off the glass in one clean stroke. He held the tape up to the sunlight.
He had Billie Jean Puckett's fingerprints.
After securing the tape in a baggie in the rental car, Scott returned to the eighteenth hole where Nick was waiting. They watched as Pete Puckett putted out to complete his round. When he walked off the eighteenth green he stuck a cigar in his mouth just as cameras and reporters mobbed him.
"That's what winning the U.S. Open does for you," Nick said. "Two weeks ago, he couldn't buy an interview."
"There's Goose."
They caught up with the caddie, who was lighting a cigar and who wasn't excited to see Scott.
"Go away."
"Goose, I talked to Tess, Lacy, and Riley."
Goose chuckled. "Every moment in Trey's life was a Cialis moment."
"He took Viagra."
"That works, too."
"Any others?"
"Some guys like Levitra."
"Women."
"You want them in alphabetical or chronological order?" He chuckled again. "I was with a couple gals before I got married, he was with a couple gals before lunch. Hell, I felt more like a pimp than a caddie. We'd be walking down the fairway, in the hunt for a win, and he'd spot a gal standing outside the ropes, tell me to get her number. One tournament, he screwed a two-piece in a corporate hospitality tent during a rain delay. Most guys pack protein bars in the bag-he packed condoms." Goose shook his head. "Trey cut a wide swath through the WAGs. You'd think he'd've been happy with the groupies and your wife."
"We also know about Trey and Billie Jean. Did Pete kill him?"