the day he was murdered. Once Scott got their prints, he would know for sure. And so would the D.A.
'What?'
'What they said happened. Said right after lunch, the blonde girl drives up in a black Mustang, goes inside, they don't see her for maybe four hours. Then a cab drives up and the big man gets out. This was after five 'cause they were already drinking beer. The big man, he don't go in the front door like the girl, he goes around back. Maybe fifteen minutes later, he comes out the front door dragging the girl by her arm, puts her in the Mustang, and they drive off. She was crying.'
'How could they tell she was crying from that far away?'
'Binoculars.'
'They had binoculars? What for? To watch the birds?'
'Uh… no, boss. To watch the red-haired woman go out on the back deck… naked. Said she had a tattoo.'
Mark Gimenez
Accused
TWENTY-NINE
Two days later, Scott woke early, drove to Hobby Airport in Houston, caught a Southwest flight to San Antonio, rented a car, and drove to the La Cantera Golf Club on the north side of town where the San Antonio Open was being played. He found Nick Madden talking on his cell phone and watching Pete Puckett putt on the ninth green. When Nick ended the call, he had a big grin on his face.
'Never thought I'd be so happy to hear someone say 'erectile dysfunction.' They want Pete to endorse for them.' He gestured at the green. 'Twenty years, he couldn't win a fucking putt-putt tournament, then he wins the U.S. Open. I'm getting a dozen endorsement offers a day.'
'He suffers from ED?'
'He does?'
'Why would he endorse that stuff if he doesn't?'
Nick gave Scott a dumbfounded look. 'Money. You watch golf on TV-what are the commercials for? Drugs to make your dick harder, your prostate smaller, your hair darker, and your golf ball go farther. How to get it up, keep it up, look younger, and hit it longer-that's the WM squared fantasy, Scott, and sponsors pay big bucks to anyone who can help them tap into it. Old fart like Pete whips the young studs out here to win the Open, he's the perfect pitchman for that stuff: 'Guys, if I can win the U.S. Open, you can win the babe. All you gotta do is color your hair and swallow this pill.' ' He paused. 'I guess you want his prints?'
Scott nodded. 'And Billie Jean's. What kind of car does she drive?'
'Black Mustang. Why?'
'A blonde girl in a black Mustang was seen at Trey's house the day he was murdered.'
'Shit.'
'And a big man came and dragged her out of the house.'
'Double shit.'
'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.'
