DEEP LIES

John Rockne Mysteries

Book 7

Dan Ames

Slogan Books, New York, NY

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Praise for Dan Ames

"Packed to the gills with hard-hitting action and a non-stop plot." –Jacksonville News

“A fast-paced, unpredictable mystery with an engaging narrator and a rich cast of original supporting characters.” –New York Times bestselling author Thomas Perry

"Dan Ames writes fast-paced, gripping tales that capture you from Page One and hold you enthralled till the last word. He brings a strong, clear voice to whichever genre he chooses. This guy is one hell of a storyteller. Watch for him." -Amazon Review

Dan Ames' writing reminds me of the great thriller writers -- lean, mean, no nonsense prose that gets straight to the point and keeps you turning those pages.” –Robert Gregory Browne

These Jack Reacher stories are packed with action and unforgettable twists and turns. Great reads! -B & N Review

“Cuts like a knife." -Savannah Morning News

“Grabs you early on and doesn't let go."   -Tom Schreck

“From its opening lines, Daniel S. Ames and his private eye novel DEAD WOOD recall early James Ellroy: a fresh attitude and voice and the heady rush of boundless yearning and ambition. Ames delivers a vivid evocation of time and place in a way that few debut authors achieve, nailing the essence of his chosen corner of high-tone Michigan. He also deftly dodges the pitfalls that make so much contemporary private detective fiction a mixed bag and nostalgia-freighted misfire. Ames’ detective has family; he’s steady. He’s not another burned-out, booze-hound hanging on teeth and toenails to the world and smugly wallowing in his own ennui. This is the first new private eye novel in a long time that just swept me along for the ride. Ames is definitely one to watch.” — Craig McDonald, Edgar-nominated author

“Dan Ames pulls off a very difficult thing:  he re-imagines what a hardboiled mystery can be, and does it with style, thrills and humor.  This is the kind of book mystery readers are clamoring for, a fast-paced story with great heart and not a cliché to be found.” -- Jon A. Jackson, author of Badger Games

“Dan Ames is a sensation among readers who love fast-paced thrillers.” – Mystery Tribune

“A smart detective story stuffed with sharp prose and great action.” –Indie Reader

Contents

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Part II

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Part III

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Part IV

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

About the Author

Also by Dan Ames

DEEP LIES

A John Rockne Mystery

Book #7

by

Dan Ames

"It’s all about the art of the long game."

-Hazards and Lies: The Golfer’s Manual

Part One

"The player is responsible for knowing the rules

and applying them to their own game."

-Hazards and Lies: The Golfer’s Manual

Chapter One

The bar at Twin Cedars was quiet for a Saturday night, just the way Marcus Tate liked it. The exclusive country club just outside of Detroit proper catered to the kind of crowd that didn’t bother asking for autographs. Here, he could drink in peace without being asked to take a selfie or give advice on how to putt.

He could drink in peace, and he could drink as much as he wanted to.

Marcus wore a tailored navy polo and gray slacks, crisp even after a day on the course. His watch, a platinum Rolex, caught the light as he raised his glass. He’d stopped counting after his third bourbon, but he wasn’t sloppy. Not yet.

Catching his reflection in the mirror over the bar, he saw a ruggedly handsome man with a five o’clock shadow, blue eyes, and a devil-may-care expression.

He had the reputation of being a bit of a hellraiser.

It was a moniker he had definitely earned.

Two women sat near the far end of the bar. Both had the polished look of money—blowouts, designer bags perched on the barstools, dresses that clung to their perfect bodies. He recognized one of them from earlier, laughing too loud on the patio during lunch.

The louder one left after a while, the other stayed. She had long blonde hair that framed a beautiful, exotic face. Her legs crossed as she leaned back in her stool, sipping what looked like a vodka martini.

Marcus signaled the bartender and nodded toward her glass. “Send her another. Make it a double.”

The bartender complied, setting the fresh drink in front of her. She glanced over, her expression giving nothing away, and raised her glass in a small toast. He took that as an invitation.

He walked over, confident but not rushing, and settled onto the stool beside her. He left a respectable amount of space between them. “Marcus Tate,” he said, though he was sure she already knew.

Her eyes flicked to him. “I figured.” She sipped her drink. “Does sending drinks always work for you?”

“Sometimes.” He smiled. “Depends on the woman.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “I saw you out on the course earlier. You didn’t look happy.”

“I wasn’t,” Marcus admitted. “Played like crap.”

“Is that your way of fishing for sympathy?” she asked.

“Not really. I’ve learned to live with a bad day on the course. Occupational hazard, among many.”

She laughed, a low, quiet sound. “Must be nice.”

Marcus leaned back slightly, resting an arm on the bar. “You from around here?”

“Born and raised.” She swirled her drink. “But I don’t play golf. I just like the bar.”

“Shame,” he said. “You’ve got the patience for it. I can tell.”

“Is that your way of saying I’m boring?” Her tone stayed light, teasing.

“Not at all,” he said. “You seem like the opposite of boring.”

She smiled, just enough to let him know she was enjoying the conversation. “You always this smooth after a few drinks?”

“Only after three.” He signaled the bartender for another round.

They talked for a while. She told him her name was Lauren and that she worked in PR for a company she didn’t seem too interested in talking about. He shared a few safe anecdotes from the tour, nothing flashy. The alcohol loosened the edges of the conversation, turning it friendly without slipping into anything too personal.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” she asked after a pause.

“Tired of what?”

“The whole pro golfer thing. The traveling, the pressure.”

He considered it. “Sometimes. But there are worse ways to make a living.”

She nodded, seeming to understand. “And you still like it?”

“Most days,” Marcus said. “Some days, it’s just a job. Today was one of those.”

Lauren glanced at her empty glass, then back at him. “Do you live nearby?”

He smiled. “I do, actually. Want to see it? We could have another drink there. No overpriced bourbon, I promise.”

She hesitated, then shrugged lightly. “Sure. Why not.”

They walked out together into the crisp night air. His Ferrari sat near the front of the lot, shining under the parking lights. He unlocked it with a click and opened the passenger door for her. She slid in smoothly, her dress riding up just slightly as she settled into the seat.

Marcus walked around to the driver’s side, feeling the buzz of alcohol mixed with anticipation. He slid into the seat and reached for the ignition.

Before he could start the car, the passenger door opened.

He turned, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

Lauren had a gun in her hand and she shot Marcus square in the chest. The pistol was outfitted with a silencer and it was no louder than a harsh cough.

Tate gasped, his hand clutching at the spreading warmth under his shirt. Another shot came, and another, until he slumped against the seat, his breath rasping.

Lauren pressed the muzzle against Marcus’s temple. The last shot was muffled, but final.

She walked away toward another car parked at the edge of the lot. Lauren disappeared into the shadows a moment later, leaving the Ferrari idling in silence.

Chapter Two

Amanda Winslow stepped into my office, sat down, and stared at me. She was blonde, with a pale face and pointy nose. There were dark circles under her eyes and she hugged her oversized purse to her chest in a death grip.

“Did you find him?” she asked.

A few weeks ago, Amanda had hired me, John Rockne, to find her husband. As Grosse Pointe’s best, and only, private investigator, I took the case.

“I did,” I said, pulling a manila envelope from the corner of my desk. “Your husband’s fine. He’s up north, staying at the Twin Pines Motel.”

The poor woman visibly flinched at the word motel. I suppose it conjured up all kinds of seedy images. A married man meeting a stripper or an online girlfriend in a dirty room with a saggy bed and doing the nasty.

“Is he alone?” she asked.

“No, I wouldn’t say that.”

She sat bold upright, her eyes wide. “Oh god, it’s a woman.”

“Well, let me put it this way, there were some females there.”

“Plural? What the hell are you talking about? Was he in a gang bang or something? Jesus Christ!”

“There were a couple of males, too,” I replied.

Mrs. Winslow looked like she was about to pass out.

I pushed the envelope toward her. “Take a look.”

She opened it and pulled out the photos. Her husband was sitting outside a small motel room with a piece of wood in one hand and a carving tool in the other. Other shots showed him bent over a table, chiseling the fine details of what looked like a duck’s wing. The last photo was a row of wooden duck decoys, painted and lined up neatly like they were ready for a contest.

“He’s been carving ducks?” she said. “Not banging hookers?”

“Quite passionately,” I said. “Carving ducks, that is.”

She stared at the photos for a few seconds. “He’s always been into this. I’ve told him it’s a waste of time.”

“Maybe it is,” I said. “Maybe not. Depends on your criteria for time well-spent.”

“I don’t understand it,” she said.

“You don’t have to,” I said. “But maybe there’s room for both of you. Let him carve his ducks, but make sure he’s still pulling his weight around the house. You do the same.”

She nodded slowly.

“Think of it this way,” I said. “You give him some space to carve his ducks, and maybe you take some time for yourself, too. You’ve got interests, right?”

“I suppose.”

“Then there you go.”

And then I couldn’t resist adding one more observation.

“What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

Chapter Three

Before pulling out of the parking lot, I tapped out a quick text to my wife, Anna: 

Change of plans. Won’t be home for dinner. Heading to Twin Cedars to meet a client. 

I hit send and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. If I got lucky, there’d still be a plate waiting for me later. If I got unlucky, I’d be hearing about it for the rest of the week.

The drive to Twin Cedars was short—less than ten minutes—but it might as well have been a different world. The kind of place where your worth was measured by your handicap and the emblem on your car. Pulling into the lot, I spotted a Porsche, a couple of Teslas, and a Bentley lined up near the front. I picked a spot in the back, far from the valet stand. The Odyssey wasn’t about to impress anyone, but I figured it was better for everyone if they didn’t see the minivan up close.

The valet still glanced my way as I climbed out, like he was wondering who’d let the riffraff in. It probably would have helped had I decked myself out in golf gear, instead of jeans and a black T-shirt. I gave the valet a nod and walked toward the clubhouse.

Inside, the bar had the same vibe as always—mahogany walls, plush leather seating, and a long bar. There were several televisions mounted above the bar, all tuned to various golf tournaments in progress.

A bartender polished glasses behind the counter, his movements slow and deliberate, like he’d been trained to never look hurried. The patrons were just as polished. Everyone here seemed to know each other, and if they didn’t, they knew who mattered. Theodore Blackwell was one of those people.

I spotted him in the corner, seated at a small table tucked just far enough from the bar to give him privacy without making him seem antisocial. He wore a navy blazer paired with a crisp white shirt and an understated tie. On his wrist was a Patek Philippe watch, the kind of accessory you don’t buy—you invest in. His face was tan, his gray hair combed back. He looked much younger than the lines around his eyes would indicate.

“Mr. Rockne,” Blackwell said as I approached. He gestured to the chair across from him. “Please, sit.”

I slid into the seat, nodding at the hovering waiter. “Gin and tonic. Lime.”

“Dry martini. Twist,” Blackwell said without looking at the menu. The waiter disappeared without a word.

“So,” I said, leaning back in the chair. “You want to hire me.”

“That’s correct,” Blackwell said, folding his hands on the table. “Marcus Tate was more than a client to me—he was a friend. I don’t believe the police are going to handle this case with the attention it deserves.”

“I’ve heard that before,” I said. “Why don’t you tell me what you think I can do that the police can’t?”

Blackwell leaned forward. “Discretion, for one. Marcus was... particular about his privacy. His life had complexities the police aren’t equipped to handle. I need someone who understands how to navigate those complexities without drawing unnecessary attention.”

“Complexities,” I repeated. “That’s a polite way of saying skeletons in the closet.”

Blackwell didn’t flinch. “You could put it that way. But Marcus was careful. No one could have gotten close to him without knowing how. That’s why I don’t believe this was a random act of violence.”

The drinks arrived, and I took a sip of mine, not sure why I ordered a gin and tonic. I wasn’t really a fan of gin. That’s what I get for trying to fit in. “Who do you think is worth looking at?”

Blackwell reached into his blazer and slid a slim envelope across the table. “Inside, you’ll find a list of Marcus’s closest associates. His caddy, his girlfriend, and one of his competitors. This competitor, in particular, had a... contentious relationship with Marcus. I believe he should be looked at closely.”

I picked up the envelope but didn’t open it. “And you’re expecting results in...?”

“Forty-eight hours,” Blackwell said, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. “I want a preliminary report on what you find. I don’t have the luxury of waiting while the police fumble their way to answers.”

“Forty-eight hours is tight,” I said. “I’ve got other clients, you know.”

Blackwell’s expression didn’t change, but his tone sharpened. “I’ll double your fee.”

That got my attention. “Make it triple, and I’ll wear a tie.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Double will suffice. Do we have a deal?”

I nodded. “Deal.”

Blackwell downed his martini in two gulps slipped a wad of cash into the check holder without looking at the total. “I’ll expect your call. My assistant will provide a number.” He paused, looking me over like he was gauging whether I’d live up to his expectations. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr. Rockne.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving me alone with my gin and tonic and an envelope that felt heavier than it should.

Outside, the parking lot was quieter now, the cars gleaming under soft lights. The Odyssey waited in the shadows, looking out of place but reliable. I climbed in, tossed the envelope onto the passenger seat, and started the engine.

Driving home, I realized Blackwell liked being in control.

But I’d been around long enough to know he wasn’t.

There was a loose cannon out there somewhere, and I think the old man was scared.

Chapter Four

The drive back home was uneventful, the streets quiet as I passed under the soft glow of streetlights. The brick colonial came into view, its white trim glowing faintly under the porch light my wife always left on. I parked in the driveway and walked in, the smell of garlic hitting me as soon as I opened the door.

“You’re late,” Anna called from the kitchen. “I saved you some food.”

“I texted,” I said, hanging my jacket on the hook by the door. I gave my beautiful wife a quick kiss. “What’s for dinner?”

“Pollo alla cacciatora,” she said. Anna was of Italian descent and her cooking was beyond fantastic. It was a wonder I didn’t weigh five hundred pounds.

“Be right back,” I said, heading toward the stairs.

“Don’t let the food get cold,” she called after me.

The girls’ rooms were at the end of the hallway. I knocked lightly on the first door, nudging it open. Isabel, my eldest, was sprawled across her bed, her nose in a book. She was in the fifth grade.

“Homework?” I asked, stepping inside.

She looked up and rolled her eyes. “The Maltese Falcon. It’s okay, I guess.”

“Okay?” I said, leaning against the doorframe. “That’s a classic.”

“Maybe for people who like old books,” she said with a smirk. “I like the movie better.”

“You’ve never seen the movie.”

“I did after school,” she said. “Sped up because it was so boring. My God, people back in your time were lame.”

