Tell Me You're Sorry (23 page)

She pressed on the horn again, and saw lights going on in neighboring homes. Across the street, someone had stepped outside their door.

Her high-beams spotlighted the man in the ski mask. He ducked inside her house.

The car's tires screeched as she slammed on the brake past the end of the driveway. Then she shifted into drive, and sped up the block. At the first intersection, Stephanie pulled over. With a shaky hand, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.

While she waited for the police emergency operator to answer, Stephanie wondered what the man in the ski mask was doing inside her house right now.

 

 

Nothing was missing or out of place.

The police couldn't find any initial evidence of forced entry.

In the basement, there was no hangman's rope dangling from a pipe overhead.

Stephanie realized how it must have looked to them. Here was this hysterical, barefoot woman with alcohol on her breath. She'd damaged both the garage door and her car roof. She'd also disturbed half the neighborhood.

When the police asked where she'd been earlier when this “alleged culprit” might have broken into the house, Stephanie said she'd been having a drink with a friend. She didn't elaborate. She didn't want to drag Jim into this.

Wasn't she the same woman who was under investigation with the FAA for getting high right before piloting a plane full of passengers?

They didn't ask, but Stephanie was sure they had to know. She told them about the two previous attempts on her life. She wanted to tell them more—about her sister, Scott and the kids, and about the similar killing pattern with Scott's friends from high school. But Stephanie figured she'd only come across as even more unbalanced.

The cops were very polite, accommodating, and thorough. But she could tell they didn't quite believe her story.

The only person who would believe it, the only person who understood, was a teenage boy, two thousand miles away.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

 

H
e parked his VW on the street, about a block away from the main entrance to Lake Ridge Country Club. None of his friends' parents were members, so he couldn't count on getting in as someone's guest. So far—with a little help from his friends—he'd been able to talk to employees at Northmoor and Old Elm country clubs, as well as Onwentsia Golf Club. He'd shown the old photo of his father and his three buddies to caddy masters, locker room attendants, waiters, and the guys who ran the pro shops at these places. But he'd come up with nothing. Nobody recognized anyone in the picture. He'd sneaked into Skokie Country Club and Sunset Ridge to question the employees there. Again, no one recognized the guys in the picture. And after talking with a few workers at those clubs, he was tossed out on his ear. Both times, they told him he was lucky they didn't call the police and have him arrested for trespassing.

So Ryan decided to try another tack. This time around, he parked on the street so he didn't have to deal with the club valet. The fewer hurdles he had to jump over, the better. He was dressed in a white shirt, a tie, and khakis. He carried a manila envelope with “James Munchel, Pro Shop” scribbled on the front. Ryan had phoned ahead to find out the name of the guy.

Stephanie had told him that someone had broken into her home, and might have looked at her computer. They could know she was e-mailing him. She'd warned him to watch his back and not take any chances. The person or persons behind all these murders could be affiliated with the country club where that photo had been taken twenty-seven years ago.

Ryan thought about that as he walked up the club's driveway. The sun beat down on his face. He was already sweating, and he hadn't even made it to the front door yet. Off to his right was a high chain-link fence with a green tarp behind it—just like in the photograph. Of course, it couldn't have been the same tarp, but it was the same setup for sure. On the other side of it, he could hear the sound of rackets smacking tennis balls and feet scrambling around the courts.

Ahead, the driveway curved around to the entrance of the sprawling clubhouse. A couple of cars whooshed past him. Ryan managed to time it so that when he approached the front of the place, the valet was busy parking cars. He'd gotten past the first hurdle.

At the big double-door entrance—with potted palm trees on either side—he almost slipped past the doorman by coming in right after three women who had just gotten out of a Mercedes. He nodded and murmured a thank-you.

“Excuse me,” the doorman said. He was a tall, thin black man with a wizened face. He wore a blue suit with epaulets on the jacket's shoulders. “Can I help you?”

Ryan stopped in the doorway and showed him the envelope. “Hi. I need to deliver this to James Munchel in the pro shop.”

The doorman held out his hand. “I'll take it to him.”

Ryan shook his head. “Oh, well, thanks, but I need to deliver it to him in person and get his signature. Can you tell me how to get to the pro shop from here?”

The doorman frowned and raised his index finger—as if to tell him to hold on for a minute. He pulled a whistle from his jacket pocket and blew into it. The sound was short and shrill. All Ryan could think was that the doorman was summoning a security guy—or maybe it was a signal for someone to call the police. Maybe the people at Skokie and Sunset Ridge had issued an alert about some teenager snooping around, bothering different country club employees with questions. His first instinct was to make a run for it. But he stayed. “What was that for?” he asked.

