Atlanta, Georgia
1800 hours
Conrad Garner drove slowly past the elaborate stone and fountain entrance to the St. John's Country Club. He only dared to make one pass and tried to absorb as many details as possible-motorized heavy-iron gates, alarm system, video cams and a cop-wanna-be in the guardhouse. He would be a problem, a witness Conrad couldn't afford to have.
He continued around the ten-foot stone-walled perimeter, noting any changes and weaknesses in security system as the forested areas grew denser the closer he came to the Chattahoochee River. At the service entrance to the world class golf course, he found no guard, but a card key gate and standard video surveillance. Passable if he wanted to go to the effort. So would entering via the river side, but he had a better idea.
Edward Weiss had taken the silver spoon he'd been born sucking and had turned it into solid gold in Atlanta's real estate market. He lived in high style. Spent most of his time playing golf or traveling and showed up at the office every now and then to close on the multi-million dollar deals his assistants put together. Edward constantly claimed that he'd made more real estate deals doing eighteen holes than most executives did by hours in boardrooms. He had a trophy wife with Pamela Anderson implants who spent her time either in the spa or shopping, two daughters off at boarding school, and not a care in the world. The bastard had it all.
Why in the hell had Bill even bothered to cut Edward in on the five million? Why hadn't Bill realized that he, Conrad, needed it more than all of the others in the group all together?
Growing more pissed by the minute, he checked his cell phone again. Not a peep from any of the guys.
Which meant one thing. They had cut him out of the picture so they could have all the money for themselves. Were they behind either of the men at Collins's house? Did they now have Lauren's letter from Bill? If they did, then they had three of the six clues. He only had two.
His teeth ached from the pressure of his anger.
They didn't need the money. They went on international golfing trips. Dined in uppity restaurants and camped out at five star hotels. In fact, now that he really thought about it, the whole Vegas tradition, being one of the guys and all that stuff was nothing more than a pity fuck for good old Con.
Poor Con, he would have been NFL's first pick if he hadn't have blown his knee so bad.
You would have been great!
Better than the best.
Tough luck.
His ears rang from the sympathies.
Not wanting a traceable electronic trail, Conrad paid cash at a nearby pro golf shop then made his way back to the St. John's Golf Course. He looked like the ultimate leisurely golfer, cap, khaki's, pullover, shoes, gloves, the works. He parked about a mile away in a shopping area and strolled at a leisurely pace. Conrad knew for a fact that the forested acres edging the perimeter of the course relied on wireless video cameras. For Edward, it had been the one negative aspect of buying a house on the golf course. Years ago he'd laughed about his paranoia over some psycho getting into the community.
Conrad chuckled, thinking it apropos that he'd be the one proving Edward was right all of these years later. Within ten yards of a particularly shaded area of the high stone fence, Conrad turned on his wireless jamming device guaranteed to send WiFi, Bluetooth and video feed on the fritz in a twenty meter radius for as long as he wanted. He'd be a roving blackout for the security cameras. Getting over the wall wasn't as much of a breeze as Conrad first thought. His bum knee gave out on him and started aching like an SOB.
First, he found a stray ball. Next he pilfered a golf club from a cart parked near the trees with the owners absorbed by a ball in the sand. Then he made his way to the back of Edward's house. Finding no one at home, he disabled the security system that he'd sold to Edward long ago and slipped into the basement with a strategic stroke of the club that sent the golf ball through the glass French doors.
As he made his way inside, he wondered why he'd never thought of doing this before-breaking into places he'd armed. He could have easily picked up some extra cash over the years. A little redistribution of wealth from the haves to the have-nots. Not stealing really. Just skipping the government middleman was all and avoiding the bureaucratic waste Edward always complained about.
He found the hot water heater on low, which told him that Edward and his wife were slumming-it in some ultra resort. Of all the piss poor luck. He doubted there was a chance in hell he'd find the mail for the past few days upstairs but it would be worth a look.
He entered the main part of the house via the kitchen and the "servant's stairs"-hallways that kids, hired help (usually illegal), and rare pets were allowed to tread upon. Every inch of the place was decorated to a posh museum-like T that made Conrad itch to either smash it or get outside so he could breathe. He found no mail but the calendar on the refrigerator door sang a sweet song for him.
Edward's flight was due back at seven this evening. Conrad had plenty of time to fix himself a meal then get ready for his pal. Five million was at stake.
A little while later, all cozy in his hiding place, Conrad watched Edward walk into the kitchen from the garage area. Edward wore a casual sports coat, khakis and a tie. His hair, always on the thin side, had become sparser over the years. Gray rode high on his temples, and a healthy tan shined any developing bald spots. He hummed some offbeat tune as he set his briefcase and a box of mail on the counter. Then his cell phone rang.
"Ray. You dog. Bob and I will never forgive you for ditching us. Pebble Beach dragged without you. How was the yacht? What? You're still cruising." Edward whistled. "Nice. Yeah, I got the same message from Thomas. Don't know what letter he's talking about or why he sounded so grave. I just picked up a mountain of mail, but haven't been through it yet. Hmm. I tried calling him too. He didn't pick up." Edward sighed. "No. I haven't spoken to Con, either. Did something about him seem odd to you in Vegas?" Edward dug through the mail and pulled up a FedEx envelope.
Conrad's mouth watered and his heart hammered.
Edward laughed. "He's always been crude, but good for a laugh or two every now and then. Sort of a Fred Flintstone/Andrew Dice Clay wanna be. This time though, he was as touchy as a live wire after that blond with the jumbo tits dropped him. Shit, we were just joking about him taking Viagra with the Viva Viagra toast. What? You dog! You nailed her in the bathroom while we were at the table? Damn. Just damn. No wonder she dropped Con flat. I'm envious. Hey, I've got Bill's letter in hand. Let me take a piss, I'll read it and call you back. Better not soak up all of the sun while you're out there. Save some for us poor bastards who still have to work for a living. I'm closing a mega-deal tomorrow. Talk to you in a sec."
Edward hung up the phone. With Bill's letter in hand, he turned from the counter. Conrad was waiting for him.
"Fore!" Conrad yelled as he slammed the five-iron against the side of Edward's head. Edward screamed. Bill's letter dropped to the floor, bone cracked, blood splattered, the scent of urine filled the air and Conrad's pent up rage found a sweet release as he stroked a round of golf bar none.