It occurred to me I could point out The Maltese Falcon movie was made in 1941, almost thirty years before I was born, but what was the point, really?

I laughed softly. “All right. Don’t stay up too late.”

“Goodnight, Dad,” she said, her smirk softening into a smile.

I left the door ajar and moved to Nina’s room. Her lamp was on, but she was already under the covers. Two years younger than Isabel, Nina was a handful.

“You’re home late,” she said. “Did Mom let you have it?”

“I was working.”

“Okay, Dad. Did Mom buy it?”

“It’s the truth!”

She giggled and I knew she was putting me on.

“Okay,” I said kissing her on the forehead. “Sleep tight.”

“’Night, Dad.”

I flicked off her lamp and headed back downstairs. Anna had set out a plate on the table—chicken, olives, a chunk of crusty bread, and a glass of red wine. She was sitting across from it, sipping her own glass as she waited for me to sit down.

“How’s work?” she asked as I dug into the chicken.

“Busy,” I said, between bites. “How’s my favorite neurologist?”

She rolled her eyes. “Your brother-in-law doesn’t make it easy. Billing codes are getting more complicated, and he just assumes I have all the answers.”

“You do,” I said. “That’s why he hired you.”

Anna worked part-time for her brother, a doctor here in Grosse Pointe. She kept his books.

Anna smiled at me. “Keep buttering me up. You’ll get dessert.”

I finished eating while we chatted about the kids, her brother’s office, and our plans for the weekend. When I set my fork down, she stood and grabbed her wine glass.

“Game’s on,” she said. “Want company?”

“Always.”

We moved to the couch, and I flipped on the TV. The Lions were in the fourth quarter, clinging to a lead like they weren’t sure they wanted it. My wife sat beside me, swirling the wine in her glass.

“Why do you torture yourself with this team?” she asked, half-watching the screen.

“Tradition,” I said. “It builds character.”

“Or insanity.” She finished her wine and stood. “I’m heading up. Got a book to finish.”

“Goodnight,” I said, eyes still on the screen. “Let me know how it ends.”

“Justice will be served,” she said, disappearing up the stairs.

The game dragged on, the Lions narrowly avoiding disaster in the final minutes. When it ended, I turned off the TV and sat for a moment, letting the house settle around me. I rinsed my plate in the sink, locked up, and headed upstairs.

My wife’s light was off, the house silent except for the occasional creak of the floorboards.

I slid into bed, thinking about the time constraints Blackwell had placed upon me.

The odds were fifty-fifty I’d be able to meet them.

But his check had already hit my bank account.

First things first, right?

Chapter Five

The coffee shop sat at the corner of Kercheval and St. Clair, one of those places that tried to straddle the line between diner and bistro. It had the usual breakfast staples—eggs, bacon, pancakes—but the chalkboard specials leaned gourmet: avocado toast, smoked salmon omelets, and something called a “breakfast flatbread” that seemed to have no business being on a morning menu. The décor tried for rustic charm—polished wood tables, mismatched chairs that were probably deliberate, and a few vintage posters on the walls to keep things casual.

Nate Becker, my best friend in the world, was already at a corner table, flipping through a newspaper. He looked up when I walked in and gestured at the seat across from him without standing. “Figured you’d show eventually.”

“I was three minutes late,” I said, sliding into the chair. “Try not to take it personally.”

“You know how sensitive I am,” he said, folding the paper. Nate was a big guy, with a broad face and thick glasses that always seemed just a little smudged. He had the kind of presence that made chairs look undersized, but he carried himself with an easy confidence, like he’d made peace with his size years ago. Also, he was the least sensitive person I knew, other than myself.

“What’s the occasion?” he asked. “You offering to buy me breakfast just because you like my company?”

“I’ve never liked your company,” I said. “But you’re tolerable when you’ve got food in front of you.”

The waitress came by—a younger woman in a clean apron who moved briskly but didn’t rush. Nate nodded toward her. “Lumberjack special. And coffee.”

She looked at me. “Just coffee. Black.”

Nate raised an eyebrow as the waitress left. “You’re not eating?”

“I didn’t invite you to breakfast to watch me eat,” I said. “Besides I had a huge dinner late last night. I’m still full.”

“Interesting,” Nate said, leaning back. “You wanted something, I assume?”

“I did,” I said, taking out my phone. “What have you heard about Marcus Tate?”

Nate frowned. “The golfer? Not much more than anyone else. Shot dead in his car. Police think it’s a robbery, but they’re not exactly screaming it from the rooftops. Why?”

“Theodore Blackwell’s got me looking into it.”

Nate let out a low whistle—not theatrical, just surprised. “Blackwell? That’s serious. He’s a powerful man, from what I hear.”

“Apparently,” I said. “What do you know?”

The waitress came back with Nate’s coffee and a plate big enough to hold the lumberjack special: eggs, sausage, pancakes, toast. He dug in without ceremony, cutting the pancakes into precise squares.

“Rumor is,” Nate said between bites, “Tate wasn’t exactly the golden boy everyone thought he was. Polished on the outside, sure. But behind the scenes? Parties, booze, women. Maybe drugs. He made his way around.”

“Drugs?” I asked.

“Nothing confirmed,” Nate said. “But he had a habit of spending time with people who don’t like attention. You know the type. Money, power, no patience for headlines. If Tate rubbed someone like that the wrong way, maybe it’s not as simple as the cops think.”

I nodded, filing the information away. Nate kept eating, finishing half the plate before glancing up. “You’re not gonna order anything, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” he said.

“Okay, Mom,” I replied. We chatted for a while about Nate and his job – he was a reporter for the local paper and a great source of information. He was married, too, but worked long hours.

When he was almost done, I asked for the bill so he couldn’t order more. When it came, I paid and left a generous tip.

Nate saluted me with his coffee mug. “Let me know if you need more rumors. I’m full of them.”

“Full of it is right,” I said, and headed for the door.

Chapter Six

I unlocked the door to my office, the faint chime from the jewelry store downstairs still echoing. The space wasn’t much—a small desk with a computer, a couple of chairs I’d picked up secondhand, and a filing cabinet that always seemed to stick when I needed something important. The window overlooked the village’s main drag, where people went in and out of bagel and coffee shops.

There was a pile of mail sitting in my inbox tray. Mostly junk—ads for local businesses, a reminder from the dry cleaner that my only suit, worn to a wedding recently, was still waiting, and an envelope with a logo from a law firm that I had no desire to open. I tossed most of it into the recycling bin and set the lawyer’s envelope aside.

The computer came to life as I booted it up. I scanned my inbox while waiting for it to finish its start-up routine. When it came fully awake, I dug into my messages and found a couple of client updates, an overdue payment notice, and a confirmation that an invoice had gone through.

Once that was done, I opened a few client files, made sure the invoices were all current, and sent out a polite nudge to a guy who was two weeks overdue. Administrative work wasn’t glamorous, but it kept the lights on.

Then I turned my attention to the envelope Blackwell had given me. I spread the contents across the desk, smoothing out the heavy paper. Blackwell’s handwriting was neat, precise. It wasn’t surprising—he struck me as the type who still sent handwritten thank-you notes. Then again, he seemed like the kind of guy who didn’t say thank you very often.

The list wasn’t long, but it covered a lot of ground:

Kelly West: Tate’s assistant. If anyone knew his routines, it’d be her.

Adam Morse: His golf club rep. A business connection that might run deeper than it looked.

Dana Rollins: A girlfriend Blackwell called “steady,” though I had a feeling that word didn’t mean the same thing to Tate as it did to most people.

Paul Grayson: A fellow golfer who had a very public feud with Tate. Competitors like that always had a chip on their shoulder, but this one had enough heat to make headlines.

Assistants were usually the best starting point. They knew everything: schedules, moods, the skeletons in the closet. If Tate’s life was messier than his polished image, Kelly West would have a front-row seat.

I picked up the phone and dialed the number Blackwell had written next to her name. It rang twice before a sharp, professional voice answered. “Kelly West.”

“Ms. West, this is John Rockne,” I said. “I’m a private investigator working on behalf of Theodore Blackwell. I was hoping to set up a time to talk to you about Marcus Tate.”

There was a pause before she spoke. “I’m at the office now. I have some availability this afternoon.”

“Where’s your office?” I asked.

“We’re in Birmingham at the Wilshire Building. Suite 1703.”

I jotted it down. Swanky. “Would two o’clock work for you?”

“That’s fine,” she said. “Just check in with reception when you arrive.”

“Will do. Thanks.”

She hung up without wasting time on small talk. I liked that. Efficient. I leaned back in my chair, staring at the names on the list again. This case wasn’t going to unravel itself, but I had a starting point. That was something.

After tidying up the papers, I glanced at the clock, locked up the office, and stepped into the bright midday sun. The village was bustling, and the scent of fresh bread from the bakery next door drifted into the air. Birmingham wasn’t far, but I’d need to deal with the inevitable traffic.

The Odyssey sat waiting in its usual spot.

Not flashy, but reliable.

Much like me, or so I hoped.

Chapter Seven

The drive to Birmingham wasn’t bad by Michigan standards—mostly highways and just enough traffic to keep you from daydreaming. The Odyssey chugged along steadily, blending in with the sea of SUVs and sedans that made up the weekday commute. The Wilshire Building wasn’t hard to find. It was one of those office complexes that seemed designed to exude professionalism without a hint of personality. Glass façade, steel accents, perfectly trimmed landscaping—Birmingham’s version of swanky.

I pulled into the parking garage, found a spot near the elevator, and made a mental note of where I’d left the van. The last thing I wanted was to wander around level five trying to remember which row I was in. The air inside the garage was thick with exhaust.

The Wilshire Building’s lobby was small and unpretentious, which was a surprise. A receptionist was sitting behind a desk and glanced up as I approached.

“Excuse me,” I said, resting my hands lightly on the counter. “I’m here to see Kelly West. Suite 1703.”

The woman gave me a quick once-over, then tapped something on her keyboard. “Do you have an appointment?”

“I do,” I said. “Two o’clock.”

She nodded, picked up a phone, and spoke in a low voice. I couldn’t hear the conversation, but her expression shifted slightly and then she hung up and looked back at me.

“Elevators are on your left,” she said. A woman of few words. I liked it.

“Thanks,” I said, heading toward the bank of elevators.

The ride up was smooth and the doors opened onto a carpeted hallway lined with tasteful art—mostly abstract prints. Suite 1703 was at the end of the hall, its frosted glass door etched with the words Tate Foundation. Beneath it, in smaller letters: Advancing the Game. Supporting the Community.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The place was immaculate. The reception area had a clean, minimalist vibe—white walls, modern furniture, a spotless white tile floor. A single leather chair sat near the window, positioned just right to catch the light. The faint scent of lemon cleaner hung in the air, almost too strong.

No one was there.

I walked up to the desk and leaned over, glancing for any sign of life. No phone, no papers, not even a stray pen. It was the kind of order that felt unnatural, like someone had staged the place for a real estate photo shoot.

“Hello?” I called, my voice echoing in the quiet.

No answer.

A single door led farther into the suite, slightly ajar. The light spilling out suggested someone might be in the back. I hesitated for a moment before pushing it open wider.

The back office was larger, clearly meant for someone who spent serious time here. A desk sat near the center, flanked by tall bookshelves filled with neatly arranged binders and books. A framed photograph of Marcus Tate stood on one corner of the desk, the golfer mid-swing on a perfectly manicured course.

The chair behind the desk was empty.

I checked my watch and knew I was early, but not by much. I stood in the doorway, taking in the room. The walls were lined with more photos—Tate shaking hands with sponsors, posing with trophies, cutting ribbons at charity events. One wall was dedicated to his foundation, showcasing photos of kids holding golf clubs on wide-open courses. It all looked good, polished, the kind of legacy someone like Tate would want to leave behind.

There were no coffee cup rings on the desk, no stray papers scattered around.

On the desk, a calendar sat open on one corner, its pages blank. The pen beside it looked like it hadn’t been picked up in days. I glanced at the bookshelves, noting the titles. Most were golf-related—biographies, training guides, books on sponsorships and public relations. A couple of business strategy books rounded out the collection.

Something didn’t feel right. The office was functional, sure, but it lacked the signs of life.

“Hello?” I called again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

Maybe Kelly West was running late, or maybe she was in a meeting somewhere else in the building. Either way, standing around wasn’t going to get me anywhere.

I moved to the windows, looking out over Birmingham. The view was as polished as the office—tree-lined streets, high-end boutiques, and a few people walked below, shopping bags in hand.

Turning, I moved deeper into the space. The hallway was short, lined with neutral-colored walls and generic art prints—ocean waves, a forest path, vague subliminal messages of a bright future for all.

Not for Marcus Tate, I thought.

A door at the end of the hall stood ajar, light from a window inside slanting out onto the carpet. I hesitated for a moment, then pushed the door open. The scene inside stopped me cold.

The office was a disaster. A desk, once solid and imposing, was cracked in half, one side collapsed onto the floor at an angle. Papers and folders were scattered everywhere, torn and crumpled as though someone had rifled through them in a panic. A chair lay overturned in the corner, one of its legs snapped off. Glass was everywhere—on the floor, on the desk, even on the windowsill. It crunched faintly under my shoes as I stepped inside.

Blood was splattered across the walls in erratic patterns, deep red against the pale paint. Drops and smears streaked the carpet, forming a chaotic trail that seemed to end near the desk. A keyboard sat on the floor, its keys broken and scattered like teeth.

Near the desk, I spotted a picture frame lying face-up among the debris. The glass was cracked, but the photo inside was mostly intact. It showed a young woman—blonde, sharp-featured, with an easy smile. Probably Kelly West. The picture seemed out of place here, her bright expression clashing against the wreckage around it.

The computer monitor was shattered, the screen caved in and dark. The tower was missing, yanked out with enough force to leave deep scratches in the desk’s surface. Wires dangled loosely from the back, stripped and useless.

I scanned the room slowly, taking in every detail. There was no calendar, no sticky notes, no loose papers that offered anything substantial. If Kelly West had kept track of appointments or made notes about Marcus Tate’s business dealings, they weren’t here anymore. It was as though someone had gone through the office with the specific intent of erasing everything.

The blood spatter drew my attention again. It was too much to ignore. Had Kelly West been here when this happened? Was she still alive? Whatever had gone down in this office wasn’t clean, and it wasn’t random. It looked like a struggle, maybe even a kidnapping. And whoever had been here before me had left nothing useful behind.