“Just stay put,” the doorman said, tucking the whistle back in his pocket. Then he set his hand on Ryan's arm. “Someone's coming to take care of you.”

Ryan didn't say anything. The ominous way the doorman put it, he might have been talking about a mob hit: “Someone's coming to take care of you.” Ryan really wished the guy would let go of his arm. He tried to keep a pleasant smile plastered on his face. He could feel the beads of sweat on his forehead.

In the distance, he heard water splashing, and kids laughing and screaming. He figured the pool was close by, but he couldn't see it from here.

He stood in the doorway with a view into the grand foyer. A huge crystal chandelier hovered over a big, round mahogany table. The carpet had a rich, swirly gray-and-maroon pattern. The furniture was like something out of the White House—swanky, expensive-looking antique stuff.

A stocky, fiftyish balding man came out of one of the rooms off the foyer. He wore a dark blue business suit and a conservative tie. He also had a flower in his lapel, which Ryan thought looked kind of corny. Walking toward them with a brisk gait, he seemed annoyed. “What's the problem?” he asked.

“Sorry, Mr. Harvey,” the doorman said. “He has something for Jim in the pro shop that needs a signature.”

Mr. Harvey held out his hand. “What is it?”

“Excuse me,” Ryan said, finally yanking his arm free from the doorman's grasp. He clutched the envelope against his stomach. “I don't know what's in here, sir,” he said steadily. “My name's Ryan. I'm with Fleet Messenger Service. And I wouldn't have this job much longer if I made a habit of peeking inside the envelopes I deliver—or if I let anyone else besides the addressees view the contents.” He was proud of himself for this little speech—and the way
addressees
just tripped off his tongue. And how he'd said it didn't sound pissy at all. Instead, he came across as a guy just trying to do his job.

As for the contents of the envelope, the only thing in there was a slightly faded photograph from 1986, showing four friends posing outside the tennis courts that may very well be the courts here at Lake Ridge Country Club.

“Sir, I have to hand-deliver this and get a signature,” he continued. “So—is there a James Munchel in the pro shop here? If not, I'll move on. I have other deliveries to make today.”

The stocky man frowned. “All right,” he sighed. He nodded toward the foyer. “Take a right and you'll see the stairs. That will take you to the Men's Grill. Go out the glass door to the patio and take another right for the pro shop. Check in with Isaiah here when you leave.”

Ryan nodded to both of them. “Thank you.”

His heart racing, he headed through the grand foyer. This was turning into a major hassle. He probably would have been better off sneaking in through the employee entrance and taking his chances—like he'd done at Skokie and Sunset Ridge. He hurried down the carpeted stairs to a richly paneled room that looked like an upscale restaurant-bar. The place was busy with customers—all men. A Cubs game was on the big TV behind the bar. Overhead fans were whirling. One wall was all windows, looking out at the golf course. The glass door was open.

Ryan studied the bartender and the waiters. None of them looked old enough to be working at the club twenty-seven years ago. To his left, the door to the men's locker room was open. Ryan poked his head in the doorway and spotted a dumpy old man in a towel shuffling down the aisle between the lockers. Over to the side of the door was a blackboard with tee-off times posted. He scanned down the list and picked out the guys who had teed off at 9:30: Gunderson, Wagner & Guests. He figured they had probably finished their game by now.

Tucking the envelope under his arm, Ryan headed for the door. Outside was a small patio—and to the right, the pro shop. There were two mannequins in the window—a male and female in golf clothes—with clubs poised in their fake hands. A bell rang as he opened the door. They had the air-conditioning cranked up. The place smelled like new leather—probably from all the golf bags and golf shoes. There were racks of men's and women's clothes, and Ryan noticed on the wall, near the counter, a big mirror that had “Golf Digest” written across the top of it—and “Golfer of the Year” along the bottom.

“Can I help you?” the lean, white-haired man behind the counter asked. His face was slightly sunburned, and he wore a bright green polo shirt and white and green plaid slacks. Ryan guessed he was about sixty.

“Hi, how's it going?” Ryan said, approaching the counter. He reached inside the envelope and took out the photograph. “My dad's here as a guest of Mr. Gunderson. They were golfing earlier today. Last time he was at this club was way back in the eighties. He can't remember who he was here with, but he has this picture. . .” Ryan handed him the photo. “Anyway, he and Mr. Gunderson were talking about it, and Mr. Gunderson said, ‘Show the picture to Jim Munchel in the pro shop, he might know.' So—they sent me here.”

