'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?'
'I don't know. But I sure as hell would've, if she was my daughter.' Goose spit. 'She's just a goddamned kid without a mama.'
'Why was he like that? Trey?'
Goose inhaled on the cigar then blew out a cloud of smoke.
'Back when I started out here the big stars-Palmer, Nicklaus, Trevino-they gave back more than they took and they didn't always take the best for themselves. Young guys today, they figure they're entitled to the best and screw the world. They've got no sense of responsibility, just a sense of entitlement. Trey was one of those guys. He took what he wanted, whether it was a Bentley or another man's wife. But you already know that, don't you?'
Goose hefted the big bag onto his shoulder and trudged off. Scott stared after him. He did know that.
'Goose is something of a philosopher on tour… and an asshole.' Nick slapped Scott on the shoulder. 'Come on, Pete's freed up.'
Scott followed Nick over to Pete. He was smoking the cigar and signing autographs. Fans were pushing their caps, programs, balls, and breasts forward for him to sign. Scott tried to make friends this time.
'Congratulations on the Open, Pete.'
Pete continued signing autographs on autopilot. He didn't look up at Scott.
'What do you want, lawyer?'
Okay, forget friendship. Scott pulled Karen's compact case from his pants pocket. He opened it and held it out to Pete.
'I want your fingerprints on this mirror.'
'Why?'
'He wants to cross you off the list,' Nick said.
'What list?'
'List of suspects. People who might've killed Trey.'
'His wife killed Trey.'
'Will you take a polygraph?' Scott asked.
'Did she?'
'Not yet.'