The papers on the floor didn’t offer anything obvious, no pages sticking out with highlighted notes or scrawled numbers. The walls were bare except for the blood, the bookshelves devoid of anything meaningful.

Backing into the hallway, the suite was still oddly quiet, the contrast between the wreckage inside and the calm lobby outside almost disorienting. I stepped away from the door.

The elevator was at the end of the hall. I pressed the button and waited, glancing over my shoulder once more at the broken office. If Kelly West had been here, she hadn’t left willingly. And whatever information she might have had—about Marcus Tate, about the people in his orbit—it was gone now.

The elevator doors slid open, and I stepped inside, hitting the button for the ground floor. The ride down was smooth and silent, but I came up with no good ideas.

The lobby looked the same as when I’d arrived. The receptionist was still behind her desk, focused on her computer screen. She didn’t glance up as I passed. Instead of heading for the main entrance, I veered toward the side door.

The side exit opened into a quiet alley, the sunlight slanting between the buildings, then I crossed to the parking garage and slipped into the driver’s seat of the Odyssey. I sat there for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, staring at the dashboard. The wreckage in that office and the blood painted across the walls spoke of a violent encounter. One that should be reported to the police.

Yeah, no way I was going to do that.

Part Two

“Play it as it lies.”

-Hazards and Lies: The Golfer’s Manual

Chapter Eight

The Odyssey rolled smoothly along Woodward Avenue, a steady rhythm of asphalt under the tires. Traffic was light—an occasional sedan or SUV cruising past in the opposite direction, the kind of early evening calm that hinted at dinner plans or the quiet after a busy day. My phone buzzed in the cupholder, its screen flashing Blocked Number.

I hit the button on the steering wheel. “Rockne.”

For a moment, static filled the line, faint but deliberate, as if whoever was on the other end wanted me to notice. Then a voice, low and mechanically distorted, crackled through.

“You had quite the afternoon.”

“And you are?”

“Someone who knows more about Marcus Tate than you do,” the voice replied.

No need to respond so I let the silence stretch. People like this always filled the space if you gave them enough time.

“I imagine Kelly West’s office was... unexpected,” the voice continued. “A bit messier than you planned, I’d guess.”

In the rearview mirror I saw a black sedan trailed a few car lengths behind, its headlights steady. “You seem well-informed. Why don’t you tell me how you know about that?”

The voice chuckled, the distortion twisting it into something metallic and thin. “Let’s just say I’ve been following the game longer than you’ve been playing. You could call it professional interest.”

Traffic thickened slightly as I approached an intersection, brake lights flaring up ahead. I eased off the gas, scanning the cars around me. A silver Lexus to my left, a blue Jeep just ahead.

Nothing stood out.

“Are you the one who killed Marcus Tate?” I asked.

The pause that followed was noticeable, deliberate. “Now, that’s an interesting question. Would you even believe me if I said yes?”

“Try me.”

A low laugh buzzed through the line. “No, Mr. Rockne. I didn’t kill Marcus Tate. But let’s just say I’m closer to the truth than you’ll ever be.”

The light ahead turned green, and the cars in front of me began to move. I followed, keeping pace with the flow of traffic. The black sedan in my rearview turned off, replaced by a white pickup.

“Closer to the truth,” I repeated. “That’s vague. You called me for a reason. What is it?”

“To give you a friendly reminder,” the voice said, the tone casual, almost conversational. “You’ve been poking around places that don’t concern you. That kind of curiosity doesn’t end well.”

“Is that what happened to Kelly West?” I asked.

“Kelly had a habit of asking the wrong questions. You wouldn’t want to end up like her.”

A delivery truck pulled into a side street up ahead.

“What happened to her?” I asked.

The voice didn’t answer directly. “She had information she shouldn’t have. So do you, for that matter. The difference is you still have time to be smart about it.”

My mind sifted through the possibilities. A sponsor with something to lose? A rival with a grudge? Someone cleaning up Marcus Tate’s messes? I didn’t know enough yet to put faces to the theories.

“You’ve got a lot of opinions for someone hiding behind a voice scrambler,” I said. “Why don’t you save me the trouble and tell me who I’m dealing with?”

Another laugh, colder this time. “That’s the thing, Mr. Rockne. You’re not dealing with anyone. Not yet. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

“Not sure I have the option,” I said.

“Oh, you do,” the voice replied, the distortion deepening slightly. “You just don’t want to take it.”

The line went dead.

On the phone’s screen, the Call Ended message stared back at me. Dropping it into the cupholder, I turned onto a quieter street, the hum of the Odyssey filling the space where the voice had been.

Calls like that weren’t totally uncommon in my line of work, but they happened occasionally. Pranks, most of the time. But this one seemed real. Someone had eyes on Kelly West and Marcus Tate’s business and if they were involved in Tate’s death, they weren’t in a hurry to admit it, but they weren’t shy about sending warnings, either.

There were too many variables, too many people with reasons to keep Tate’s secrets buried. Whoever was behind this call, they were betting on intimidation being enough to make me back off.

That wasn’t going to happen.

Especially when I was being paid double my ordinary fee.

Don’t judge me, we live in a capitalist society, after all.

A man’s gotta make a living.

Chapter Nine

My phone buzzed again in the cupholder. This time it wasn’t a call. The screen lit up with a text from Blackwell.

Grayson is at the range at Ironwood Ridge. Go see him.

Grayson, I thought. Paul Grayson, the supposed competitor who wasn’t fond of Marcus Tate.

Ironwood Ridge. Even the name sounded exclusive. It was the kind of place where membership wasn’t about money—it was about access. If you weren’t in the right circles, you weren’t getting in, no matter how many zeros were in your bank account. The course itself was rumored to be pristine, the kind of place where even the sand traps looked like works of art.

At the next light, I turned left and headed toward the club. Ironwood Ridge wasn’t far, but as I got closer, the scenery began to change. The buildings gave way to expansive lawns, gated driveways, and homes that looked more like estates. By the time the tall iron gates of the club came into view, it seemed I was a long way from Grosse Pointe.

The entrance was lined with neatly trimmed hedges, and a security booth sat at the gate, manned by a guy who looked like he could double as a bouncer.

“Can I help you?” he asked, leaning slightly out of the booth.

“John Rockne,” I said. “I’m here to meet Paul Grayson. He’s expecting me.”

It wasn’t the truth, but I said it with enough confidence to make it sound like it was. The guard hesitated for a moment, then turned to his monitor. He tapped a few keys, his eyes flicking back and forth between the screen and me.

“Wait here,” he said, disappearing back into the booth.

I drummed my fingers lightly on the steering wheel, watching as he picked up a phone. He spoke briefly, then hung up and returned to the window.

“You can go in,” he said. “Follow the main drive. The range is past the clubhouse on the left. Park in the visitor lot.”

The gates swung open, and I nodded my thanks as I drove through.

The road wound through a landscape that looked more like a nature preserve than a golf course. Rolling hills stretched out on either side, dotted with trees that seemed too perfectly placed to be natural. The clubhouse came into view after a few minutes—a sprawling structure of stone and dark wood, framed by towering pines. Even from a distance, it radiated money and exclusivity.

In the visitor’s lot, I parked in an open space between a Porsche and a Jaguar. Stepping out, I adjusted my jacket and glanced around. The air was crisp and clean, carrying the faint scent of freshly cut grass and whatever flowers lined the pathway to the clubhouse.

The interior was no less impressive. Polished wood floors, vaulted ceilings, and walls lined with framed photographs of past tournaments and members who looked like they belonged on magazine covers. A receptionist at the front desk gave me a polite but curious smile as I passed, her eyes briefly flicking to my shoes.

The range wasn’t hard to find. I followed the sounds of soft thuds and the occasional click of irons making clean contact with golf balls. The space was massive, a stretch of flawless turf bordered by neatly arranged hitting bays. A row of players stood in relaxed stances, each one working on their swing with the focus of someone who’d been doing this for years.

It didn’t take long to spot Grayson.

He was at the far end of the range, dressed in tailored slacks and a quarter-zip pullover. His swing was smooth, effortless, the kind of motion that came from years of repetition. He paused, wiping his hands on a towel, and turned slightly, giving me a clear view of his face.

Paul Grayson. Professional golfer, perennial runner-up, and the man who’d had a very public feud with Marcus Tate.

At the edge of the range, I stopped and watched him for a moment, deciding how to play this.

No guts, no glory, I thought, and started toward him.

Chapter Ten

Paul Grayson didn’t acknowledge me right away. His focus was on the small pyramid of balls in front of him, a sleek iron in his hands. He took his time with each swing, the rhythm steady, the sound of the club striking the ball sharp and clean. The balls flew straight, arcing over the manicured grass before dropping neatly into the distance.

I waited, watching. He knew I was there. He was just enjoying the control.

After another swing, he glanced at me, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You must be the guy Blackwell sent. Rockne, right?”

“That’s right,” I said.

“Private investigator.” He straightened, resting the club lightly on his shoulder. “Blackwell always did have a flair for the dramatic. Sending you here, like I’m some sort of suspect.”

I didn’t answer, letting him talk. People like Grayson usually filled the silence themselves.

“Not sure what you think you’re going to find,” he said, turning back to the balls. “But you’re welcome to try. Just don’t get in my way.”

“Not planning to,” I said. “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Go ahead.” He swung again, the ball rocketing off the clubface.

“What can you tell me about Marcus Tate?”

He snorted, setting the club down and grabbing a towel from the bag behind him. “What can’t I tell you? The guy was a fraud. All smiles for the cameras, but a total prick when they weren’t rolling. Thought the world revolved around him because he won a couple of majors. Big deal.”

Grayson’s caddie appeared from behind the hitting bay, a hulking man with a shaved head and arms that strained against the sleeves of his polo. He handed Grayson a fresh towel and a water bottle, giving me a brief, assessing look before stepping back.

“Relax, Charlie,” Grayson said, smirking. “Rockne’s not here to kill me. At least, I don’t think he is.”

“Not today,” I said.

Grayson laughed, taking a sip from the bottle. “See? He’s got jokes. Blackwell could’ve hired worse.”

I nodded toward the caddie. “That your muscle, or does he actually carry clubs?”

Charlie didn’t respond, his expression flat.

“He does both,” Grayson said. “And he’s damn good at it.”

I let that go. “You and Tate had a public feud.”

Grayson shrugged, setting the bottle down and picking up his club again. “A feud? Sure. If you want to call it that. We got under each other’s skin. Happens when you’re competing for the same things. Trophies. Sponsorships. Women.”

“Women?”

Grayson lined up another shot, taking his time before swinging. “There was one in particular. Bit of a mess. She liked bouncing between us, keeping things... interesting. These days, she’s married to another pro. Living the dream.”

“What’s her name?”

“Lila Winslow.

“Who’s the husband?”

Grayson turned, his smirk widening. “Why do you care? Unless you think she’s involved in this somehow.”

“Just curious,” I said.

“His name’s Matt Winslow,” he said. “Solid player. Better husband than Tate would’ve been, anyway.”

I tucked the name away for later. “What about drugs? There are rumors Tate was using.”

Grayson paused, his grip on the club loosening slightly. “Rumors, huh? Well, I’m not one to spread gossip, but let’s just say Marcus had a taste for the finer things in life. And by finer things, I mean whatever would get him through the night.”

“Where was he getting it?”

Grayson tilted his head, pretending to think. “Oh, you know how it goes. Friends of friends. People who know people. The guy he used to deal with was a real character. Called himself the Snowman. Always wearing white. Real subtle.”

“Inner-city guy?” I asked.

Grayson chuckled. “You could say that. He wasn’t exactly playing 18 holes at places like this, if you catch my drift.”

I didn’t respond, watching as Grayson took another swing. He wasn’t finished talking yet.

“Marcus liked to live big,” Grayson said. “Big wins, big parties, big risks. Guess one of those caught up to him.” He dropped the club into his bag and turned to me. “Look, I didn’t like the guy, but no one deserves to get murdered. That’s not the game any of us signed up for.”

His tone had shifted slightly, the arrogance giving way to something closer to sincerity.

“Why don’t we continue this in the bar?” he said, motioning toward the clubhouse. “I could use a drink. You look like you could too.”

The bar was exactly what I’d expected: dark wood, leather stools, and an air of exclusivity that hung in the room like cigar smoke. Grayson ordered a whiskey neat. I stuck with water.

“So,” Grayson said, leaning back in his seat. “What else do you want to know?”

“Did Tate have enemies?” I asked.

Grayson raised an eyebrow. “Besides me? Sure. The guy wasn’t exactly Mr. Congeniality. He pissed people off. Clients, competitors, sponsors. You name it.”

“Anyone specific?”

He swirled his whiskey, watching the liquid catch the light. “Not that I can think of. But if you’re asking whether someone wanted him dead... maybe. I mean, you don’t end up shot in your car for no reason.”

“What about his assistant, Kelly West?”

Grayson frowned slightly. “I didn’t know her well. Saw her at events now and then. She seemed sharp. Loyal to Marcus, though I’m not sure why. He wasn’t exactly loyal to anyone.”

“She’s missing,” I said. “Her office was trashed, blood everywhere.”

“Jesus.” Grayson whistled softly, shaking his head. “That’s rough. She didn’t deserve that.”

“Any idea who might’ve done it?”

He shrugged. “Could’ve been anyone. Like I said, Marcus had a way of making enemies. Maybe she got caught in the crossfire.”

The bartender set another drink in front of Grayson. He picked it up, tilting it slightly in a silent toast before taking a sip.

“By the way,” he said, lowering his voice slightly. “If you’re gonna dig into Marcus’s drug habit, you might want to be careful. Snowman’s not the kind of guy who likes people asking questions.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I said.

Grayson grinned, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a small vial, tapping a bit of white powder onto the back of his hand. Before I could say anything, he leaned down and snorted it, sitting back with a satisfied sigh.

“Don’t look so shocked,” he said, catching my expression. “It’s just a bump. Keeps the swing loose.”

I didn’t respond. There wasn’t much to say to a guy like Grayson.

On my way out of the clubhouse, I spotted Charlie leaning against the wall near the parking lot, his massive frame hard to miss. He gave me a curt nod, his eyes tracking me for a moment before looking away.

Snowman.

A nickname that stuck in my head. If this guy was tied to Marcus Tate—I needed to talk to him.

But first, since I was in the general area, I decided to pay a visit to the actual scene of the crime.

Chapter Eleven

The parking lot at Twin Cedars Country Club didn’t look like a crime scene. It was too neat, too controlled. The rows of parking spaces were marked with crisp white lines, bordered by immaculately trimmed hedges and flower beds. But that didn’t change the fact this is where Marcus Tate had been murdered.