The man studied the photograph, and set it on the glass-top counter. “Well, that's your father, no mistaking it,” he said, pointing to Ryan's dad.

“You knew my father?” he murmured.

The man laughed. “No, but I can tell, just by looking at you—and then at this kid in the picture. You're the spitting image of him.”

“Oh, yeah, I guess,” Ryan said, disappointed.

“This other kid is Dick Ingalls . . .”

Ryan stared at him. His mouth dropped open.

“The Ingallses were members up until the early nineties, when Dick Senior died. I don't know this other guy—in the red shirt.” He pointed to Stephanie's brother-in-law. “And this one, he was a valet here for a couple of summers . . .”

“Do you remember his name?” Ryan asked. “It's important—my dad said.”

He frowned. “I'll be damned. I'm drawing a blank . . .” He turned and called into the back room. “Javier, come check this out . . .”

Ryan nervously drummed his fingers on the countertop.

A muscular, fiftyish, Latino man swaggered out from the back room. He wore khakis and a tight-fitting polo shirt. “I'm trying to get caddies lined up for the Konradt-Reynolds foursome,” he said with a slight accent. “What's going on?”

“You were here in the eighties,” Munchel said to him. “Take a look at this picture. That's Dick Ingalls on the end . . .”

The man, whom Ryan assumed was the caddy master, squinted at the photograph and grinned. “Huh, Tricky Dick,” he said. “Did that kid get around or what? Remember when they caught him and that chick going at it on the ninth green? He did more banging around here than a screen door in a cyclone—”

“Hey . . .” the pro shop man murmured, giving his friend a cautioning look. He nodded at Ryan. “This is the son of a guest of Mr. Gunderson's. We're trying to figure out the name of this one.” He pointed to the skinny young man in the white shirt—at the far left of the foursome in the photo. “He worked here a couple of summers, nice kid. He was a valet . . .”

“Oh, yeah,” the caddy master nodded. “I remember him. He was here when we had the tournament—and when that waitress disappeared. What was her name? She was gorgeous, but dumb as shit. C'mon, you know. Her old man was the groundskeeper, squirrelly old guy . . .”

“Jane something,” Munchel said. “No, Jayne was the last name. Selena Jayne . . .”

“That's it!” the caddy master exclaimed. “What a mess that caused, and with the tournament going on at the same time, too. Did they ever find out what happened to her?”

Munchel cleared his throat. “No, I don't think they did,” he muttered. “Anyway, about the kid in this photo . . .”

Ryan could tell the pro shop man didn't want to talk in front of some guest's son about a scandal that had happened at the club twenty-seven years ago. Impatiently tapping his foot, Ryan was glad they were back on topic. He pushed the photo across the glass—closer to the men. “Um, if you can't recall his name, do you think maybe someone else here might?”

He just wanted to get the guy's name and get out of there. This was what he'd been working toward for days. He'd finally found the country club where this picture was taken. But he didn't have much time. Upstairs, that Mr. Harvey guy and the doorman were probably wondering where the hell he was.

“It was Mike or Mitch,” the caddy master said finally.

“No, it was Matt,” the pro shop man replied. “I'm almost certain now.”

“Almost?” Ryan asked.

Leaning over the counter, the pro shop man smiled. “Tell you what—”

The phone rang.

“Sorry,” he said, reaching for it. “Just a sec . . .”

Biting his lip, Ryan nodded. He wondered if the call was from Mr. Harvey or Isaiah, asking about the kid from Fleet Messenger Service.

“Pro Shop, this is Jim,” he said into the phone. “No . . . No, I haven't signed for anything . . .”

Ryan looked down at the photo on the countertop. He wanted to grab it and get the hell out of there.

“No, not yet,” Munchel was saying into the phone. “Well, I was waiting for that shipment for two weeks, and they sent me the wrong set of clubs. I wasn't going to sign for something I didn't want . . .”

Ryan let out a sigh of relief and leaned against the counter.

“Yeah, well, I'll need them by Tuesday, okay?” the pro shop man continued. “Good. Thanks . . . Right . . . Well, listen, I gotta go . . . Okay, bye.” He clicked off the line. “One more sec,” he said to Ryan. Then he dialed a number—four digits.

Tapping his foot again, Ryan once more thought about those two guys up by the front entrance.

“Hello, Doreen, it's Jim down in the pro shop,” he said into the phone. “How is my favorite accountant?” He chuckled. “No, I do not sweet-talk you every time I want a favor. But did I ever tell you that you have beautiful eyes?”