Accused (37 page)

"The mob wanted him dead? Trey?"

"Yeah, they were severely pissed, no question about it."

"But you had nothing to do with his death?"

He held up an open hand. "On my mother's grave. Cops here, they know me, we grew up together. A lot of them bet with me. They know what I do and what I don't do. I book … I don't kill."

"Will you take a polygraph?"

Gabe smiled. "I don't do polygraphs either."

"But how can you lose twenty million on a golf tournament?"

"Easy. Three Brits bet eighty grand each, won nineteen million on a long shot named John Daly to win the British Open in ninety-five. Scott, today, you can win or lose millions betting on anything, not just the stock market."

"But if Trey were making so much money, why didn't he just pay off his debt?"

"Fifteen million at twenty-five percent interest, that's a tough debt to repay."

"The mob charges twenty-five percent interest?"

Gabe shrugged. "Credit card companies charge thirty percent. Shit, twenty-five years ago, there were laws against that sort of thing. Banks couldn't charge more than ten percent interest. That's where we came in. Now, the sky's the limit. They took our loan-sharking business and made it legal. Same thing with gambling. Hell, ten years from now, there'll be a casino in every town in America—all the businessmen in Galveston want one here, make this place Sin City again. What's next? Drugs? Prostitution? Before long, you won't be able to make a dishonest living 'cause every vice is gonna be legal. We're expanding into Medicare fraud and your other white-collar criminal activities, but it's damn hard to compete with Wall Street."

"So what was the repayment deal?"

"Trey would throw five tournaments. He'd win some, too, and the boys would up their ante slowly, so as not to attract any attention. First two tournaments went like clockwork, the boys made a killing and Trey reduced his debt by six million. But then he made that putt. A twenty-million-dollar putt." Gabe shook his head. "The boys got greedy, bet real big. Too big."

"Trey would get to keep the money when he won?"

"Nope. Everything was divvied up. Trey got one-third."

"One-third of everything? Including the mob's winnings?"

"Yep. More money than he would've made winning those tournaments, and tax-free, the best kind of money."

"How do you know?"

"Because I made the payoff myself. At his house. Three million cash. Hundred-dollar bills."

"Why would the mob pay him when he owed them?"

"They figured on this being a long-term investment." He shrugged. "Once you're in the mob, you're in it for life."

"I wonder where that three million is now?"

Gabe shrugged again.

"Trey won the California Challenge a week before he was murdered. Didn't that make some money for the mob?"

"Not twenty million."

"I take it you wouldn't care to testify at the trial?"

"No, I don't testify either."

"I could subpoena you."

"That would be a mistake. Look, Scott, I'm a nice guy, I run a clean business, I try to be helpful. But right here, this is where I talk. Not in a courtroom. Okay?"

"I could subpoena your bosses."

"You could get yourself killed. Scott, defend your wife and get her off, I don't care. But don't go chasing after the boys in Vegas. Nothing good will come of that."

"What do you know about the
Muertos?
"

"Animals. See, the mob never kills for the sake of killing. It's always a business decision. And we never kill women or children or innocent bystanders. We're civilized. They're not. They give crime a bad name." Gabe nodded thoughtfully. "So gambling wasn't Trey's only vice?"

"No."

"You looking at Benito for his murder?"

Scott nodded. "And you."

Gabe smiled.

"You know Benito?"

"It's a small island. We keep tabs on our competitors for your discretionary entertainment dollars. Benito likes the horses."

"He bets with you?"

"He utilizes my services. But I don't utilize his."

"Smart."

"Benito's not a killer."

"The
Muertos
are."

Gabe nodded, and Scott stood to leave. "You said a lot of pro athletes gamble?"

"Yeah. From every sport. So?"

"So does the mob have other pros on the payroll, throwing football and baseball and basketball games?"

Gabe smiled. "Trade secrets, Scott."

Scott walked away. He was to the bar when Gabe called to him.

"Scott!"

Scott turned back. Gabe was pointing at the TV above the bar. Scott looked up and saw Renée Ramirez's face on the screen.

"Watch out for her, Scott. She's like a rattlesnake—pretty but deadly."

"Who killed Trey Rawlins?" Bobby said. "Pete Puckett, the
Muertos
, or the mob? Three prime suspects for one murder, each with a good motive."

"You're forgetting Rebecca," Scott said.

"No, I'm not."

"She's the only one without a motive."

"Why would Trey call Pete Puckett thirteen times the last week and three times on the day he died?" Karen said.

They were at the table on the back deck. Karen was reading down Trey's cell phone bills. The D.A.'s office had run the calls and identified each caller.

"He didn't call Pete," Scott said. "He called Billie Jean."

"The list says Pete Puckett."

"Phone's registered in his name, but it's Billie Jean's phone. Family plan, like the girls want."

"First call to her was on May fourteenth."

"Three weeks before his death. That's when their affair started."

"Last call was at twelve-ten
P.M.
that Thursday, same day he was killed." Karen tapped on her laptop keyboard. "My notes say Billie Jean was in Austin that day, and Pete was in Florida playing at the Atlantic Open tournament."

"They both lied. They were here. Billie Jean drove down from Austin in her black Mustang. She was calling Trey to tell him she was here because he left the club just after noon. Trey lied to Rebecca about practicing at the country club all day while she was shopping in Houston. He was here with Billie Jean. Pete flew in from Florida, confronted them at the house."

"If Pete was in Florida," Bobby said, "how'd he know Billie Jean was here?"

"I don't know. Karen, find out what flight Pete took that day."

She nodded then said, "Is Rebecca still willing to take a polygraph?"

"Yeah. I've asked everyone else involved to take one—Pete, Benito, Gabe—no one else wants to."

"No one else is charged with murder," Bobby said.

"I'll set it up," Karen said.

"Anything else?"

"The endorsement contracts. I reviewed the big one with Golf-a-zon.com … golf company. He endorsed their products, they paid him millions. Ten million guaranteed over two years, another ten million in performance incentives. He stood to make twenty million under that contract."

"But once they found out about his drugs and gambling, they would've terminated the contract."

Karen shook her head. "They couldn't. The contract is iron-clad."

"There's always a way out of a contract."

"Only one way out: 'Article Twelve: Termination upon death of Athlete.' "

"Trey's sponsor wanted out of his contract," Nick said.

Scott had called him from the back deck. "Why?"

"Trey showed up at their big ad party flying higher than a kite. Stumbling, couldn't speak a complete sentence, mauling their wives. Fucking fiasco. I had to drag him out of the place. They were pissed."

"But they couldn't fire him?"

"Nope. They were stuck with him."

"Unless he died."

"And he did."

"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."