I stepped out of the Odyssey, locking it automatically, and walked to the third space from the clubhouse entrance. According to the police report, that’s where Tate’s Ferrari had been parked. The report had come to me courtesy of Nate, who’d managed to get a copy through one of his sources in the department. It wasn’t the first time Nate had bent the rules for a story—or for me—but this one had come with a warning.

“Don’t go flashing this around,” Nate had said when he sent it over. “My guy took a risk for this, and I’m not looking to lose a source because you get chatty.”

“Do I look like the chatty type?” I’d replied.

Still, the report painted a picture of what the cops had pieced together. Marcus Tate, leaving the bar with an unidentified woman, shot dead in his car minutes later. The bartender had been clear—he didn’t recognize the woman, and the police hadn’t been able to track her down. No fingerprints, no usable security footage, no witnesses willing to admit they’d seen anything.

The space where the Ferrari had been parked was empty now, just a patch of asphalt. I crouched slightly, imagining the car sitting here, the way Tate must’ve slumped forward when the first shot hit. Fired at close range, and not a single person had come forward to say they’d heard or seen anything.

The clubhouse windows overlooked the lot, dark now but bright enough that night to silhouette anyone walking to their car. I studied the angles, trying to map it out. Tate’s killer hadn’t been sloppy. They’d approached quietly, efficiently. No yelling, no lingering. Just shots fired and gone.

A security camera near the clubhouse entrance caught my attention. Its angle was all wrong, pointed toward the valet stand instead of the lot itself. Convenient, if you didn’t want anyone watching the lot too closely.

“You the police?” a voice said behind me, breaking the stillness.

I turned to see a man in a security uniform walking toward me, a flashlight in one hand. He was older, probably in his late fifties, with graying hair sticking out from under his cap. His name tag read “Frank.”

“Private investigator,” I said. “Looking into the Marcus Tate case.”

Frank nodded, though his expression stayed guarded. “Figured someone would show up sooner or later. What do you need?”

“I’m trying to get a better picture of what happened that night,” I said. “Were you working?”

“I was,” he said, coming to stand beside me. “Didn’t see anything, though.”

I nodded toward the security camera. “That working?”

Frank snorted. “Depends on your definition of ‘working.’ It’s running, sure, but it only catches the valet stand. Management doesn’t want to pay for more coverage. They figure nothing bad happens at Twin Cedars. And if there’s a crime committed, well, they usually think it’s us.”

“Until something does happen,” I said.

“Exactly.” He swung his flashlight toward the edge of the lot. “Tate’s car was right here. Engine was running when I noticed it. At first, I thought maybe he’d passed out. Then I got closer.”

“What did you see?” I asked.

Frank’s expression darkened slightly. “The driver’s side window was down. Blood everywhere. He was slumped over, not moving. I didn’t need to check for a pulse to know he was gone.”

“You didn’t hear the shots?” I asked.

“Not a one,” Frank said. “Weird, too. On a quiet night like that, you’d think I would’ve.”

“Windy?” I asked.

“Still as a pond,” Frank replied. “That’s what bothers me. No shots, no shouting. Just him sitting there, dead as anything.”

I turned my attention back to the lot. “Anyone else around? Cars? People?”

Frank hesitated, his flashlight beam dipping slightly. “There was a car parked toward the back of the lot. Black sedan. Mid-sized, maybe a Lexus or a BMW. Didn’t see anyone get in or out, but it wasn’t there earlier.”

“When’d you notice it?”

“Not long before I saw the Ferrari running,” he said. “Figured it belonged to someone sneaking onto the course or a staffer. Didn’t think much of it at the time.”

I glanced toward the shadowed edge of the lot where he’d pointed. The black sedan might’ve been nothing, but it also might’ve been everything.

“Thanks,” I said. “Anything else you remember? Anyone hanging around?”

Frank shook his head. “No. Place was empty by then, except for the bartenders finishing up. The valet crew was long gone.”

He didn’t have much more to provide and after I thanked him, I walked back to the Odyssey.

The black sedan and the unidentified woman.

If I could find both, I would be in business.

Chapter Twelve

The text from Nate came through just as I was finishing my notes on the Twin Cedars parking lot:

Chandler Park. Now. You need to see this.

No explanation, no preamble. Nate didn’t waste words, and he usually didn’t send texts like this. I turned onto Jefferson Avenue, heading toward the city-run course. Chandler Park wasn’t the kind of place where you’d expect anything major to happen. It was rough around the edges, a course for weekend hackers and guys who’d rather spend more on beer than greens fees.

The parking lot was crowded with squad cars when I arrived, their lights washing over the cracked asphalt and aging clubhouse. A cluster of officers stood near the edge of the lot, talking quietly among themselves. From the direction of the first fairway, I could see the glow of portable lights set up deeper into the course.

I parked near the back and spotted Nate standing near the clubhouse entrance, chatting with a cop. He looked normal enough—phone in one hand, jacket zipped halfway up, his usual no-nonsense posture. He waved me over as I approached.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Bad night for Kelly West,” Nate said, gesturing toward the course. “Brady here will take us to see the scene.”

Brady nodded at me. “You’re Rockne?”

“That’s me.”

“Come on,” he said. “She’s out by the pond.”

We walked down a cracked asphalt path that cut through the course. The air was cool, carrying the faint smell of water and freshly cut grass. Chandler’s maintenance wasn’t much to brag about, but even their grounds crew couldn’t ignore the greens entirely. Portable lights came into view as we rounded a slight bend, their beams casting long shadows across the fairway.

The pond wasn’t much, just a murky hazard on the edge of the third hole. Two techs crouched near the shoreline, taking photographs of the body lying on the grass. Kelly West. Her face was partially turned away, but there was no mistaking it. I had seen the photo in her office, and I knew it was her. She had on a light blouse and jeans, both stained with mud and blood. The side of her head was caved in, her hair matted dark around the wound.

Next to the body, a golf club lay in the grass, its head bent slightly. The blood on the grip and shaft made it clear it wasn’t just discarded equipment.

Brady stopped a few feet short of the techs and motioned for us to do the same. “Golfers found her about an hour ago,” he said. “She’s been here a while.”

“How’d they find her?” I asked.

“They were out for some night swings. Heard a splash, went to check it out, and saw her in the water,” Brady said. “She was floating just offshore when we got here. Our ME had her pulled out so they could start working.”

One of the techs turned slightly, the flash of his camera going off again. Kelly’s body looked almost surreal under the harsh light, the angles too still, too unnatural.

“That the murder weapon?” I asked, nodding toward the club.

“Looks like it,” Brady said. “Driver. Cheap one. Probably from the rental shed here. Still processing it for prints.”

“Any sign of a struggle?” Nate asked.

“Nothing obvious,” Brady said. “There’s a set of tire tracks near the cart path—probably from whoever dumped her here—but nothing definitive yet.”

I studied the scene again, letting my eyes move over the details. Kelly’s position, the club, the lack of anything that suggested a fight. Someone had dragged her here, killed her cleanly and efficiently. They hadn’t cared much about hiding her—dumping her in the pond seemed more like an afterthought than a plan.

“Did you know her?” Brady asked me.

“No, I was supposed to meet her at her office,” I said. “She worked for Marcus Tate.”

Brady frowned. “The golfer? That the case you’re working?”

“Looks like it,” I said.

He sighed, gesturing toward the techs. “Well, this isn’t going to make it any easier. What’s the connection?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” I said.

Brady glanced at Nate. “You drag him into all your messes?”

“You’d be surprised what John comes up with,” Nate said.

Brady grunted, apparently unwilling to argue the point. “Just don’t touch anything. We’re still processing.”

I stepped closer, careful not to crowd the techs. The edge of the pond was churned up, the mud sticky and dark where Kelly had been pulled ashore. The golf club lay a few feet from her, its bent head smeared with blood. I crouched slightly, studying it from a distance. Whoever had used it hadn’t been subtle—they’d swung hard enough to bend the shaft.

Brady gestured toward the cart path. “Tracks were made by a golf cart, naturally. It’ll be impossible to match, but we’ll give it a shot.”

Nate and I turned to leave.

“Hey, I’ve got a question for you,” Brady said.

I turned back.

“When you dump a body in the water here, do you have to take a penalty stroke?”

He grinned.

Cop humor, I thought.

Part Three

"The real game starts when no one is watching."

-Hazards and Lies: The Golfer’s Manual

Chapter Thirteen

Assistant to Slain Golf Pro Found Dead in Grisly Scene at Chandler Park

By Nate Becker, Grosse Pointe News

Detroit, MI – The unfolding tragedy surrounding professional golfer Marcus Tate took another grim turn last night as the body of Kelly West, his longtime personal assistant, was discovered at Chandler Park Golf Course.

Authorities confirmed that West, 32, was found near a pond on the municipal course, her body displaying what police describe as “blunt force trauma.” A bloodied golf club was recovered near the scene and is believed to be the murder weapon.

The discovery comes just days after Tate’s shocking murder in the parking lot of the exclusive Twin Cedars Country Club in Grosse Pointe. Tate, 37, was shot multiple times in what police are investigating as a targeted attack.

“This is a deeply troubling development,” said Lieutenant Mark Brady, a spokesperson for the Detroit Police Department. “The evidence suggests this was a violent and deliberate act. We are exploring potential connections between the two homicides.”

West, who worked closely with Tate for more than five years, was a trusted member of his team. In addition to managing his schedule and appearances, she was reportedly involved in overseeing the Marcus Tate Foundation, a charitable organization focused on youth golf programs.

Sources close to the investigation say that West’s office in Birmingham was broken into earlier this week, a scene that was described as “disturbing.” Police have not commented on whether the break-in is linked to her murder.

“Kelly was much more than an assistant,” said Theodore Blackwell, a close friend and business advisor to Tate. “She was the heart of his operation, the one who made sure everything ran smoothly. Losing Marcus was devastating, but now this—it’s incomprehensible.”

The scene at Chandler Park Golf Course was discovered late Tuesday evening by two golfers out for a night round. They reportedly spotted West’s body partially submerged in the pond and called 911 immediately.

Police are reviewing security footage from the course, but preliminary reports suggest no cameras captured the area where West’s body was found. Investigators have also identified tire tracks near the pond.

While the investigation into Tate’s murder had already drawn national attention due to his prominence in the sports world, the violent death of West adds a new layer of complexity—and raises questions about whether the two cases are connected.

“This isn’t random,” said an anonymous source close to the investigation. “These murders are sending a message, and it’s up to us to figure out who’s behind it and why.”

Both the Detroit Police Department and local authorities in Grosse Pointe are urging anyone with information about either case to come forward.

Kelly West leaves behind a grieving family and friends who are struggling to make sense of the tragedy.

“Kelly was kind, hardworking, and loyal,” said a former colleague who asked to remain anonymous. “She didn’t deserve this. No one does.”

As the golf world reels from the loss of Marcus Tate and now Kelly West, questions remain about the secrets their deaths might uncover—and the dangers those secrets still pose.

Anyone with information is encouraged to contact the Detroit Police Department tip line.

Chapter Fourteen

The smell of pancakes and sausage filled the kitchen, mingling with the faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee. It was Saturday, the one day of the week I always tried to carve out for my family. Even with a case like this hanging over me, I wasn’t about to let it take away breakfast with my wife and daughters.

The girls were sitting at the table, still in their pajamas, waiting as I flipped the last batch of pancakes onto a platter. Isabel had her nose buried in a book—something with a dragon on the cover—while Nina was busy drawing on the back of a junk mail envelope with a blue marker.

“Pancakes!” I announced, setting the platter in the middle of the table. “Sausage is coming in hot.”

Nina gave a cheer while Isabel offered a distracted “Thanks, Dad,” without looking up from her book. My wife smiled at me from across the room as she poured coffee into a pair of mugs.

“You’ve officially won Saturday,” she said, handing me one of the mugs.

“Not yet. Let’s see if I survive cleanup,” I said, grabbing the plate of sausage from the counter and setting it next to the pancakes.

Breakfast was loud and chaotic in the way only family meals with young kids could be. The girls debated the merits of maple syrup versus strawberry, trading jokes and occasionally stealing bites off each other’s plates. Anna and I mostly stayed quiet, enjoying the moment and free entertainment.

When the plates were empty and the sugar high began to kick in, the girls bounded off toward the backyard. The screen door slammed behind them as they raced outside, leaving the two of us alone in the kitchen.

I grabbed a dish towel and started wiping the table while my wife leaned against the counter, sipping her coffee.

“That article about Kelly West,” she said, her voice careful. “Nate’s piece.”

“Yeah. I was at the scene last night.”

“And you didn’t think to mention it?”

“I didn’t want to dump it on you late at night,” I said, setting the towel aside and picking up my coffee. “Figured we’d talk this morning.”

She studied me for a moment before nodding. “Okay. So what’s going on? What do you know?”

After gesturing for her to join me, I sat down at the table. “Kelly West was Marcus Tate’s assistant. She handled his schedule, his foundation, pretty much everything behind the scenes. After he was killed, her office was broken into. The place was trashed, blood everywhere. Then she turns up dead in a pond at Chandler Park, bludgeoned to death with a golf club.”

Anna frowned, setting her mug down. “Sounds like someone’s tying up loose ends.”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” I said. “Tate wasn’t just a golfer. He had connections. Sponsors, rivals, maybe people who weren’t happy with him for reasons I haven’t figured out yet. Kelly probably knew too much, and whoever killed her wanted to make sure she couldn’t talk.”

“And now you’re the one asking questions,” she said, her tone shifting slightly.

“It’s my job,” I said. “We’ve gone over this.”

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “John, I know you’re good at what you do. But you’re not—” She hesitated. “You’re not invincible. You’re not some action hero who can walk into danger and come out fine every time. You’re⁠—”

“Not the Terminator?” I offered with a faint smile.

She didn’t laugh. “You’re a husband. A father. And our girls need you here. I need you here.”

“I’m careful,” I said. “I don’t take risks. It’s like Clint Eastwood said in one of those Dirty Harry movies; a man’s got to know his limitations.

“I know you believe that,” she said. “But this one is different. Marcus Tate wasn’t some run-of-the-mill guy. He was rich, famous, connected. If someone’s willing to kill his assistant to cover something up, they won’t hesitate to come after you if you get too close.”

The worry was etched in her expression. She wasn’t wrong.

“I’ll be careful,” I said again. “I promise.”

She sighed. “You’d better. Because I don’t want to have to start looking for a new husband.”

