Fairway Fatality

Fairway Fatality

A novel of murder and mystery

by

Robert James Allison

Copyright © 2006 by Robert James Allison

ISBN 978-1-59705-103-3

Published by First Suitor Enterprises at Smashwords

February 2013

Cover photos:

Grand National Golf Course (Public Domain)

Misawa Air Base Golf Course pavilion construction

(U.S. Government works)

Rock Grip by http://imagebase.davidniblack.com

All rights reserved

Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

First Suitor Enterprises

www.RobertJamesAllison.com

This e-Book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-Book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

To my wife, Barbara, whose knack for figuring out the end of a mystery half way through the book, prompted me to write one she couldn’t solve.

Chapter One

April 1974

The little, broken body rolled lightly into the dark recess of the hole. Open, but lifeless, eyes stared up at the man, gleaming in the light of the full moon hanging high above a golf course, that until recently had been shrouded in a heavy fog. The man stared into the accusing eyes and then studied the twisted and bloody body. There was more blood than he had at first realized, and his body began to shake. His legs felt weak, and his stomach was queasy. Quickly, he turned to the pile of dirt and sand mix next to the hole. Soon the hole would be filled with the mixture, seeded, and made into a lush green. With a shovel, borrowed from the maintenance shed, he quickly and quietly tossed dirt into the hole and completely covered the accusing eyes. Then, more slowly and even more quietly, he piled shovelful after shovelful of dirt onto the body, until not a trace was left. He continued to shovel until a good foot of the mixture covered the entire area where the body was now entombed.

He was sweating profusely now, less from the heat than nerves. At long last, he was satisfied that the body was sufficiently covered until morning, when with the use of the nearby tractor and back hoe, he could move the entire pile of dirt and sand mix into the hole to completely and forever conceal the body. He chuckled to think that not only would he be getting paid to conceal the body, but that in less than a few months, numerous golfers would be walking on and over its grave. They would be putting balls across it and chipping balls upon it. All oblivious to the fact that a dark-haired, nine-year-old girl’s body lay at rest four feet beneath the smooth surface of the green. Even better, he would occasionally be one of those golfers.

~*~

May 2004

Ted Barnett walked along the empty hall. Next to him was a guard, one of the ‘goon squad’ as they were known. Goons were interior guards, as opposed to the tower guards who never worked inside. This was his last walk down this hall. He passed the sign indicating the way to ‘North Seg,’ a wing housing condemned prisoners. There were actually four death rows at San Quentin State Prison, but ‘North Seg’ was the most popular, because it had the best living conditions. All of the rest of the death rows got progressively worse and progressively more constrained.

On they walked, and Ted let his gaze wander around the corridor as they approached the fateful elevator. The one that took condemned men on their last ride to the basement where the gas chamber and lethal injection rooms were both located. You had to choose to be gassed, since the state of California had outlawed the involuntary use of the gas chamber in the mid-1990s. It was beyond the reasoning of Ted why anyone would choose gas over lethal injection, but apparently some did.

Fortunately for Ted, when he was convicted in 1974, he wasn’t sentenced to death. Back then all they used was the gas chamber; from the stories he had heard, he wanted no part of that. In fact, he didn’t want to die at all, and through good fortune it appeared he wasn’t going to, at least not in San Quentin.

Finally, they reached the registration cage. Ted hadn’t been here for 30 years. At that time he was coming in, but now he was going out. He had served his time and was soon to be a free man once again. He had been a young and vigorous man when first incarcerated, and now, though in better shape than some, he was old, much older than his 50 years, in both mind and body. Today, though, he had something to be thankful for after all these years. He had survived San Quentin.

There wasn’t much to be done at the registration desk. Ted picked up the personal belongings he had brought in with him, and that wasn’t much. Still accompanied by the guard, he crossed the open area from the administration building to the sally port. Once cleared, he left it for another open area. At this point he was actually outside the prison walls. The tower guards were looking the opposite direction from him for the first time in 30 years. The guard had left him at the sally port. Ted was now free. It only remained for him to walk out the main gate. A gate not even guarded.

