'Did they terminate the contract?'
'I got an email five minutes after his death hit the news. They saved about ten million, twice that if he met his performance incentives.'
'That's a pretty good motive.'
'To kill Trey? Shit, Scott, take a number. The motive line is long with Trey Rawlins.'
'Why didn't you tell me this?'
'You didn't ask.'
'Damnit, Nick, this is a murder investigation. And we've got three weeks till Rebecca goes on trial. You need to tell me everything you know.'
'I have… now.'
'Where's the tour this week?'
'Austin. We're doing the Texas Waltz: Houston, San Antonio, Austin, and Dallas. I'll be there tomorrow.'
'I'll find you. I want to talk to his sponsor.'
THIRTY-TWO
The next morning, Scott flew to Austin and took a cab to the tournament site at the Barton Creek Resort. He found Nick Madden by the first tee on his cell phone.
'Two hundred thousand? I'll take it. Monday, nine A.M., at the Highland Park Country Club. Pete'll be there.'
Nick disconnected.
'Another deal for Pete?' Scott said.
Nick nodded. 'Corporate outing. Tour goes from city to city, so local corporations set up outings for their special clients then get a tour player to join in-for a fee. Hundred, two hundred, three hundred grand for the big boys. Guy spends four hours playing golf and acting like he gives a shit, walks away with a nice paycheck.'
'That's a lot of money for a round of golf.'
Nick shrugged. 'Tax-deductible.'
'And you get twenty percent?'
'Before taxes.'
They went over to the merchandise tent and found Golf-a-zon's booth stocked with golf clubs, balls, gloves, shoes, apparel, and two sexy young women. A man who looked young enough to be pledging a fraternity stood and greeted Nick.
'Nick, you find me a replacement player yet?'
'How about Brett?'
The man rolled his eyes. 'Please. He looks like the guy in Sling Blade. '
'Vic?'
'He's an accountant with a five-iron.'
'Donnie Parker? He just won the Houston Classic.'
'Yeah, and he's married to a porn star. After Trey, I want a goddamn altar boy.'
Nick laughed. 'On the pro golf tour? Got a better chance of finding a virgin.'
'Not in this booth,' one of the girls said then she and the other girl giggled.
Nick turned to Scott. 'Scott, meet Brad Dickey, VP-Player Development, Golf-a-zon-dot-com.'
Scott shook hands with Brad. 'Scott Fenney.'
Brad pulled his hand back as if Scott had poison ivy. 'Rebecca's husband?'
'Lawyer. I need to ask you some questions, Brad.'
'You'd better talk to the company lawyer.'
'Brad, you can talk to me now or you can talk to me on the witness stand at trial.'
Brad turned to Nick with pleading eyes. Nick shrugged.
'Better talk now, Brad, so he can cross you off the list.'
'What list?'
'The suspect list.'
Brad considered his options then said, 'Come on back.'
They sat in the booth and listened to Brad's story. He traveled with the tour, keeping his players happy-'Like the two-pieces'-and recruiting players to endorse his company's products. They weren't Nike, but they had taken the same marketing approach: they bet everything on one up-and-coming player.
'You can have the greatest golf product ever invented, but if the country club guys don't see a star player hitting it, swinging it, or wearing it, they won't buy it. We thought Trey could be our Tiger. Didn't work out.'
'You wanted to cancel his contract?'
'Would you want a cokehead endorsing your products?'
'But your contract was guaranteed?'
'Yeah, Nick's a hard-ass agent.'
Nick's chest swelled up as if he'd just been nominated for a Nobel. To Scott, he said, 'I shopped Trey right after he won the first pro tournament he played in.' Back to Brad: 'But I didn't force you to give him guaranteed payments, incentives bonuses, stock options…'
'You didn't tell me he was a fucking doper either.'
'I didn't know.'
'Sure you didn't.'
'Why didn't you have a morals clause?' Scott asked.
Brad pointed at Nick. 'Because of him. But every contract we sign from now on damn sure will.'
Nick was shaking his head. 'I fight those damn clauses every day now. One pro athlete… okay, a hundred pro athletes get arrested for drugs, rape, possession of firearms, and other assorted felonies, all of a sudden every sponsor wants a morals clause. Shit, you start canceling endorsement contracts for every criminal conviction, you won't be in the pro football or basketball market for long.'
'We're in the pro golf market,' Brad said. 'We expect better behavior from our players.' He turned to Scott. 'We bet the company on Trey Rawlins.'
'His death saved your company?'
'And my job.' Brad shrugged. 'Sounds bad, but it's the truth. We dumped our entire marketing budget into that bastard, only to have him shit on us. Drinking, snorting cocaine, screwing everything that walked…'
'Gambling.'
' Gambling? ' Brad turned to Nick. 'Another dirty secret, Nick?'
Nick shrugged innocently.
'Look,' Brad said, 'I'm not crying because Trey's dead, but we didn't have anything to do with it.'
'Will you take a polygraph?'
'Why should I?'
'So I don't subpoena you to testify at trial.'
'Hell, I'd rather testify.'
'I can arrange that. So you owed him ten million more under the contract, plus incentives… unless he died?'
'Yeah. So?'
'So maybe you terminated Trey in order to terminate his contract.'
'This is the pro golf tour, Scott, not the NFL. We don't carry guns.'
'He was stabbed to death.'
'Or knives. Sure, we wanted away from him, but so did the tour.'
'Why?'
'Like I said, this is pro golf. It's all about image. Tour knew that when he fell-not if, but when — he was gonna fall hard. And he could make the tour look bad. These are tough times in the golf business-sales are down,