From the backyard, the sound of laughter floated through the screen door, breaking the tension. I glanced out the window, watching as Nina chased Isabel around the grass with a foam sword.

“You would re-marry?” I asked.

“Of course! You would, too,” she said with a laugh.

“Not me,” I replied. “I’ll become a monk.”

“They won’t let you. They require a vow of silence. You talk too much.”

I had to admit, she had me on that one.

Chapter Fifteen

The faint smell of marijuana hit me before I even touched the doorknob. Yes, I knew what it smelled like, and yes, from firsthand experience.

Don’t judge me.

The scent of the drug was my first clue something was wrong. The second was the door itself—it was unlocked. In my line of work, it would be just plain stupid and careless to leave the office open and unguarded.

Once I was inside the scent of weed was stronger, thick and cloying, mingling with the faint odor of stale coffee. Behind my desk, a black man sat leaned back in my chair, a smirk on his face and a massive joint in his hand. Smoke curled lazily around him, making the small office feel like a low-budget jazz club.

Apparently, I’d forgotten to replace the batteries in my smoke detector. Or he’d disabled it.

“Morning,” he said casually, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

Off to the right, in the seating area, a hulking figure was slouched on the couch, his arms crossed over his massive chest. The man was enormous—easily six and a half feet tall, with a shaved head and a blank expression that didn’t look like it shifted much.

After closing the door behind me, I took a guess. “You’re Snowman?”

The man behind the desk smiled, his teeth white against his dark skin. “Sharp, aren’t you? Sit down, Rockne. We need to talk.”

I didn’t sit. “Breaking into my office isn’t exactly the best way to start a conversation.”

“Breaking in?” Snowman said, feigning offense. “The door was unlocked. I just walked in. Nice place, by the way. Cozy. Furniture’s a little dated, though.”

The big man on the couch didn’t move or speak, but his eyes followed me as I crossed the room. I sat in the chair opposite the desk.

“Have your interior decorator get in touch with mine,” I said.

“I heard you wanted to ask some questions,” Snowman said, taking another long drag from the joint. “Thought I’d save you a trip downtown.”

“You’re making house calls now?” I asked.

Snowman chuckled, flicking ash into the coffee cup on my desk. “Only for special occasions. Ask your questions, Rockne. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I leaned back slightly, studying him. Snowman wasn’t what I’d expected. He had an easy confidence, a charm that almost masked the edge beneath it.

“What can you tell me about Marcus Tate?” I asked.

“Tate was my guy,” Snowman said, his tone light but sincere. “Good customer. Better friend. Always paid on time, never shorted me. You can’t say that about most people.”

“You’re saying you were friends?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “Marcus wasn’t just some rich golfer. He was a real guy, you know? Liked to party, sure, but he kept it real. That’s rare in his world.”

“And you’re not upset about losing a good customer?”

Snowman’s smile faded slightly. “Of course I’m upset. But this isn’t about business, Rockne. It’s personal. I want the bastard who killed him just as much as you do.”

“You expect me to believe you’re here out of the goodness of your heart?” I asked.

Snowman’s grin returned, sharp and wide. “Not quite. But I’ll get to that. First, ask your questions.”

“Okay. Who wanted Tate dead?”

“If I knew, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Snowman said. “But I can tell you this—Marcus had enemies. A lot of them. He wasn’t exactly subtle about his habits, and that pissed some people off.”

“People like who?”

“Competitors. Business people. A couple of jealous boyfriends. Jilted girlfriends. Take your pick.” He exhaled another cloud of smoke. “Hell, maybe it was someone in my business. Jealousy’s a dangerous thing, Rockne. Makes people stupid.”

That wasn’t going to fly with me. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?”

“I told you. I want to find the killer.”

“Try again,” I said. “You don’t strike me as the type to play detective.”

Snowman’s tone shifted. “Fine. I’ll lay it out for you. The cops already have their eyes on me. Tate gets killed, Kelly West turns up dead, and you know what they’re thinking? ‘Let’s use this to take down Snowman and his whole operation.’”

“And you’re worried I’m going to help them do that?”

“Not worried,” Snowman said. “But I’d rather not leave it to chance. So here’s the deal—I want you to find whoever’s doing this. Fast. The longer this drags out, the more heat I get. And I don’t like heat.”

I didn’t respond right away, letting the silence hang. The big man on the couch shifted slightly, his eyes narrowing.

Snowman stood, leaning casually against the desk. “I’m not asking, Rockne. Solve this case, or things get... uncomfortable for you.”

“Someone already hired me to investigate,” I said. “You’re too late.”

“Then double dip,” he said. “Whatever your rate is, I can afford it.”

“The other guy didn’t threaten me,” I said.

“Neither did I. I provided motivation,” Snowman said. “You and your wife and kids have a nice place. That backyard? Perfect for kids. Wouldn’t want anything to disturb that peace, now would we?”

“I don’t think you’d like my house,” I said. “Too dated.”

“Nah, I’m sure your wife is hipper than you, but that isn’t saying much.”

Snowman stood, motioned for his bodyguard. “See you around, Rockne. Don’t take too long. I’m not a patient man.”

The big man opened the door for him, and they disappeared into the hallway. The smell of weed lingered.

Chapter Sixteen

The smell of marijuana clung to the fabric of my office, thick and persistent, as if Snowman and his bodyguard had left part of themselves behind. I opened a window, letting in a dull breeze that did little to clear the air. The lingering haze made it feel like they were still watching me, or maybe I was already a bit stoned.

Outside, the late afternoon sun hit my face as I locked the door behind me. My next stop was the Detroit Golf Club.

The drive took me through the tree-lined neighborhoods of Grosse Pointe and into the city’s outskirts. Detroit Golf Club was an oasis of manicured perfection in a city that had seen its fair share of rough times. The towering iron gates at the entrance opened onto a winding drive flanked by tall, ancient trees. Beyond them, the lush, rolling fairways of the club stretched out in their pristine elegance.

Seeing a golf course like this always made me wonder about the country club lifestyle. It had never held a lot of attraction for me, but maybe later, when the girls were grown and off on their own adventures, Anna and I would look around.

Who knew? You might be able to teach an old dog how to golf.

Traffic around the club was heavier than usual. The upcoming PGA tournament, one of the biggest events on the golf calendar, had turned the course into a hive of activity. Semi-trailers lined the roads leading to the practice range, their glossy logos gleaming in the sunlight. These weren’t ordinary trucks—they were mobile workshops, outfitted with everything the pros needed to fine-tune their gear.

As I pulled into the lot, the scale of the event hit me. Security guards in navy blazers and caps directed the flow of cars, their polished demeanor a testament to the club’s reputation. Parking was tightly controlled, but I found a spot near the far end of the lot, wedged between a Range Rover and a spotless BMW.

The practice range was alive with the rhythmic thwack of golf balls being hit. Some of the biggest names in the game were scattered across the lush grass, each surrounded by their entourage of swing coaches, caddies, and publicists. On the sidelines, photographers and journalists lingered, their long lenses trained on the players.

It was a world I barely understood. Golf had always struck me as a game of quiet precision, but here it was a spectacle—a blend of athleticism, marketing, and money that made my head spin.

I made my way toward the trailers marked Apex Precision, the company that had outfitted Marcus Tate for years. Their twin rigs were parked side by side, each a glossy black-and-red behemoth with bold lettering proclaiming their dominance in the world of high-performance golf equipment.

The trailers weren’t just for show. Under the awnings, technicians worked at stainless steel benches, their hands moving with practiced efficiency as they assembled clubs, tested shafts, and adjusted loft angles. Sparks flew from a grinding wheel as one tech worked on a custom iron, while another polished a driver head until it gleamed like a trophy.

It was easy to see why these trailers were here. The pros trusted Apex Precision to give them an edge, even if it was just a fraction of an inch or a few extra yards off the tee.

A clipboard-wielding employee brushed past me, muttering something into a walkie-talkie. The hum of machinery and low murmur of voices gave the area a focused intensity, like a pit crew fine-tuning cars before a race.

I approached the first trailer, glancing through the open door. Inside, racks of custom shafts and clubheads lined the walls, each meticulously labeled. Technicians moved with purpose, their faces a mix of concentration and calm, the kind of precision you’d expect from people who built tools for a living.

The second trailer looked just as busy, its door closed but the sounds of grinding and drilling filtering through the seams. This was where I’d find Adam Morse, Apex Precision’s rep and Marcus Tate’s go-to guy for all things equipment, as I had learned from Theodore Blackwell.

I climbed the short set of steps to the trailer’s door. My hand hovered for a moment, and I knocked, the sound sharp against the hum of work happening inside.

The door to the trailer swung open, and Adam Morse stood there, tall and lean, his Apex Precision polo neatly pressed. His sandy-blond hair was combed to the side, and his easy smile carried just a touch of the Southern charm that came with his Kentucky drawl.

“Adam Morse,” he said, extending a hand. “You must be John Rockne.”

“That’s me,” I replied, shaking his hand. His grip was firm, deliberate, the kind of handshake that wanted to leave an impression.

“Come on in,” Morse said, stepping aside. “You’re catching me at a good time. Things have been a little crazy with the tournament coming up.”

“Appreciate you taking the time,” I said as I stepped into the trailer.

The interior was nothing like I’d expected. Rows of custom clubheads, shafts, and grips lined the walls, each neatly labeled and arranged. Machines buzzed quietly, their purpose unknown to me but clearly essential to the operation. It was a craftsman’s workshop, scaled up to industrial precision.

“Impressive setup,” I said, glancing around.

“We like to think so,” Morse replied with a grin. “This is where the magic happens. Every club we make here is tailored to the specs of the best players in the world. We don’t do ‘off the rack’ at Apex.”

He gestured toward a pair of stools near one of the workbenches, and we both sat. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.

“So, what brings you here, Mr. Rockne?”

“I’ve been hired to look into Marcus Tate’s murder,” I said.

Morse’s expression remained calm, but his fingers drummed lightly on his knee before he stopped himself. “Terrible thing. Marcus was one of the best we’ve ever worked with. A hell of a player and a good guy, too.”

“You had a strong relationship?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” Morse said, his tone warm. “Marcus loved Apex. We were his team. Anything he needed, we made it happen. New driver, custom shaft—you name it, we had it ready for him.”

“Did he have any issues with the company?” I asked.

Morse shook his head. “None that I’m aware of. Marcus was loyal. He knew we had his back, and he had ours. That’s just the kind of guy he was.”

I nodded, filing away the answer. “Did he ever talk about any problems outside of golf? Anything that might have made someone want to hurt him?”

Morse sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Not really. Marcus had his share of ups and downs, like anyone, but nothing that would make me think someone would... you know. This whole thing doesn’t make any sense.”

There was genuine sadness in his tone, or at least it sounded that way. But I’d met enough salesmen to know sincerity could be rehearsed.

“And what about you?” I asked. “How’d you end up at Apex?”

Morse smiled, leaning back slightly. “Well, I grew up in Kentucky, picked up golf when I was a kid. Had a decent amateur career, went pro in my twenties. Spent a few years on the European Tour, but I never cracked the PGA. Realized after a while that I wasn’t gonna make it big, so I transitioned into this. Apex brought me on, and I’ve been here ever since.”

“You miss playing competitively?” I asked.

“I don’t miss the tour and I still play competitively,” he said with a smile. “Most of the tour players are huge gamblers. There’s always a side bet going on. Believe me, it gets real competitive real fast.”

“I see,” I replied.

“But honestly, yes, I miss parts of playing competitively. The long days, the travel, and of course, not making the cut and not receiving any paycheck for the week, well, that definitely is not fun.”

“I can imagine,” I said. “It’s not cheap to travel these days, either.”

“But life’s about knowing when to move on. I didn’t have what it takes to go all the way, but I get to stay close to the game. That’s enough.”

The faint flicker of something—bitterness or frustration—crossed his face, but it was gone before I could pin it down.

“Well,” he said, standing, “since you’re here, let me show you around.”

He led me through the trailer, gesturing to the different machines and tools. “This here’s our loft-and-lie machine,” he said, patting a sleek piece of equipment. “Adjusts every club to the exact specs of the player. Over there’s the shaft cutter, and next to it, we’ve got our grinding wheel. And, of course, the grip station. Every detail matters.”

As we walked, I noticed a petite woman at one of the workstations. She had short black hair and moved with a focused precision that matched the tools in her hands. She didn’t look up as we approached, her attention fixed on aligning a clubhead with a shaft.

“This is Rachel,” Morse said. “Rachel Yoon. One of our top techs. Former tour player from South Korea. She’s got an eye for detail like no one else.”

Rachel gave a brief nod, her hands never slowing. There was a calm efficiency about her that spoke volumes.

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

“She’s been with us for a couple of years now,” Morse continued. “Knows the game inside and out. She’s a big reason why our players stay ahead of the competition.”

“Thanks for your time,” I said as we reached the door.

“Anytime,” Morse replied, his smile firmly in place. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help.”

I stepped out into the sunlight and the sound of golf balls being struck in the distance.

Chapter Seventeen

The road stretched out in front of me, a stretch of smooth pavement cutting through the late-afternoon haze. The hum of the engine was the only sound in the car as I replayed everything I’d learned so far. My meeting with Adam Morse had been all business, polished answers and plenty of charm. He painted a picture of Marcus Tate as loyal, driven, and demanding, but nothing that screamed murder. Morse seemed like he respected Tate—admired him, even.

If he was hiding something, it wasn’t obvious.

Still, there was no shortage of other suspects circling this case.

Marcus Tate’s personal life was as messy as a sand trap. He wasn’t just a golfer; he was a brand, bright and shiny for the public but imperfect in private.

Snowman had barged into my office claiming he wanted justice for his “friend,” but that was a hard sell. No one gets to the top of Detroit’s drug scene by being sentimental.

And then there was Paul Grayson. Tate’s competitor on the course and rival off it, apparently. Grayson admitted he and Tate had shared a woman—a woman now married to Matt Winslow, another pro golfer. I could see Grayson losing it over some petty grudge, but murder?

That felt like a stretch.

He seemed petty and aggressive, but not murderously so.

The mystery woman at the bar bothered me as well. Had she been the killer or the bait? Or an innocent bystander?

If she was involved, was she acting alone? A spurned lover?

Then there was Kelly West. Her murder was brutal, personal. Bludgeoned with a golf club and dumped in a pond. It was hard to reconcile that kind of violence with her role in Tate’s life. She’d been his right hand, running his schedule, managing his foundation. Had she known too much?

The threads of the case stretched in all directions, but none of them were tying into a neat picture. Tate was a man with secrets, but were they enough to get him killed?