Standing outside, he took several deep breaths of the ocean air that was gently blowing in off the Pacific Ocean. He let his eyes wander around the horizon, scanning the San Francisco Bay and the ocean beyond. These were his first breaths of air free from the stone prison that had become his home. For several minutes he let his eyes wander over the far horizons; he had not been in a position to look so far without seeing a wall or guard in what seemed an eternity. Ted was content to stand and look out over the horizon forever, but it was not to be.

Hey, I get paid to give you a ride into town, not sit here and wait all day. I get a flat rate from the state for these cab rides. Let’s go, huh? I got better fares I could be picking up, a voice said from behind him. Ted turned to see a man dressed in blue jeans and a tee shirt with ‘Checker Cab Company’ emblazoned on its front in yellow letters.

Sure thing, mister, Ted replied. This was his free ride to town, but from there he was on his own.

Ted climbed into the back of the cab and was content to sit silently and watch as the scenery flew by the car window. He had arrived at San Quentin in the middle of the night, on a bus, 30 years ago and saw only lights with no recognizable features. Now, in the daytime, it was a grand site to behold. His eyes took in the Golden Gate Bridge, the San Francisco Bay and the shipyards off to the east. Glancing to the west he saw a couple of huge freighters out quite a distance from the shore, plying their trade along the coast.

Turning now, he glanced out the back window of the cab to see San Quentin Penitentiary disappearing in the distance. He half expected to see someone pursuing him. Someone coming to reclaim him at the last minute and tell him it was all a mistake. That he had more time to serve, but no one was there. Ted had so long yearned for this day that it all seemed like a dream to him. It would be a while before he could let himself believe that after all these years he was in fact a free man again. Ted had a few dollars they had given him or rather, that he had earned, working in the prison library. It wasn’t much, but it would get him a bus ticket to Monterey.

~*~

Pete slowly climbed the slight grade up to the practice tee area and, once on top, lightly tossed his handful of clubs on the ground, setting the wire basket full of range balls at his feet. He picked up his five-iron, tipped the bucket of balls over with the end of the club and stepped back. With the clubface, he dragged a ball in front of him, placed it between his feet and rolled it onto a patch of fluffy grass. Already he was beginning to shake slightly and his knees felt weak. He felt perspiration running down his forehead, and he stopped to wipe the palms of his hands on his pants.

With great concentration he gripped the five-iron, placed the face of the club behind the ball and stopped. Out of the corner of his left eye he saw three golfers walking along the seventeenth fairway that ran behind the far end of the practice range. Off to the right he saw two more walking up the eighteenth fairway, which paralleled the right side of the practice area. Closing his eyes for several seconds, he reopened them and tried to make himself begin his back swing.

His palms were still sweating and his knees became even weaker. His legs began to shake and he could no longer control his thoughts. The grass below his feet and the trees along the sides of the practice range all began to spin. He should not have come here, not today, not at this time of day. This place was bringing back too many memories better left alone. He had thought it would be okay, that it had been long enough, but the feelings were still there, the fear, the dread, and the guilt. The feelings were overwhelming him now. He had to be gone. He had to get out of here, quickly.

Bending over now and hastily grabbing his other three clubs, he ignored the bucket of balls and spun quickly to the rear of the practice tee. The entire world was spinning now, and sweat dripped from his face. Blindly he stumbled down the incline of the tee and ran square into a woman coming up.

~*~

Hannah Petrowski had been paying little attention to her surroundings. She was intent on the golf lessons she had received and the one she was about to receive. She paid no mind to the man occupying the far end of the practice tee area, until he suddenly turned and came racing down the hill, directly in her path. Awareness of what was happening didn’t hit her until the man had already run headlong into her. She was knocked backwards, she dropped the bag of clubs she had been carrying by the handle in her right hand and the basket of balls in her left hand went flying. She stumbled and tripped over the dropped bag. Before she knew it, she was flat on her back, looking up at a man with an expression of abject terror in his eyes and with sweat pouring from his face. The man hesitated, stared down at her while she stared up at him in confusion. She saw his lips move and thought she heard some sounds, but it was nothing intelligible. Then, before she could even gather her thoughts, the man turned and practically ran from the practice area to the adjacent parking lot.

