Amen Corner (7 page)

“Everybody stares at first,” Weed said with a grin that showed gold and gaps from years of haphazard dental work. “You'll get used to it.”

“What do you think, Weed?” Rockingham said. “Should we carry the utility club or the two-iron this week?”

“Let's see how you're hitting them.”

Rockingham took the two-iron from his caddie, teed up a ball, and sent it to the base of the fence at the other end of the range, 270 yards away.

“Now the utility,” Weed said.

Weed took the two-iron and handed his boss the slim-backed utility club. Weed fired another ball at him, and Rockingham launched it halfway up the 105-foot-high net suspended above the fence to protect the cars and pedestrians on Washington Road.

“Tough call,” Weed said with a snicker.

The fans in the bleachers behind them started chanting “Over the net! Over the net!” before being admonished by a marshal. The players knew they were not supposed to hit balls over the net, but Rockingham pulled out his driver and sent one of the range balls disappearing into traffic. He twirled his driver and slammed it back in his bag.

“See you on the tee,” he said to Sam as he walked off the range to sustained applause.

Dwight whistled and said, “He ain't human.”

“Yes, he is,” Sam said.

Sam finished his warm-up shots and spent ten minutes on the lightning-quick practice green on the other side of the clubhouse. When it was time to tee off, he followed in Dwight's massive wake through the throngs of spectators gathered around the first tee. He presented his player ID to the tee marshal, stepped through the ropes, and took a deep breath. He was about to play Augusta National.

Rockingham and Cody Menninger had been pals and running mates on the Nationwide Tour before breaking through to the big show. Menninger had made some decent money, but it was obvious that Rockingham was the star in this pairing. He was being photographed by fans all the way to the first tee.

“You guys want to play us?” Rockingham said to Sam and Barber when he arrived at the starter's table.

“Whattya got in mind?” Barber said. “Whatever it is, we're gonna need strokes from you two gorillas.”

“Al, you've forgotten more about Augusta National than I'll ever know,” Rockingham said.

“That's the trouble,” Barber said. “I forgot it all.”

*

Sam was so mesmerized by the beauty and perfection of the golf course that he barely noticed he and Barber were losing their match after the front 9. Barber suggested a back nine press, to which Sam reluctantly agreed. The needle on his bank account back home was pointing at “E.”

Yellow police tape greeted Sam's foursome when they arrived at the 12th tee. Several squad cars were parked along the service road behind the grandstand, and a canine unit explored the wooded area along the left side of the 12th green. Sam's group was met by a uniformed Richmond County sheriff's deputy and an Augusta National member in a green jacket.

“We're not playing 12 this morning, fellas,” said the member, an older man with a dark tan that showed through the wispy white hairs on top of his head. “There's been an accident here.”

“What kind of accident?” Rockingham asked.

“Sorry, gentlemen, I can't say any more. Please proceed to the 13th tee.”

“Shit,” Rockingham said to Menninger as they began walking to a waiting Cadillac Escalade. “They better let us practice here tomorrow. I'm never sure what club to hit on this hole.”

Rockingham was so locked into his tournament preparation that he didn't even seem to care why the cops had shut down the hole. But Sam was interested.

“Officer,” Sam said quietly to the deputy. “Is this a homicide?”

“You'll have to talk to the investigator, Lieutenant Harwell.”

He pointed to a man walking toward the tee from the edge of the pond. He had wiry red hair and wore a white short-sleeve shirt, a red tie, and navy blue pants, with a police radio and a holstered handgun attached to his belt. Sam waited until Harwell reached the tee.

“Lieutenant Harwell, I'm a detective with the Minneapolis Police Department,” Sam said.

“What's a Minneapolis cop doing here?” the investigator said to Sam.

“I'm playing in the Masters this year. Sam Skarda.”

“Oh…,” Harwell said, letting the sound escape from his mouth like a draft through a barn. The idea of a cop playing golf made no sense to him whatsoever. “What can I do for y'all? We're a little busy here.”

“What happened here?” Sam asked.

“We don't know. The M.E. will determine that.”

There was no body visible. The ambulance and the hearse were gone.

“Why is the hole closed off?”

Harwell looked around, then lifted the police tape.

“C'mere. Have a look.”

Sam and Dwight followed the detective to the end of the tee and down the slope to the edge of the pond. Cops and forensic technicians stood around the 12th green, some taking pictures, some on their hands and knees inspecting the grass, and others just standing around enjoying the warm April morning.

“We found a body floating here this morning,” Harwell said. “And that writing on the green.”

At first Sam couldn't see anything unusual. Then, through a gap between two cops, he spotted some brown grass in the center of the putting surface. That never happened at Augusta. Looking more closely, there appeared to be a pattern to the spots of dead grass.

Someone had burned a message into the green. Sam took a few steps closer until he could make out the words, written in letters a foot high:

THIS IS THE LAST MASTERS

Chapter Six

Sam couldn't get the image of the defaced green out of his mind for the rest of the round. Nor could he imagine why someone was willing to commit murder to end the tournament. Could it have something to do with the protests?

He made a string of distracted swings that led to bogeys and double-bogeys as they played their way back to the clubhouse. The temperature had climbed into the 80s by the time Sam's foursome walked up the 18th fairway, and Dwight was laboring.

“Are you okay, big guy?” Sam asked as they approached the two-tiered green, surrounded by milky white bunkers and hundreds of spectators. Dwight toweled his face and offered a weak grin.

“These hills get steeper and this jumpsuit gets hotter every year,” he said. “But I'd feel a whole hell of a lot better if you'd get your mind back on your game.”

