She stopped, her chest heaving. “I want you both to know that.”

“We know,” Victoria said. Then: “Let’s all sit down.”

When they were settled in their seats, Victoria continued to take charge. “I know it’s early, but I want to start thinking about reasonable doubt. Their case will have holes. I’ll be sure to exploit them. But I’d like to hear some alternative theories on what happened.”

“In other words,” Myron said, “some other suspects.”

Victoria caught something in his tone. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

“Well, you already have one ace in the hole, don’t you?”

Victoria nodded coolly. “I do.”

“Tad Crispin, right?”

This time, Linda did indeed look surprised. Victoria remained unfazed. “Yes, he’s a suspect.”

“The kid hired me last night,” Myron said. “Talking about him would be a conflict of interest.”

“Then we won’t talk about him.”

“I’m not sure that’s good enough.”

“Then you’ll have to dump him as a client,” Victoria said. “Linda hired you first. Your obligation must be to her. If you feel that there is a conflict, then you’ll have to call Mr. Crispin and tell him that you cannot represent him.”

Trapped. And she knew it.

“Let’s talk about other suspects,” Myron said.

Victoria nodded. Battle won. “Go ahead.”

“First off, Esme Fong.” Myron filled them in on all the reasons that she made a good suspect. Again Victoria looked sleepy; Linda looked semi-homicidal.

“She seduced my son?” Linda shouted. “The bitch came into my house and seduced my son?”

“Apparently so.”

“I can’t believe it. That’s why Chad was at that sleazy motel?”

“Yup—”

“Okay,” Victoria interrupted. “I like it. This Esme Fong has motive. She has means. She was one of the few people who knew where Chad was.”

“She also has an alibi for the killing,” Myron added.

“But not a great one. There must be other ways in and out of that hotel. She could have worn a disguise. She could have sneaked out when Miguel took a bathroom break. I like her. Who else?”

“Lloyd Rennart.”

“Who?”

“Jack’s former caddie,” Myron explained. “The one who helped throw the Open.”

Victoria frowned. “Why him?”

“Look at the timing. Jack returns to the site of his greatest failure and suddenly all this happens. It can’t be a coincidence. Firing Rennart ruined his life. He became a drunk. He killed his own wife in a car crash.”

“What?” It was Linda.

“Not long after the Open, Lloyd totaled his car while DWI. His wife was killed.”

Victoria asked, “Did you know her?”

Linda shook her head. “We never met his family. In fact, I don’t think I ever saw Lloyd outside of our home or the golf course.”

Victoria crossed her arms and leaned back. “I still do not see what makes him a viable suspect.”

“Rennart wanted vengeance. He waited twenty-three years to get it.”

Victoria frowned again.

“I admit that it’s a bit of a stretch.”

“A bit? It’s ridiculous. Do you know where Lloyd Rennart is now?”

“That’s a little complicated.”

“Oh?”

“He may have committed suicide.”

Victoria looked at Linda, then at Myron. “Would you please elaborate?”

“The body was never found,” Myron said. “But everyone thinks he jumped off a cliff in Peru.”

Linda groaned. “Oh, no …”

“What is it?” Victoria asked.

“We got a postcard from Peru.”

“Who did?”

“It was addressed to Jack, but it was unsigned. It arrived last fall or winter.”

Myron’s pulse raced. Last fall or winter. About the time Lloyd allegedly jumped. “What did it say?”

“It only had two words on it,” Linda said. “ ‘Forgive me.’ ” Silence.

Victoria broke it. “That doesn’t sound like the words of a man out for revenge.”

“No,” Myron agreed. He remembered what Esperanza had learned about the money Rennart had used to buy his house and bar. This postcard now confirmed what he had already suspected: Jack had been sabotaged. “But it also means that what happened twenty-three years ago was no accident.”

“So what good does that do us?” Victoria asked.

“Someone paid Rennart off to throw the U.S. Open. Whoever did that would have motive.”

“To kill Rennart maybe,” Victoria countered. “But not Jack.”

Good point. Or was it? Somebody had hated Jack enough twenty-three years ago to destroy his chances of winning the Open. Maybe that hatred had not died. Or maybe Jack had learned the truth and thus had to be quieted. Either way, it was worth looking into.

“I do not want to go digging into the past,” Victoria said. “It could make things very messy.”

“I thought you liked messy. Messy is fertile land for reasonable doubt.”

“Reasonable doubt, I like,” she said. “But the unknown, I don’t. Look into Esme Fong. Look into the Squires family. Look into whatever. But stay away from the past, Myron. You never know what you might find back there.”

37

On the car phone: “Mrs. Rennart? This is Myron Bolitar.”

“Yes, Mr. Bolitar.”

“I promised that I’d call you periodically. To keep you updated.”

“Have you learned something new?”

How to proceed? “Not about your husband. So far, there is no evidence that suggests Lloyd’s death was anything other than a suicide.”

“I see.”

Silence.

“So why are you calling me, Mr. Bolitar?”

“Have you heard about Jack Coldren’s murder?”

“Of course,” Francine Rennart said. “It’s on every station.” Then: “You don’t suspect Lloyd—”

“No,” Myron said quickly. “But according to Jack’s wife, Lloyd sent Jack a postcard from Peru. Right before his death.”

“I see,” she said again. “What did it say?”

“It had only two words on it: ‘Forgive me.’ He didn’t sign it.”