Still on the ground, she watched, partly in disgust and partly in embarrassment, as the man reached a white car, tore open the rear door and tossed his clubs inside. In a flash, without looking back, the man leapt into the car and in seconds she heard the squeal of tires as it backed out of the parking spot and sped away toward the entrance drive.

Are you okay? she heard a deep male voice inquire from behind her, as a shadow moved over her.

Turning her head slightly to her left, she saw a tall man with dark hair leaning over her and extending his hands. Shocked and embarrassed, she held out her hands and the man helped her to her feet.

Thank you. Yes, I guess so. Thank you, she stammered, as she steadied herself and mentally questioned her legs and arms to see if she really was feeling okay.

That was extremely rude, the man now said.

Looking off toward the parking lot, she watched as the offending man and his vehicle departed down the entrance drive and were soon lost in the trees lining the course.

Rude is putting it mildly, Hannah said, as she brushed herself off and turned back to the man who had assisted her. That man is crazy. Did you see his face?

No, why?

His eyes, they looked wild. He was sweating profusely, and I think he was scared out of his wits. I’ve half a notion to call the police. He may be on drugs or something. He certainly is in no condition to drive, he may kill someone.

Maybe, but by the time you called and they got here, he would be long gone, the man now answered, in a matter-of-fact tone.

Yes, I suppose you are right, Hannah agreed.

~*~

Phil Jacobs had been half way across the parking lot when he saw Pete come charging off the practice tee and practically run over Hannah Petrowski. He immediately broke into a run to help Hannah, but before he reached the edge of the parking lot, he noticed that Frank Martin had already come to her aid. Slowing slightly, he continued on toward the practice tee.

When Phil reached Hannah, he asked, Hannah are you okay?

Yes, I think so, Phil. You know, I think that man is nuts. I think he’s on drugs. Did you recognize him?

Phil pursed his lips, hesitated then answered, That’s Pete, he comes here all the time to hit balls, but this is the first time I’ve seen him here this time of day. Usually he comes early in the morning, when no one else is around. I leave balls for him in the cart shack and he slips an envelope with money in it under the clubhouse door once a week. I’ve never seen him act like that before, but then he is usually gone before I get here. Late evening isn’t his usual time to come. I don’t know what got into him today.

Martin interjected, Do you know his last name?

Can’t say as I recall, Phil now answered then said, he pays in cash, like I said.

Maybe you should check into who he is and what his problem is, Phil, Martin said.

Phil responded evasively, Like I said, he isn’t usually around this time of day. If he comes back when I’m around, I’ll talk to him, but other than that, there isn’t much I can do.

Maybe you ought to stop leaving balls out for him. He might stay away then, and there won’t be any chance of him bothering pretty young women, Frank Martin replied sternly.

Defensively, Phil responded, No need to overreact, Frank. I’m sure it was just an accident. He’s a good customer and so far as I know, he’s harmless.

Humph, was the reply.

Quickly changing the subject, Phil said, Hannah, let me introduce you to your rescuer. This is Frank Martin. Frank, this is Hannah Petrowski. Hannah is my latest and prettiest golf student; and my favorite lawyer.

Hannah, now fully recovered, blushed slightly and responded quickly, I’m not your lawyer, Phil and besides, I only do divorce work. You aren’t even married.

Didn’t say you were my lawyer. I said you were my favorite lawyer.

Extending his right hand Frank said, nice to meet you, Miss Petrowski.

Smiling disarmingly now, Hannah lightly clasped his hand and replied, Please call me Hannah.

Whatever you say. I never argue with a lawyer, Frank responded lightly.

Who are you kidding, Frank? Phil put in, You’re a real estate developer, you argue with lawyers all the time. It comes with the territory.

Well, but that’s not the same. That’s business.

It was obvious to Phil that Frank was giving Hannah a frank appraisal. Phil saw him smile appreciatively at her slim figure, dark, long and wavy, almost shoulder-length hair, and her peaches-and-cream complexion. Phil was just about to say something to stop this silent appraisal when Frank said, I don’t think I want to argue with Hannah. I might buy her dinner and a drink, but arguing would be the last thing on my mind.