The buzz of my phone broke my thoughts. I glanced at the screen. Theodore Blackwell.

I hit the button to answer. “Rockne.”

“About time,” Blackwell said, his voice sharp and precise. “I hired you to get answers, and so far, I haven’t heard a damn thing.”

“I’ve been tracking down leads,” I said. “These things take time.”

“Time?” Blackwell scoffed. “Do you know how much I’m paying you? I didn’t hire you to take your sweet time. I hired you to get results.”

Blackwell didn’t intimidate me one bit. My sister, former Chief of Police in Grosse Pointe, had cornered the market on bullying John Rockne. “If you want a rush job, I’m not your guy,” I said. “If you want results, you’ll let me do my job.”

There was a brief pause, and then Blackwell said, “Spare me the lecture. Where are you now?”

“Driving back into town,” I said.

“Good,” Blackwell snapped. “I’m not doing this over the phone. Meet me.”

“Where?”

He rattled off an address in downtown Detroit, one I didn’t recognize offhand. “And Rockne?”

“Yeah?”

“Wear a shirt with a collar,” he said. “This isn’t a burger joint.”

The line went dead before I could respond.

I rerouted my GPS and headed downtown, weaving through the early evening traffic. The address Blackwell had given me led to a quiet street lined with old brick buildings. It didn’t look like much at first—no flashy signs, no valet, just a nondescript door with a brass handle.

After parking a block away I walked up, taking in the understated elegance of the place. The door had no markings, no indication of what lay inside. Just a small buzzer next to the frame.

The address was correct and I just stood there for a moment, staring at the door, wondering what I was walking into.

The door opened just a crack, enough for a man in a dark suit to appear. He looked me over like I was a package left on the wrong porch, his eyes lingering on my shirt, which, thankfully, had a collar.

“Name?” he asked, his voice clipped and professional.

“John Rockne.”

He nodded, opening the door wider. “Follow me.”

I stepped inside and was greeted by the kind of ambiance you don’t find outside of old money. The air was thick with the smell of cigars and well-worn leather. The lighting was low, coming from brass sconces and shaded lamps that cast a warm, golden glow over the room. The wood-paneled walls were adorned with oil paintings of men in suits—probably the founders of this place or some long-dead industrialists.

The room was alive with murmured conversations. Men in tailored suits and expensive shoes lounged in high-backed leather chairs, nursing glasses of amber liquor. A few glanced my way, their expressions politely uninterested. A cigar smoke haze hung just beneath the ceiling, and the faint clink of ice in crystal glasses punctuated the quiet hum of conversation.

The man led me through the main lounge, past a bar that gleamed with polished brass and rows of top-shelf liquor. The bartender, a middle-aged man in a waistcoat, expertly poured drinks for a small group of men at the bar. One of them was holding court, gesturing with his glass as he told a story that had the others chuckling softly.

The man leading me stopped at a door near the back of the room. He knocked once, opened it, and gestured for me to go inside.

The smaller room was no less impressive. Walls lined with dark bookshelves stretched floor to ceiling, each shelf packed with leather-bound volumes that smelled faintly of age and wealth. A green-felt snooker table sat in the center of the room, its corners outfitted with brass pockets. A sideboard held an array of liquor bottles and cut crystal glasses.

The room was empty except for Theodore Blackwell, who sat in one of the armchairs near the snooker table. He was dressed casually but impeccably—a dark sweater over a white shirt, his silver hair perfectly combed. A glass of cognac rested on the small table beside him.

“Mr. Rockne,” Blackwell said, gesturing for me to sit in the chair opposite him. “I was starting to think you’d gotten lost.”

“No chance,” I said, settling into the chair. It was as comfortable as it looked, the leather creaking softly beneath me.

Blackwell leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Let’s get to it. What have you got?”

“Marcus Tate’s murder was definitely a professional hit. Precise and efficient. Whoever did it knew what they were doing.”

Blackwell nodded but said nothing, so I continued.

“There’s also Kelly West.”

“Poor Kelly,” Blackwell said. “A great gal. Hard worker.”

“Her killing was brutal and messy, the complete opposite of how Tate was taken out. It could be the same person, but the style doesn’t match.”

“So what does that mean?” Blackwell asked, his tone sharp. He reached for his glass but didn’t drink, just held it.

“There’s the woman from the bar,” I said, ignoring his question. “She’s the key to understanding what happened that night. Tate left with her, and the bartender didn’t recognize her. The police haven’t identified her yet, and that tells me she’s either a ghost or she doesn’t want to be found.”

“And the police?” Blackwell asked. “How far have they gotten?”

“They’ve got nothing,” I said. “At least nothing that’s made it to the press. It looks like they’re stuck, and unless something breaks, they’re not going to solve this anytime soon.”

Blackwell’s eyes narrowed. “And you? Do you think you’re going to solve it?”

“I do,” I said with a confidence that was pure bull crap. “But cases like this take time. There are a lot of moving parts—Tate’s personal life, his professional relationships, his foundation. Any one of them could be the reason he was killed.”

Blackwell stared at me for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he picked up his glass, took a small sip, and set it back down. “I hired you because I need answers. The police are going nowhere, and the longer this drags on, the worse it looks—for everyone.”

I nodded. “I understand.”

“No,” Blackwell said, his voice turning into some kind of weird growl. “I don’t think you do. You’re not just investigating a murder. You’re cleaning up a mess that has the potential to spill over and ruin reputations, businesses, lives.”

“Yes, murders are messy, thanks for the insight.”

Blackwell leaned back, apparently not used to sarcasm from someone working for him. His expression softening slightly.

The silence hung between us for a moment before he gestured toward the sideboard. “Help yourself to a drink before you go. It might help you think more clearly.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” I said, standing.

Blackwell gave a small nod, a hint of approval in his eyes. “Keep me updated.”

I left the room and walked back through the lounge. The men in their chairs barely glanced at me as I passed, their quiet conversations continuing as if I didn’t exist. 

And, honestly, to them, I didn’t.

Chapter Eighteen

The narrow streets of downtown Detroit weren’t forgiving at night. The glow of an occasional functioning streetlight reflected off cracked sidewalks and graffiti-tagged walls. Vacant lots were dumping grounds for toxic garbage.

But the city was getting better, it just had a long way to go.

My minivan, a stealth vehicle if there ever was one, hummed steadily along as I headed toward Jefferson Avenue, figuring I’d get home, make some notes, and start fresh in the morning.

That plan went out the window when a black sedan with tinted windows roared up from behind me, cutting into my lane and clipping my front bumper with a loud scrape of metal on metal.

I slammed on the brakes, my hand gripping the wheel hard as the Odyssey shuddered to a stop. The sedan didn’t slow. It swerved sharply onto a side street, its brake lights briefly flaring before disappearing into the shadows.

What the hell had just happened. A hit-and-run? The car had no plates that I could see, just a sleek, dark silhouette vanishing into the city’s maze of streets.

Against my better judgment, I hit the gas and turned onto the same side street, my headlights cutting through the darkness. Boarded-up windows stared blankly out at the streets, the occasional glint of broken glass catching the light.

The sedan was just ahead, weaving through the streets with purpose. It wasn’t speeding anymore—almost like it wanted me to follow.

The sedan took another turn, heading deeper into the neighborhood, and I followed. My instincts were screaming at me to stop, to turn around, but I kept going, curiosity and the faint possibility of a lead pushing me forward.

The road narrowed, the houses spaced farther apart now. A rusting basketball hoop leaned precariously against a garage, its net long gone. A stray pit bull darted across the street ahead of me.

The sedan slowed slightly, its taillights glowing dimly against the darkness. It turned again, this time onto a street that was barely lit, the pavement riddled with potholes. I hesitated, the realization of just how isolated this area was starting to sink in.

I stayed on its tail, the distance between us shrinking as the road narrowed further. The sedan finally rolled to a stop under a broken streetlight, its silhouette barely visible against the shadows.

Keeping my foot hovering over the brake, I rolled to a stop behind it.

What was this? A random accident? A setup? The longer the sedan sat there, the less random it seemed.

I reached for my phone and dialed 911, keeping my eyes locked on the car. The operator picked up quickly.

“Detroit Police, what’s your emergency?”

“Hit-and-run,” I said. “Black sedan, no plates. Clipped my car and took off. I followed it. We’re at…” I glanced at the nearest street signs, barely visible under the dim glow of a flickering streetlight. “Eastman and Prescott. The driver’s still here.”

“Are you injured, sir?”

“No,” I said, “but the car’s damaged.”

“Okay, I’ll send someone.”

“Got it.”

With the city’s dwindling tax base, government services were stretched thin. There’d been a lot of buzz about how long it took cops to respond to emergency calls.

The driver’s door of the sedan opened.

A man stepped out, dressed head-to-toe in black. His movements were quick and fluid, and he had something in his hand.

The windshield exploded in a spray of glass before I could react, the crack of gunfire shattering the silence. I threw myself sideways, fumbling for the glove compartment as bullets punched into the car. The roar of gunfire was deafening.

I yanked the glove compartment open, my hand finding the cold metal of my revolver. I barely had time to check the cylinder—six rounds, no more—before another bullet shattered the passenger-side window.

Crawling across the seats with the jagged remains of the windshield cutting at my sleeves, I shoved the passenger door open with my shoulder and rolled out onto the asphalt, the cool pavement scraping against my elbows and knees.

Bullets slammed into the Odyssey, each impact like a hammer strike. I pressed myself flat to the ground and crawled toward the rear of the van, my revolver clutched in one hand.

The shooting stopped for a moment, and then there were footsteps—quick, purposeful—coming closer. The figure had moved halfway between the sedan and my car, silhouetted in the faint light.

I didn’t think and just lunged out from behind the Odyssey, raising the revolver and firing all six rounds in rapid succession. The gun kicked in my hand, each shot ringing out like a cannon blast in the empty street.

The figure staggered but didn’t go down. Instead, he turned and ran, clutching his side as he bolted back toward the sedan. I realized too late that I was out of ammo. My revolver clicked uselessly as I tried to pull the trigger again.

It had been a long time since I’d been in a shootout.

Time at the gun range was definitely needed.

The driver’s door slammed shut, and the sedan’s engine roared to life. It screeched away, tires spinning as it disappeared into the darkness.

Still crouched behind the Odyssey, I knew it wasn’t a gunfight, it had been an ambush.

And apparently, the sound of gunfire had sped up the police response because suddenly I heard sirens and within moments, two patrol cars pulled up, their lights washing the street in red and blue.

“Hands up!” one of the officers shouted as they approached, guns drawn.

I raised my hands, my PI credentials already in my other pocket. “Relax, I called you,” I said, standing slowly.

They moved in cautiously, lowering their weapons after one of them had put me in cuffs. “What happened here?” the lead officer asked, scanning my bullet-riddled vehicle while the other one marked out bullet casings.

“I was hit by a car. Followed it here,” I said. “The driver got out and started shooting. I returned fire, but he got away.”

Another officer inspected the ground near where the shooter had stood. “We’ve got blood!” he called out.

The lead officer turned back to me. “You hit them?”

“Lucky shot,” I said.

The officer nodded, gesturing toward the damaged Odyssey. “Looks like you’re lucky to be alive. We’ll get a full report from you. For now, we’ll process the scene.”

He uncuffed me but put me in the back of one of the squad cars, ostensibly to keep me out of the way.

As I watched them, one thought kept coming to mind.

Anna was going to kill me.

Part Four

"A player’s true character

is revealed in the rough."

-Hazards and Lies: The Golfer’s Manual

Chapter Nineteen

The coffee was hot and so was my wife.

“You didn’t come to bed until after two,” she said.

“Yeah. Had a fender bender, had to talk to the cops.”

“Plural?”

“Yeah.”

“What did they want to know?”

“Just some follow-up,” I replied.

“Follow-up to what?”

She waited, her stare telling me danger was on the horizon if I didn’t come clean.

“Okay,” I sighed, knowing I couldn’t dodge this. “Someone clipped my car last night. Led me into a bad neighborhood. Turns out they weren’t looking to swap insurance info.”

“And?”

“They took a couple of wild shots at me. No biggie. I wasn’t hurt. The van, however, didn’t fare so well. It’s going to need a lot of body work.”

“John...”

“I’m fine,” I assured her. No need to mention I’d returned fire and possibly wounded my attacker.

“This is about the golfer? The guy who was killed?”

I nodded. “Marcus Tate. Blackwell hired me to look into it. Then Kelly West, his assistant, ends up dead, too. Someone’s getting nervous. Last night just made it more obvious.”

“What does Blackwell think?”

“He’s frustrated. Thinks I’m not moving fast enough.”

“Well, tell him to go to hell.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you think, John. What’s really going on?”

“I think whoever killed Tate doesn’t want me finding out why.”

“Well, no shit, John.”

I took a sip of coffee. It wasn’t as hot now.

“Do you have anything to go on?”

“Some threads,” I admitted. “Tate’s foundation, a mystery woman at the bar the night he died, maybe drugs.”

“Maybe?”

“I’m still untangling it,” I said.

She thought for a moment, her brow furrowed. “If they’re coming after you, doesn’t that mean you’re close?”

“Maybe,” I conceded. “Or maybe it just means I’m annoying someone important.”

She didn’t smile at my attempt at levity. “John, don’t downplay this.”

“I’m not,” I said more firmly. “But I have to keep pushing. I don’t have all the answers yet.”

“Sounds like you don’t have any answers.”

Ouch. She was right, of course.

Damn it.

Chapter Twenty

The coffee in my cup was cold, but I drank it anyway. My desk was a mess of files and notes shuffling through for the past hour. Marcus Tate, Kelly West, Paul Grayson, Snowman, Blackwell. A list of names, none of which had given me the answers I needed.

The solution: new names.

The Winslows. Lila, the woman both Tate and Grayson had tangled with, now married to Matt Winslow, one of the few men who could stand next to Tate in a photo and not look small.

After checking in with Blackwell on how to reach the Winslows, they’d agreed to talk to me at the Grosse Pointe Yacht Club.

I grabbed my jacket and the keys to my rental car.

The Grosse Pointe Yacht Club was quiet this early, with only a few people out on the docks, moving slowly, coffee cups in hand. The lake was glassy and calm, a dark blue sheet of glass stretching off into the horizon.

I parked and made my way toward the marina. The boats were lined up like trophies, their names and hulls polished to perfection. “Wind Song,” “Belle Mare,” “Fairway Queen.” That was it.

