North of Scottsdale, they passed through the gates of the Boulders, thirty-six holes of legendary golf links, sculpted into desert foothills.
“You play?” Kalyn asked as they approached the clubhouse.
“Used to.”
“So how do we find this guy if he’s somewhere out there?”
“This is a very nice course. I’m sure he needed reservations, so the pro shop would be the place to start.”
Kalyn pulled into a parking spot and they walked together into the pro shop. The man behind the counter was forty-something and tanned to golden perfection, his brown hair gilded by sunlight. Will could also see that he was brimming with attitude, that rare, sophisticated superiority effused by those with just enough talent to be the local pro but who lack some crucial ingredient to win their PGA card. His name tag read Dan.
“Help you with something?” he said. Kalyn reached into her purse, took out her expired FBI ID, let it flip open, carefully watching Dan’s eyes. They weren’t really reading it, just registering the shock of seeing FBI in bold blue letters.
Kalyn snapped it closed. “I wonder if you could help us, Dan. We’re trying to locate a gentleman named Javier Estrada. I believe he may be playing here right now.”
The club pro stepped behind a computer, began typing.
“You don’t need a warrant or anything for this?” he asked.
“No, sir,” she said. “Now if I wanted to know how many times he’d played in the last month, or access to his locker, that would require a warrant.”
“What’s this all about?” He was still typing.
“I’m sorry, I can’t go into that. Do you know Mr. Estrada?”
“I’ve given him several lessons in the last month. He tips very well.”
“Look at me, sir.” Dan looked up. “I’m not going to tell Mr. Estrada whatever information you give me, and you’d be wise not to discuss this with him. He’s a dangerous man.” Dan’s eyes cut back to the computer screen.
“He had a one-thirty tee time on the north course,” he said.
“Can you tell exactly which hole he’s on right now?”
The door to the pro shop swung open.
“No, but he should be getting—” Dan glanced up, his tan paling. He caught himself, smiled broadly, now looking past Kalyn and Will. “Javier!” he said. “How’d we do today?”
“Seventy-seven.”
Will heard pride and a faint accent in the man’s even voice. Javier Estrada walked up and stood beside Kalyn, decked out in knickers, Payne Stewart–style, the sides of his white-collared shirt darkened with sweat stains. He was fanning himself with a golf cap.
Will wandered away from the counter and Kalyn discreetly followed, hanging on to his arm as if they were just perusing the clubs and golf bags.
“Seventy-seven?” Dan said. “No. I don’t think I believe that.”
“That thing you showed me? The wrist turn thing? You are a beautiful genius.”
“Well, I’m happy for you, Jav. That’s good stuff. Good stuff.”
“I’d have shot seventy-five except for that par five on the back.”
“Fifteen?”
“I four-putted. That green was much slower than the others.”
“You know,” Dan said, leaning forward confidentially, “yours isn’t the first complaint I’ve heard about that green today. Between you and me, one of the groundskeepers overwatered it.”
“Who? Which groundskeeper?”
“Brian.”
“Brian cost me my personal best.”
“We still on for a lesson Monday afternoon?”
“Absolutely. Give me a bucket of balls. I need to straighten out something on my sand wedge before I head home.”
Kalyn pulled her Buick around to the side of the clubhouse so that they had a view of the driving range. The sun was setting, turning the rock formations pink, the fairways gold.
“I have to admit,” Will said, “seeing him here, dressed up like a golfing dandy—it kind of undercuts the badass, Alpha mystique.”
“Your cell on?” Kalyn asked.
“Yeah.”
“Program my number.” She gave it to him. “The moment he starts packing up to leave, call me.” She grabbed her purse, opened the door.
“Where are you going?” She got out, left Will sitting in the hot silence, fifty feet back from the range.
With his smooth, fluid swing, Javier was putting most of his balls on the nearest green. After awhile, he took out his driver, set up a tee. He settled into his stance, stood there shifting his hips, staring down at the ball, nodding his head. He did this for fifteen seconds, then brought the club back and swung. Will heard the impact of the huge titanium club face meeting the ball. Javier followed through, froze, then looked up, watching as the ball arced toward the back of the range.
Sitting there, watching this kidnapping, drug-running murderer, Will felt surprisingly calm.
Will opened his cell, called Kalyn. “He’s hoisting his bag onto his shoulder right now.”
“Wait there. I’m coming back to you.”
Will closed the cell, Javier walking toward him now. Will could hear the crunch of his golf spikes on the pavement. Javier passed by his window. Smell of cologne and sweat. He wore RayBan sunglasses, and Will didn’t like not knowing where the man was looking. Glancing in the side mirror, he watched until Javier disappeared around the clubhouse. Then he stared through the windshield, but he couldn’t concentrate, kept watching the side mirror.
Someone knocked on the driver’s side window. He flinched. It was Kalyn. Will unlocked the door and she opened it and climbed in behind the wheel.
“What’d you do?” he asked.
She cranked the engine, shifted into reverse. “You’ll see.”
NINETEEN
The new Escalade slowed as it neared the entrance to the Boulders, right turn signal blinking.
“What’d you do?” Will asked again.
Kalyn cut her eyes at him, grinned wickedly. The Escalade pulled out onto N. Tom Darlington Road. They followed.
“Do me a favor,” Kalyn said. “Reach in my purse and pull out the Glock. You’ve held a gun before, right?”
“Yeah, at Webelos camp about twenty years ago.” Will lifted out a small black semiautomatic handgun. “Loaded?” he asked.
“Yep. Now very gently, pull back on the slide. You see a round?”
He saw the copper-tipped brass casing. “Yeah.”
“You can put it back.” Will looked up through the windshield, saw Javier’s SUV fifty yards ahead, but something was clearly wrong with it, the Escalade drifting toward the shoulder.