Phil saw Hannah blush again at that. He knew she was no ‘spring chicken’ anymore, but she was far from over the hill in his opinion. Phil watched with minor disgust as Hannah now gave Frank a closer look. Frank was a tall man with a deep, melodious voice. Phil knew he was well into his forties, but quite virile looking, as much as he hated to admit it. Frank was right at six feet tall and not over one hundred and ninety pounds. Well-built and well-preserved. Phil also knew that Hannah was only 39; he had checked. She was quite young compared to this man, but then he was willing to bet from the look she was giving him that it didn’t matter to her. It was pretty obvious to Phil that Hannah felt flattered by this older man paying attention to her.

I have a golf lesson to take I’m afraid, she finally said.

Well, in that case we’ll just have to eat a little later, Frank said, without batting an eye, then continued, the restaurant here serves a mighty fine steak and the beer is imported. Unless you prefer champagne.

Phil saw her smile at that and detected a gleam in her eye as she responded easily, Beer works for me. I’ll meet you in the bar in about an hour.

Fine, fine. This makes up for the worst day on the course I’ve had in decades, Frank responded then ended, Well, I’ll let you get on with your lesson. I’ll head for the locker room and freshen up.

Testily, Phil said, don’t get too fresh, Frank. I told you Hannah was my favorite lawyer and I meant it.

Waving his left hand in farewell, Frank turned without comment and headed for the clubhouse.

Smiling impishly, Hannah looked at Phil and said, jealousy becomes you, Phil.

Phil felt his face heat up and responded hastily, It’s not that, Hannah. It’s just that I know Frank Martin all too well. He’s a hustler on and off the course. I don’t want to see you taken advantage of, that’s all. It sounded good even to him, but the truth was that Hannah had been right. He was jealous. Phil liked Hannah, and even though he knew her only through the business of giving her golf lessons, he was hopeful of more.

A lawyer taken advantage of? What world have you been living in, Phil? Remember, I’m not only a lawyer, but I’m a divorce lawyer. There isn’t a four-flushing trick I haven’t seen or heard. Now come on, let’s get on with this golf lesson. I’m paying you a lot of good money to learn this stupid game.

Phil shrugged and said, okay, let’s go over here. Might as well use up the balls that Pete left. Doesn’t look like he’ll be coming back for them. Strange, I never saw him act that way before.

~*~

Pete wheeled his Crown Victoria out onto General Jim Moore Boulevard heading north to reach the Second Street underpass. As he passed under Highway 1 and out to the old Beach Range Road he was still sweating profusely and he had his air conditioner on high. He drove out to the beach area and parked next to the old Stillwell Hall building. Slowly he climbed out of the car on shaky legs. There was a stiff breeze blowing in off Monterey Bay this evening and for a change no sign of fog. For several minutes he stood facing the breeze, washing himself in it and trying to calm himself. It had been a mistake to go to that golf course the way he had done today. He would not do that again.

As he watched the pleasure boats, mostly sailboats far out in the bay, his nervousness began to ease. The sea breeze always seemed to calm him in times like this, and he often sought refuge in it.

He walked toward the bay and took a seat on a large piece of driftwood where the ocean breeze could still wash over him. He wished it could wash his guilt away, but the most it ever did was to calm his fears. He was alone on the beach and content to stay that way as he watched the sun begin to dip toward the bay. Soon it would not be possible to see the boats, because the glare from the setting sun would be too much to stand. When at last he had strained his eyes as much as they could bear, he stood up and walked slowly back to his car.

He was feeling better now. The breeze and the gentle roll of the waves on the beach had done their magic once again. It was time to be going. He was normal again, or as close to normal as he ever got.

Chapter Two

Hannah found Frank seated at a table overlooking the eighteenth green. As she approached, he quickly rose and asked, How did the lesson go?

The same. I don’t know why I bother to try and learn this stupid game.

So why do you? he asked, as she took her seat and he retook his.

Relaxation, she said with a grimace.

Oh, yeah, I can see that. Frank chuckled, garnering a sheepish smile from Hannah.

The waitress approached and took their drink orders. As she departed, Frank said, I suppose divorce lawyers need to unwind someplace and the golf course is as good as any, but I’m surprised you would pick these courses with the memories you have of them, or at least the Sword course.