The Winslows’ yacht wasn’t the biggest in the marina, but it was the most meticulous. The white exterior gleamed in the sunlight, and the chrome railings sparkled like jewelry.

Matt Winslow was standing on deck, one hand on the rail, the other holding a bottle of water. He was dressed casually—white polo, khakis, boat shoes—but his posture screamed control. He spotted me and gave a quick nod.

“Rockne, right?” he said as I stepped onto the dock. His voice was smooth, clipped, like he didn’t have time to waste.

“That’s me,” I said.

“Lila’s inside,” he said, gesturing toward the cabin. “She’ll want to meet you.”

The interior of the boat was as polished as the exterior. White leather seats, gleaming wood trim, and enough space to feel like you weren’t on a boat at all. Lila Winslow sat on a curved sofa, a glass of sparkling water in her hand. Her dark hair was swept back, and her posture was perfect, a stunning woman. No wonder both Tate and Grayson had pursued her.

“Mr. Rockne,” she said, her smile practiced but not warm. “I’ve heard you’ve been asking questions.”

“Ninety-nine percent of my job,” I said.

“What’s the other one percent?”

“Paperwork.”

Matt came in behind me and leaned against the bar, folding his arms.

“Let’s hear it,” he said.

I glanced between the two of them. “I’m investigating Marcus Tate’s murder, and Kelly West’s as well. Your names came up in connection to both.”

Lila tilted her head slightly. “Connection how?”

“You were close to Tate,” I said. “And Paul Grayson mentioned you as well.”

Her smile tightened. “Paul Grayson should spend less time talking and more time working on his game. As for Marcus…” She trailed off, swirling the water in her glass.

“Yes?”

She leaned back, her posture softening slightly. “Marcus was fun, for a while. A bit of a poser, though, like Paul. Always trying to prove something.”

Matt shifted where he stood, glancing at her. “Careful, Lila.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “It’s true. Neither of them knew how to take losing well. That’s what separates Matt from them.”

Matt rolled his eyes but stayed quiet.

“Did Tate have any enemies you know of?” I asked.

Lila shrugged. “Anyone who played against him. He was a great golfer, but he had an ego. It rubbed people the wrong way.”

“What about Grayson?” I asked. “What was his relationship with Tate like?”

Lila smirked. “Complicated. Paul always wanted to be Marcus, and Marcus never let him forget it.”

Matt straightened up, stepping toward her. “That’s enough,” he said.

She looked up at him, unfazed. “Why? It’s true. Grayson was jealous of Marcus. Always was. Deep down, I think it drove him crazy.”

Matt sighed and turned to me. “Is that what you came here to ask? Whether my wife thinks Grayson is jealous?”

“Just trying to get a picture of things,” I said.

“Well, I think you should come back when our attorney is here, okay?” Matt said.

After a long, awkward silence I got to my feet and handed Lila a business card. “Call me if you think of anything else.”

Matt intercepted the business card handoff and steered me back onto the dock.

The meeting was quick and ineffective.

John Rockne’s life story.

Chapter Twenty-One

Leaving the Winslows’ yacht I had more questions than answers, and a general feeling of, for lack of a better word, ickiness.

There was something weird about the relationship between Lila and Matt Winslow, but I only had hunches.

Lila’s casual dismissal of Marcus Tate and Paul Grayson as “posers” was interesting, but what stuck with me was her mention of jealousy—Grayson’s jealousy of Tate, specifically. Lila hadn’t said it outright, but her tone made it clear she thought that jealousy could fester into something worse.

Grayson wasn’t exactly a saint, but a murderer? I couldn’t shake the feeling there was more to the story.

The afternoon sun glared off the hood as I pulled out of the yacht club lot. Driving back toward Grosse Pointe, I considered my options. Tate had enemies, sure. He also had vices, one of which was a fairly significant drug habit. That led me to one person who might give me a better perspective.

Snowman.

The drive to Snowman’s territory was less scenic than the yacht club. Cracked sidewalks, boarded-up windows, and graffiti that covered nearly every flat surface marked the transition from suburban comfort to urban decay. Snowman didn’t try to hide where he operated, and that was part of his power. Everyone knew his territory and what would happen if you crossed him in it.

I parked in front of Snowman’s place, a turn-of-the-century Victorian in excellent shape. It stood out like a sore thumb.

After being permitted entry, the interior was a bit of a shock. Gone were any signs of the past, it was all dark and plush carpet and the stench of perfume, cologne and pot. A few of his bodyguards hovered nearby and at least a half-dozen scantily clad women lounged about.

Snowman was there, leaning back in a leather chair with a cigar-sized blunt in his hand. The hulking figure of his bodyguard loomed nearby, arms crossed like he’d been carved out of stone.

“Well, well,” Snowman said as I approached. “The white boy detective returns. You still chasing ghosts, Rockne?”

“I’m chasing answers,” I said.

Snowman smirked. “Answers cost extra today.”

“Put it on my tab,” I said, crossing my arms. “I need to know about Marcus Tate.”

He took a long drag from the blunt, exhaled slowly, and leaned forward. “What about him?”

“How was he paying for his stash? I’m guessing his sponsors wouldn’t have appreciated their money going to you.”

“Marcus was creative. Never paid me directly. Always came through other channels—friends, associates. Kept it clean, or at least clean enough not to leave a paper trail.”

“Kelly West ever help him with that?”

“The assistant? Don’t know. Never met her. But if you’re saying she handled his books, it wouldn’t surprise me. Marcus wasn’t exactly a numbers guy.”

I nodded slowly, piecing it together. “So, hypothetically, if Marcus was moving money around to cover his habit—laundering it, maybe—someone like Kelly would’ve known.”

“Depends,” Snowman said. “But yeah, maybe. If she knew, maybe she didn’t like what she saw.”

“And that could be why she got killed,” I said.

Snowman scoffed, some marijuana smoke coming out of his nostrils. “You’re asking the wrong guy, Rockne. I didn’t kill her, and I didn’t kill Marcus. Bad for business. But if someone else wanted to clean up loose ends? Yeah, that tracks.”

“Who?” I asked.

Snowman leaned back, the blunt dangling from his fingers. “I don’t know. But you’re in deep enough to figure it out. Just remember—if you screw this up, the heat comes back on me, and I won’t be so friendly next time.”

Snowman didn’t have a reason to lie to me—not yet anyway. If Marcus Tate was laundering money to pay for his drugs, Kelly West would’ve known. Maybe she even kept a record of it, something that could’ve been used against him. That kind of leverage was dangerous.

“You want a hit for the road?” Snowman asked me, holding out a giant spliff.

“No thanks,” I said. “I’ve got one going in the car.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

The house was quiet when I got back, which meant the kids were probably upstairs doing whatever it is kids do when they aren’t making noise. Anna was at the kitchen table, her laptop open, a mug of coffee steaming next to it. She looked up as I walked in, raising an eyebrow.

“Long day?” she asked.

“Long enough,” I said, dropping my keys onto the counter. “You’ve got a minute?”

She closed her laptop. “What’s up?”

I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and sat across from her. “I’ve been trying to figure out how Marcus Tate was paying for his drug habit. Snowman said he wasn’t paying out of pocket—too risky. So I’m wondering if he was moving money around through his foundation. Kelly West ran the books there, at least part of the time.”

She frowned. “You’re thinking he was laundering money?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Or at least funneling it in a way that wouldn’t raise eyebrows. You work in accounting. Wouldn’t something like that leave a trail?”

“Depends on how good they were at hiding it,” she said. “But if it was through the foundation, there should be records. Foundations are required to file a Form 990 every year. It’s a tax document that shows their revenue, expenses, grants—everything.”

“And it’s public?”

She nodded. “Anyone can access it. That’s the point—transparency. If Tate was playing games with the foundation’s money, it would be on those forms, unless he had someone really creative handling them.”

“Could you find the forms for me? See if anything looks off?”

She gave me a look. “You know this isn’t exactly what I do for a living, right?”

“I know,” I said. “But you’re good at this kind of thing. And it’s not like I have a lot of options.”

She sighed but smiled faintly. “Fine. Give me the name of the foundation.”

I pulled my phone out and scrolled through my notes. “Tate Tomorrow Foundation.”

She typed it into her laptop, her fingers moving quickly over the keys. “If it’s legit, the forms should be online. A lot of nonprofits post them, or you can find them on third-party sites like GuideStar.”

She paused, scanning the screen. “Here we go. They filed their last Form 990 about six months ago. Let me download it and take a look.”

She opened the file, and there were lines of financial data filling the screen. She scrolled slowly, her eyes narrowing as she read.

“Anything jump out at you?” I asked.

“Not yet,” she said. “But if there’s something weird, I’ll find it.”

I stood and kissed her on the forehead. “Let me know if you do. I’ll owe you one.”

“You owe me already,” she said without looking up.

As I walked out of the kitchen, I felt a flicker of hope. If Tate had been hiding something, the numbers wouldn’t lie. And if anyone could find the truth buried in them, it was my wife.

She’d busted me fibbing many, many times.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The morning air was crisp, sharp enough to wake me up before the coffee did. I stood on the back porch with my mug in hand, staring out at the frost-covered lawn. The kids were still asleep, and my wife had already disappeared into her morning routine. The quiet was rare, and I let it settle over me for a few minutes before I headed back inside.

In the kitchen, I poured the last of the pot into a travel mug and grabbed my keys from the counter. My wife had stayed up late with the financials for the Tate Tomorrow Foundation, and while she hadn’t said much before heading to bed, I could tell she’d found something worth talking about. That would be a conversation for later.

I stepped outside, shoving my hands in my jacket pockets and made my way to the car. The neighborhood was waking up slowly. A jogger passed by, earbuds in, the normalcy was a welcome change from the chaos of the last few days.

The drive to my office was uneventful, the kind of morning where even the traffic lights seemed to cooperate. I parked in the small lot behind the building and took a moment to appreciate the silence before heading inside.

The jewelry store below my office was already open, its owner moving purposefully behind the counter as he arranged trays of sparkling rings and necklaces. I gave him a quick nod as I passed by, climbing the narrow staircase to my second-floor office.

It wasn’t until I reached the door that I noticed it.

A piece of paper was pinned to the center of the door, fluttering slightly in the draft from the hallway. I stopped, my hand halfway to the doorknob, and stared at it.

The photo was the first thing I noticed. It was grainy but clear enough to see what it was—a golf club, its head smeared with something dark and unmistakable. Blood.

Below the photo, scrawled in uneven block letters, was a message:

YOU’RE NEXT.

I pulled the paper off the door carefully, holding it by the edges.

Kelly West.

The club in the photo had to be the weapon used to kill her, found lying on the grass near her body. The blood on it hadn’t been cleaned, as if whoever had taken this photo wanted to make sure its purpose was clear.

Someone was sending me a message.

Whoever left the note had been here recently.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside, shutting it firmly behind me. For a moment, I just stood there, the note still in my hand.

It was a bush-league move and the result was zero intimidation.

If anything, it made me even more eager to catch this son of a bitch.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The afternoon sunlight filtered through my office window, highlighting the photo and note still sitting on my desk. I’d spent the better part of the day staring at them, turning possibilities over in my mind. The bloody golf club in the photo had to be the murder weapon that killed Kelly West, but why send it to me? A threat, sure, but it also felt like someone was trying to steer me in a direction.

The phone buzzed, pulling me out of my thoughts. It was my wife.

“Hey,” I said, leaning back in my chair.

“Hey,” she said. “I’ve been going through that 990 form for Tate’s foundation.”

“And?”

“I have to say, it looks... clean. Like, really clean. Too clean, maybe, but I don’t see anything that stands out as suspicious.”

“You think someone cooked the books?”

“It’s possible,” she said, “but I’d need more evidence to say that. From what I’ve seen, everything matches up—revenue, expenses, grants. Whoever managed this was either squeaky clean or really good at hiding things.”

“You didn’t see anything unusual at all?”

“Not really. It’s all textbook. If something’s shady, it’s not in these documents. I can keep looking if you want, but I don’t think the foundation itself is the issue.”

I rubbed my temple. “All right. Thanks for digging into it. Let me know if anything else pops up.”

“I will,” she said. “Just… be careful, okay?”

“Uh huh,” I said.

The call ended, and I set the phone down on the desk. If the foundation records were clean, that left me with fewer options. Maybe Tate’s drug habit had been funded another way. Or maybe this whole thing was less about money and more about something personal.

The phone buzzed again, and this time it was an unknown number.

“Rockne,” I said.

“Detective,” Paul Grayson’s voice came through the line, as smug as ever.

“Grayson,” I said. “What do you want?”

“I thought you’d want to know why everyone’s here,” he said.

“Here?”

“Detroit. Tate, me, the manufacturers. It’s all about the Lakeview Classic.”

“The Lakeview Classic,” I repeated.

“Big tournament,” he said. “One of the biggest on the tour this year. Major sponsorship money, all the top players, and every company trying to get a slice of the action. That’s why we’re all here. You didn’t think Tate came for the bourbon at Twin Cedars, did you?”

The tournament explained a lot: the timing, the players, the manufacturers like Apex Precision setting up shop. It was the perfect backdrop for all of them to collide.

“So why are you calling me?” I asked.

“I’ve been thinking about our last conversation. I might have some information you’d find useful. Let’s just say I’ve been hearing things.”

“Like what?”

“Not over the phone,” he said. “Meet me at the course tomorrow morning. Early.”

“Where exactly?”

“The range. It’ll be quiet. Just me, you, and the truth.”

Before I could respond, the line went dead.

I stared at the phone, the dial tone buzzing in my ear. Grayson wasn’t exactly a trustworthy source, but he might know something worth hearing. Whether it was the truth or his version of it remained to be seen.

The Lakeview Classic.

Another golf course, another day.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The morning sun cut through the mist over the lake, casting a golden glow across the manicured fairways of the Lakeshore Country Club. The parking lot was already crowded with high-end cars—everything from sleek sports cars to glossy SUVs. I parked in a far corner, well out of place among the polished metal.

A large sign near the clubhouse announced the Lakeshore Classic in bold, elegant lettering. The country club had pulled out all the stops for the event: flower arrangements, security checkpoints, and rows of tents set up for sponsors and vendors.

I approached the main gate, where a young man in a navy blazer with a clipboard and earpiece stopped me.

“Name?”

“John Rockne,” I said.

He scanned his list, then nodded. “You’re on the list. Mr. Grayson left a pass for you.”

He handed me a lanyard with a plastic badge marked GUEST and gestured toward the path leading to the driving range. “You’ll find Mr. Grayson at the range. Enjoy your visit.”