Sam responded to Dwight's challenge, sinking a 25-foot birdie putt to win the hole and three carry-overs worth $200.

“You just cost me a steak dinner, pards,” Rockingham said to Sam as they walked off the 18th green. He was smiling as he compressed Sam's hand, but the force of the handshake convinced Sam that Rockingham wasn't joking.

“Two hundred bucks for a steak dinner? You need to find cheaper restaurants,” Sam replied.

“I made four fuckin' point nine million last year,” Rockingham said, suddenly not smiling. “What'd you make?”

“Less than you make in a week.”

“You need a better job,” Rockingham said, and headed for the locker room, whistling an unrecognizable tune.

Can't argue with him there, Sam thought.

Sam told Dwight they'd play another practice round Tuesday morning around ten. Dwight said he'd be there early, but he was walking with a limp as he and Chipmunk headed for the bag room with the clubs. The steep 18th fairway had been hard on both of Sam's knees; he could only imagine how tough it was for Dwight, who had to be at least 10 years older and 100 pounds heavier than Sam.

Sam made his way through the throngs of spectators, hreen jackets, reporters, photographers and club employees milling around the 150-year-old oak tree that shaded the southwest corner of the clubhouse. Its tentacle-like branches extended horizontally at least 40 feet from the trunk and were held aloft by a network of steel cables. There was a buzz in the air that had to be connected to the body that had been found in the 10th fairway.

“Skarda? You Sam Skarda?”

Sam heard a gruff voice call his name through the commotion on the lawn. Sam turned to see a dumpy, sweaty man with thinning, unkempt hair and a press badge hanging around the frayed collar of his beige—or was it supposed to be white?—golf shirt. There was a mustard stain on the lapel of his ratty tan sports jacket and an ink smudge that ran from the cuff of his left sleeve almost up to the elbow. He was wearing baggy jeans and dirty white sneakers.

The name on the badge was R. Daly. Sam recognized him: Russ Daly, sports columnist for the Los Angeles Times and a frequent guest commentator on ESPN. He wrote acerbic columns about players, managers, coaches, and owners, and when he was bored with his usual targets, he'd rip cheerleaders and batboys.

“Skarda?” Daly asked again.

“That's me,” Sam said.

“Russ Daly, L.A. Times. How ya doin'?”

“I didn't play too well this morning. A lot of distractions.”

“Yeah, well, nobody expects you to make the cut, so what's the difference?” Daly said. “You were going to be my column for tomorrow—but I guess you could say things have changed a little since they found the stiff.”

“What have you heard?” Sam said.

“Press conference in about an hour,” Daly said. “David Porter—Chairman Sphinx—is supposed to tell us that a member was found floating in the water at Amen Corner.”

“Looks like a homicide investigation to me,” Sam said.

“The press guide says you're a cop,” Daly said, pulling out a spiral notebook and a pen. “Did you talk to the local boys down there?”

“Yeah, for a minute. They didn't tell me anything.”

“What did you see?”

“Somebody wrote this is the last masters in the grass where they found the body.”

Daly scribbled that down.

“So, what's your opinion?”

“Off the record?”

“C'mon, you've been interviewed by assholes like me before.”

“None with a couple million readers,” Sam said.

“Okay, off the record, then.”

Sam took off his sweat-stained golf hat and ran his hand through his hair. The sun was high enough now that the huge oak provided some welcome shade.

“Well, one of two things: Either the guy made that message himself and then committed suicide, which isn't likely, or somebody else killed him to make a point.”

“You heard that a member came out publicly last week in favor of admitting women to Augusta,” Daly said. “Hell of a story.”

“I suppose it was your story?”

“I wish,” Daly said. “No, it was hers.”

He jerked his pen backward, indicating a woman standing over his right shoulder, interviewing Cody Menninger. She didn't look like she attended a lot of golf tournaments. She had short, curly, white-blond hair and her hoop earrings dangled below the collar of the white turtleneck she wore under a beige blazer. She finished off the look with black, spike-heeled boots and skin-tight black pants. She was filling up her notebook with Menninger's recollections of what he'd seen on the golf course that morning.

“Who is she?” Sam asked Daly.

“Deborah Scanlon of the New York Times,” Daly said. “Pain in the ass. Don't talk to her.”

“I heard that, Daly,” Scanlon called over her shoulder. She thanked Menninger and moved over to join them.

“Hi,” she said with a quick, tight smile that seemed as practiced as it was insincere. She extended her hand to Sam. “Sam Skarda, right?”

“Right,” he said. She gave him the kind of dead-fish handshake that made him do all the work.

She pulled out her notebook and flipped through the pages with hyper-kinetic energy. Her eyes darted back and forth between Sam and others in the crowd around him like a flirt at a cocktail party, afraid she might be missing a better opportunity.

“What did you tell Daly?” she said, felt-tipped marker poised to write. “I know you're a cop. You must have noticed something down there. How close did you get?”

“Close enough,” Sam said. “I saw that somebody had burned the words this is the last masters into the grass on the fairway.”

“Who would do that?” Scanlon demanded. “An Augusta National member?”

“I have no idea,” Sam said.

“My sources tell me there are some members here who'd rather shut down the Masters than let women into the club. They figure if the Masters goes away, the protesters go away.”

“I don't see it, Debbie,” Daly said. “They love their greens more than they hate women.”

“Butt out, Daly,” she said. “I want to know what Sam thinks.”

“I don't know anything about Augusta National's members, except that they invited me to play here,” Sam said.