Alert now, Hannah asked, What would you know about my memories?

Oh, I have my sources. I have to have in my business. While you were struggling to relax out there on the practice tee, I made a phone call or two. I like to know everything about everyone that I can.

Hannah was slightly put off by this relative stranger checking up on her. She was beginning to regret having agreed to dine with him, but at the time, it seemed like there would be no harm in it. Now, however, she was beginning to wonder if what Phil had said was truer than she wanted to admit.

It’s not polite to check up on people whom you only know socially, she said, with just a little annoyance showing in her tone.

You’re right, of course. I’m sorry if I offended you. It’s just that old habits die hard with me. I’m so used to checking up on my business associates that it spills over to my personal life, too. Plus, I’m divorced, and if I had checked up on my wife a little more beforehand, I would never have married her in order to now be divorced. Now she gets 25 percent of everything I earn and it galls me that I was such an easy mark.

A fortune hunter? Hannah asked, softening a little. She understood that motivation.

Afraid so, and a good one. Only good thing was we had no kids or I’d be paying more than that, but I don’t have to tell you. You know how it works in a community property state like California, after a few years, what’s yours is yours and what’s mine is yours, too.

Oh, yeah, I see that a lot. That’s why I’m a divorce lawyer. No better money anywhere in the world, and job security, too. Some of my clients have needed my services continually for the past ten years or more. In California, divorce isn’t the end, it’s just the beginning.

Well, now you know why I checked you out, not that I suspected you of anything and not that we will ever do more than have dinner, but… well… you know.

Yes, I know, she replied honestly then added, So what all did your sources tell you about me? Anything good?

Smiling now and sipping the beer the waitress had silently deposited on the table, Frank answered, Divorced, 39, smart, good looking, no kids, ex-husband is a lawyer, too, and works for the Salinas County District Attorney’s Office. Not rich, but doing pretty well, nice practice with an office in Salinas, not too far from the courthouse. Can’t play golf worth a hoot, he ended lightly, with a broad smile.

Hannah laughed and said, true, every word of it true. Especially the part about the golf, but I’d be willing to bet your sources didn’t tell you that.

I made that up, Frank admitted, with another broad and warm smile that Hannah liked very much.

Actually, I don’t play golf. I just go to the practice range with Phil. He won’t let me play yet. He says I’m not good enough to go out on the course yet, but soon we’ll take a playing lesson, or so he says. I think he’s afraid I might kill someone out there and he’d get sued, or worse, I’d get hurt and sue him.

Could be, but Phil’s good at his job, Frank replied.

Do you play golf, Frank?

Some, but mostly I just hang around.

Hang around?

I’m a real estate developer, and golf courses are prime real estate. They attract housing and business. My company manages these courses for the city of Marina, and we are developing The Bluffs housing area. Where you live. Then turning slightly, he pointed up to the bluff above the course and said, second house from my right. It sits on a huge corner lot. Nice place. Overlooks both the Sword and Cannon courses.

Your sources are very good, she stated.

Not really. Actually, I’m the one who sold the house to you, indirectly anyway. I never forget a sale. I can’t afford to forget.

I’m impressed, Hannah responded, then asked, But what did you mean about my memories?

I’m originally from Nevada, but I’ve lived around here a long time. I’ve heard the stories and read the books. When I saw your name on the sales contract, I connected the dots. Hannah Petrowski, twin sister to Anna. She disappeared near here 30 years ago, and they never found her.

Hannah wrinkled her face into a deep frown, not in anger over what Frank had said, but over the truth of it. They had never found her sister, and it ate on her every day, if not every second, of her life.

Frank quickly said, I’m sorry. I upset you again. I didn’t mean to do that. It was thoughtless of me to bring up the subject and none of my business. Perhaps we should just finish our drinks and forget about dinner.

No, it’s okay, really. I need to talk about it once in a while. When I was young my parents sent me to several shrinks, and they all said the same thing. Talk about it. Don’t lock it away. Think about it, don’t ignore it.

Typical shrink, Frank said with clear distaste and added, I’ll bet that’s easier said than done.

"How right you are, and that’s the answer to your initial question as to why I chose this pair of golf courses over all of the courses in the area.