The word “enjoy” felt out of place, but I nodded and moved on.

The range stretched out behind the clubhouse, a pristine expanse of green bordered by a line of towering oaks. Golfers were scattered across the range, sending balls soaring into the distance with practiced ease. A few spectators milled about, sipping coffee and chatting quietly.

Grayson was near the center of the range, a tall figure in a bright blue polo and white pants. His swing was smooth and easy. He turned as I approached.

“Rockne,” he said, leaning on his club. “Glad you could make it.”

“Thanks for the invite,” I said.

He glanced around, then handed his club to an assistant and motioned for me to follow him. “Let’s sit somewhere more private.”

He led me to a small table under a canopy near the lake. A spread of coffee, pastries, and fruit sat on the table, untouched. The lake shimmered in the distance, a picture-perfect backdrop that felt at odds with the conversation we were about to have.

Grayson poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned back in his chair. “So,” he said, “how’s the investigation going?”

“It’s moving,” I said.

He nodded, stirring cream into his coffee. “I’ll be blunt, Rockne. I’m worried about what you’re digging up. Marcus had his faults, sure, but he was a friend, and more importantly, he was a name. A big one. If this investigation of yours gets messy, it’s going to hurt a lot of people—me included.”

“If you’re worried about your reputation, maybe you should tell me what you know.”

Grayson smirked. “I know plenty. But here’s the thing—I don’t want this getting out. Tate’s reputation, mine, the sport… we’ve got a lot to lose. How much do you want to stop investigating?”

“Stop investigating?” I repeated.

He shrugged. “Everyone has a price. Name yours.”

I took a sip of coffee, letting the silence stretch. “I’m not for sale, Grayson.”

His smirk faded. “You should think about it. This doesn’t have to get ugly.”

I stood, setting my cup down. “Thanks for the coffee.”

He didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the lake.

As I made my way back toward the clubhouse, there was movement near one of the trailers set up for the manufacturers. A woman with short brown hair, an athletic body and a purposeful stride, walked briskly toward the Apex Precision trailer.

Rachel Yoon.

She disappeared inside the trailer.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The parking lot was quieter now, most of the early-morning bustle having shifted toward the course or the clubhouse. My car sat tucked in the corner where I’d left it, among the gleaming blacks, whites, and silvers of the more polished rides.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, I started the engine and let it idle for a moment, staring through the windshield without really seeing anything. Grayson’s words replayed in my head, each one stirring something uneasy.

“How much do you want to stop investigating?”

It wasn’t just the offer of money that bothered me—though that was slimy enough—but the tone. Grayson hadn’t sounded desperate. If anything, he’d been confident, as if he knew something I didn’t, something that made him think this whole case could go away if I just stopped poking around.

Was he protecting himself? Or was he protecting Marcus Tate’s legacy? Maybe both. Either way, it felt calculated, like Grayson was trying to steer me away from something bigger than just the murders.

The jealousy Lila Winslow had mentioned came back to me. Grayson had always been in Tate’s shadow. Maybe he hated that. Maybe he wanted to be the star for once.

And then there was Apex Precision. Grayson was tangled up with them, too, as was Tate. Adam Morse, Rachel Yoon… and now, apparently, Grayson himself. The Lakeshore Classic was a breeding ground for deals, grudges, and power plays, but it also felt like a distraction, like the real story was happening behind the scenes.

I turned onto the main road, the low hum of the engine filling the silence. My thoughts shifted to Rachel Yoon.

I hadn’t expected to see her at the tournament, but it made sense. She worked for Apex Precision, and they had a big presence here. What didn’t make sense was why she was still on my radar.

Something about her was bothering me, gnawing at the edges of my mind like a word I couldn’t quite remember. She’d seemed confident, composed, as always. But there was something…

I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel, my foot easing off the gas as I let my thoughts untangle.

She wasn’t walking the same way.

The realization hit me like a sharp jolt. Rachel Yoon, always lithe, smooth, and muscular, had a hitch in her step. It was subtle, but it was there—a stiffness, as if she were favoring one leg. An injury.

Or a gunshot.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The thought hit me like a punch to the gut: Rachel Yoon.

The attacker who’d followed me in Detroit and shot up the Odyssey had been athletic, slim, and fast. At the time, I’d thought it was a man, but now I knew I’d been wrong. That hitch in the step—Rachel favoring her leg—that was the piece I couldn’t ignore.

Had she been the one who tried to kill me? And if so, why?

If she’d attacked me, what reason could she have? I ruled out an affair with Marcus Tate—it didn’t fit. Tate was too self-absorbed, too public, and Rachel didn’t strike me as the type who would fall for someone like him.

Besides, she worked for Apex Precision. If Tate and Rachel had been involved, it would have been impossible to keep under wraps. Someone would have noticed.

Which left me with more questions than answers.

Tate wasn’t laundering money through his foundation; Anna’s review of the 990 had confirmed that much. So if Rachel wasn’t involved because of money or an affair, what was left?

I couldn’t shake the feeling that all of this—the murders, the attack, Rachel Yoon—was tied to something deeper. Something I wasn’t seeing yet.

Adam Morse.

The name popped into my head like a whisper. The golf club rep had seemed too smooth, too calculated, and I was starting to wonder if his act was hiding something dangerous.

It was time to dig into the connection between Morse and Tate. If there was anything there, Blackwell would know.

I pulled back onto the road and dialed Blackwell’s number as I drove. He picked up on the second ring.

“Rockne,” he said, his voice sounding annoyed. “What now?”

“I need to talk to you,” I said.

“About?”

“Marcus Tate. Something’s come up.”

There was a pause. “Fine. I’m in my office. Be here in thirty.”

He hung up without waiting for a response.

Blackwell’s office was everything you’d expect from a man like him: sleek, snobby, and expensive. The desk was a slab of polished wood, and the walls were lined with framed photos of him shaking hands with various important people.

He didn’t bother standing when I walked in, just gestured to the chair across from him.

“What is it, Rockne?” he asked.

“Was there any tension between Marcus and Apex Precision?”

He frowned, again seemingly irritated with me, or it was the first crack in his calm demeanor. “Why do you ask?”

“Call it a strong hunch,” I said.

Blackwell sighed. “I didn’t think it was public knowledge, but yes. Marcus was unhappy with Adam Morse. He felt like Morse was too pushy, too cheap, and too focused on his own bottom line. Marcus had been considering switching manufacturers.”

“To whom?”

“One of Apex’s competitors,” Blackwell said. “He hadn’t made a decision yet, but it would’ve been a big deal. Apex invested a lot in him. Losing Marcus would have been a significant blow to their reputation—and their profits. It would have really made Morse look bad, too.”

That made perfect sense. Morse wasn’t just the polished salesman I’d met at the tournament. He’d been an athlete, a competitor. If Tate had been planning to leave Apex, Morse would’ve had everything to lose. And if there was one thing a guy liked Morse hated, it was losing.

Blackwell studied me. “Why are you asking about this, Rockne? What are you thinking?”

“Just trying to make connections, doing the job you asked me to do.”

Blackwell didn’t press me, but his eyes stayed on me as I walked out.

As I stepped into the hallway, everything came into focus: Adam Morse.

Marcus Tate had been worth millions to Apex Precision, and Morse had been the one tasked with keeping him happy. If Tate was planning to leave, Morse would have been desperate to stop him.

And desperate people do dangerous things.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Lakeview Classic was in full swing. Crowds buzzed with excitement, spilling out from the stands and lining the edges of the fairways. It was a perfect day for golf—bright skies, soft breezes, and a big crowd.

I parked in the same far corner as before and made my way toward the Apex Precision trailer. I’d called in some favors early that morning, arranging for the cops to be on standby if this went sideways. They’d wired me up and prepped me for the worst.

The trailer stood out like a fortress among the chaos, its polished exterior gleaming in the sun. The door creaked slightly as I knocked and stepped inside.

Adam Morse was seated at a workbench, adjusting the grip on a driver. He didn’t bother looking up. “Detective Rockne,” he said, his voice smooth. “What brings you back?”

“Loose ends,” I said, stepping farther in.

He set the driver down and turned to face me, his smile as polished as the clubs he sold. “I’m a busy man, so let’s get to it. What do you want?”

“Marcus Tate. I know he was planning to leave Apex. I know he wasn’t happy with you. What I don’t know is why that ended with him getting seven bullets in a Twin Cedars parking lot.”

Morse’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes hardened. “That’s quite an accusation.”

“You were desperate, weren’t you?” I said, stepping closer. “Tate was your golden goose, and if he left, your reputation—and your paycheck—would’ve gone with him.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Morse said, his voice cold now.

“But I do,” I pressed. “Tate was leaving, and you knew it. You couldn’t afford to lose him, so you made sure he didn’t go anywhere.”

Morse’s hand twitched, his fingers brushing against the handle of a wrench on the bench. “You think I killed him?” he said.

“You said it, not me,” I replied.

He scoffed, trying to look unperturbed. “You don’t have proof. You’re grasping at straws. Guys change sponsors all the time. It’s no big deal.”

He had recovered slightly. “You’re right. I don’t have proof. But maybe you can explain why Rachel Yoon is missing. Why she was seen at the bar with Tate the night he was murdered. Why you both have blood on your hands.”

To be capable of murder, a person usually has to have some kind of inner rage. And with my last comment, it seemed I’d put a blow torch to Morse’s fuse. His face went red and twisted with anger. He lunged at me, grabbing the front of my shirt. The fabric tore as he shoved me against the wall, his breath hot and furious. “You don’t know anything!”

And then he froze. His eyes dropped to my chest, where the wire glinted faintly against my skin.

The trailer door burst open, and uniformed officers stormed in, guns drawn. “Adam Morse, you’re under arrest!” one of them barked.

Morse’s grip slackened as they pulled him away. He shouted, “I didn’t kill Kelly West! That wasn’t me!”

The officers cuffed him and hauled him out, his protests echoing in the air.

As I watched him go, the words stuck in my head: That wasn’t me.

Rachel Yoon wasn’t missing. She was out there, and she wasn’t done.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The moment I realized it, my blood ran cold. Anna. Isabel. Nina.

I sped toward home, ignoring red lights and the blaring horns of drivers I cut off. Rachel Yoon was dangerous, methodical, and wounded. If she thought I was a threat, she’d go after the one thing that mattered most to me.

When I pulled into the driveway, the house was eerily quiet. No sounds of kids laughing or playing. No music drifting from the kitchen.

I stepped inside, my hand on the grip of my revolver. “Honey?”

No answer.

Then her voice—strained and shaky—came from the living room. “In here, John.”

Moving quickly, I walked toward her. Rachel Yoon stood in the middle of the room, her gun pressed against my wife’s temple. Blood stained her sleeve, her arm trembling slightly from the effort of holding the weapon steady.

“Don’t take another step,” Rachel said, her voice cold.

“You don’t have to do this, Rachel. I know it was all Adam’s idea. The jury will believe it, too.”

“Don’t pretend you understand me,” she snapped. “You ruined everything. Adam was sloppy, but he wasn’t the one who killed Tate. That was me. I had to clean up his mess.”

“And Kelly West?” I asked, keeping my voice calm.

“She knew too much,” Rachel said flatly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my wife’s gaze shift slightly. She’d seen the blood on Rachel’s arm, the way she favored her left side. She knew.

Rachel didn’t notice the way my wife tensed. She didn’t see the fire poker leaning against the hearth until it was too late.

Anna grabbed it and swung hard, jamming the blunt end into Rachel’s wounded arm. Rachel screamed, her grip on the gun faltering just enough for me to draw my revolver.

I didn’t hesitate.

The first shot hit her square in the chest, and she staggered back. I shot her again and she collapsed onto the floor. The gun slipped from her hand, clattering against the hardwood.

Anna rushed into my arms. She was shaking but unharmed.

“It’s okay,” I said.

“Is this goddamned thing finally over?” she asked.

“Yeah. It is.”

Chapter Thirty

The sun was warm, the sky a postcard-perfect blue, and the driving range at the local golf course was surprisingly quiet for a Saturday morning. A smattering of golfers stood spaced out along the row of mats, each of them hitting crisp, clean shots that sailed high and straight into the distance.

Except for me.

“You’re gripping the club too tight, Rockne,” said Tom, the golf pro I’d hired for the hour. He was tall, tanned, and annoyingly patient, which I figured were the main qualifications for his job.

Blackwell had been true to his word and paid me my due. The murders hadn’t gotten as much press as I’d thought they would and I wondered if the big corporate machine of professional golf had done its best to keep a lid on the dark actions in Detroit.

Rachel Yoon was dead and Adam Morse was going away for a long time.

I was between cases and a golf lesson seemed the perfect solution.

Until I actually tried to hit the ball.

“I’m not gripping it tight,” I said, adjusting my hands on the club. “I’m just trying to make sure it doesn’t fly out of my hands.”

He smirked. “Loosen up. Golf’s all about rhythm. It’s not a boxing match.”

I stepped up to the ball, trying to remember everything he’d told me in the last thirty minutes. Shoulders square, feet apart, easy backswing. As I brought the club down, I felt the satisfying thwack of contact, and for a brief, glorious moment, I thought I’d finally gotten it right.

Then the ball shot straight to the left, skidding across the grass and coming to an unceremonious stop about twenty feet away.

“Better,” Tom said diplomatically, though the twitch of his mouth betrayed him.

“Better?” I said, glaring at the ball. “That’s better?”

“You’re getting there,” he said. “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

I sighed, leaning on the club like it was a walking stick. “Maybe Rome wasn’t built in a day, but I’m pretty sure it didn’t take this long to figure out how to hit a stupid ball straight.”

Tom laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. “Stick with it, Rockne. Golf’s a game of patience.”

Patience wasn’t exactly my strong suit. After everything that had happened in the last few weeks, the idea of relaxing on a golf course felt about as foreign to me as ballroom dancing.

I tried a few more shots, each one slightly less embarrassing than the last, but the writing was on the wall. By the time the lesson was over, I’d come to a definitive conclusion: golf wasn’t my game.

I shook Tom’s hand and thanked him for his efforts, then packed up my bag and headed to the parking lot.

Sliding into the driver’s seat of the newly repaired Odyssey, I felt a familiar sense of relief. Investigating murders, chasing leads, even dodging bullets—that was where I belonged.

Golf could wait.

About the Author

Dan Ames is a USA TODAY Bestselling Author, Amazon Kindle #1 bestseller, GoodReads Readers Choice finalist and winner of the Independent Book Award for Crime Fiction.

www.authordanames.com

dan@authordanames.com

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