The eighth hole at Birchwood was a dogleg left par four with a little stream that served as a hazard. It was a good day for golf-cool and clear. And the course wasn’t crowded because it was a Tuesday.
I parked the BMW on a deserted side road and crossed the seventh fairway and a wooded area that bordered the eighth fairway.
Jergens and his two overweight buddies couldn’t see me standing in the shadows behind the treeline. Aside from the fact that the bodyguards had been drinking from brown paper bags, their eyesight didn’t seem to be particularly keen and they had no reason to be on the lookout for someone like me.
The men were getting ready to tee off, standing next to their carts practicing their swings. One of the men was punching the keys on a cell phone.
I started out of the woods and walked slowly up to them. The guy on the phone was calling Domino’s Pizza and ordering a pie to be delivered to them at the ninth hole. He was in the process of asking the others what kind of toppings they wanted.
They glanced over at me as I strolled up to them. You don’t often see a guy in a business suit on a golf course.
“Jesus, it looks like the secret service,” the bigger clown said. He could have been a junior league sumo wrestler, only he had a close-cut beard and an earring with a dangling crucifix.
I took off my sunglasses. “Jergens,” I said. “You’ll be happy to see me. My name is Rogan.”
He squinted at me. “You’re a persistent son of a bitch.” There was a notable lack of warmth in his voice.
“That’s what endears me to people.”
Jergens exchanged wary glances with his bodyguards. It was obvious they didn’t know what to make of me.
“This is a private club,” Jergens said.
“That’s OK. I’m a private citizen.”
The smaller guy pulled out what looked like a one iron to my unpracticed eye. He had a plug ugly face with a head that looked like it had been squeezed in a vice, front to back. His neck was thicker than his head. “Want me to get rid of him?” he asked Jergens.
Jergens started to nod, then held up his hand. “What the hell do you want from me, Rogan?”
He was a well-built man in his mid-forties, with a square jaw and longish light brown hair. His face was creased with self-satisfaction. His eyes were dark and narrow, with a nasty glint. He was wearing a pink Polo shirt and khaki slacks. And his swing was strong and sure.
“I want to know why you killed Alicia.”
That wasn’t what he expected to hear. He was the kind of man to whom people seldom spoke frankly. When you control a massive portfolio, people are invariably polite to you. He jerked his head in my direction.
“Kick the shit out of him,” he said without any emotion.
One iron stepped back and took a quick swing that caught me on my bad side. The pain was incredible. My legs felt like overcooked spaghetti. I went down faster than a two-year-old on an ice-slick.
“That’s about the only thing you could hit with a one iron, turkey,” I said, looking up at his inseam.
Evidently he didn’t like my evaluation of his golf proficiency. “Fuck you, scumbag,” he said as he brought the club down on my head.
I saw stars. Purple and black and yellow, like a kaleidoscope.
The junior sumo rocked back and let go a kick that caught me in the chest and knocked the wind out of me. This was turning out to be not much fun. If I were younger, faster and had better luck, I could be kicking the shit out of them right now. I didn’t think I could take it much longer without passing out. As it was, they were pummeling me without mercy, and I was just lying there trying to think of something witty to say.
The big guy caught me with a one-two kick to the head that left me dazed. I started to see things double and triple.
Then I blacked out.
Laura looked like an angel from one of those old Audrey Hepburn movies. She was wearing a white silk scarf over a white dress and her hair was drawn straight back. A preview of heaven or at least what it was going to look like after the environmentalists got around to cleaning it up.
She was leaning over me and whispering my name. I tried to sit up, and managed on the third try. I was in my own bed.
“Ed,” she said. “What happened to you?”
Then I remembered. “I forgot to duck when the guy yelled fore.”
She attempted a smile, but the attempt wasn’t very successful. She got up and went into the kitchen and came back with a glass of ice water. It tasted better than Moet amp; Chandon. Nothing tasted as good as New York City water when you were thirsty.
“I think we have a good line on Jergens,” I said. “There’s a real possibility he killed Alicia, or had her killed.”
She put her hand on my shoulder. “You don’t have to talk now. You can tell me about it later, after you feel better.”
“I never felt better. I just look like hell.”
She gave me a dubious stare.
“The problem is that it’s tough to get to Jergens,” I said. “You know who he is?”
“He’s in real estate, isn’t he?”
“He’s one of the biggest developers in the country. All the banks come to him, begging him to take their dough. They shovel it out the door at him.”
She looked puzzled. “But why would someone like that want to kill Alicia?”
“She had something on him. She might even have been blackmailing him.”
“Alicia would never do that,” she said with a shake of her head.
How could I explain the dirty facts of life to this innocent? “The problem, sweetheart, was that she got herself in too deep. Alicia was tough, but she was playing with the big boys and they had a different rulebook.”
She gripped my hand tightly. “But what are you going to do? I’m worried about you. Look what they did. They might kill you too.”
I shook my head. “They haven’t got a prayer. I’ll just break some more of their golf clubs with my head.”
She laughed. It was a sweet laugh, warm and trusting. “How will you find out?”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “Jergens is tougher to get to than the crown jewels. He lives on the top floor of the Plaza and he has a security set-up Willie Sutton couldn’t get through. The windows are soundproofed and sealed with sheets of opaque plastic. Short of landing a helo on the roof, there’s no way to get to him. He always has a couple of bodyguards with him. And he hasn’t been returning my phone calls.”
She smiled. I reached over and kissed her on the cheek. “I may look like hell but I feel like hell warmed over. Let me get some shuteye.” I lay back down in bed. “Help yourself to some beer.”
She wrinkled up her nose. “I don’t like beer.”
“Good,” I said.
Tanner called me that night while I was watching the news. “Nobody on the street knows what the hell happened to Wheelock. He vanished clean as a whistle, old buddy. It’s like he de-materialized.”
“What about that guy Murdoch used to work with Wheelock at Merrill?”
“Yeah, I thought of him. Only problem is he moved to Vegas.”
“They have phones out there?” I asked.
Tanner chuckled. “Guess they must. I’ll see if anyone has his number. I’ll get back to you.”
He hung up.
I managed to get to the bathroom. I did look like hell warmed over. And my suit, or what was left of it, didn’t look so great either. I took the hottest shower I could and stood there letting the scalding water run over my aches and pains long after I’d finished washing, wondering why I wanted it to be Wheelock and not anyone else.