Mystery in the Secluded Mansion – Extended Epilogue

The second hole of the historic and awe-inspiring Pebble Beach Golf Course was a Par 5 that could be made in two shots for long hitters. It was a long, thin fairway and was not a difficult hole, unless the golfer hit right or left into the rough. Like the rest of the course, it was beautiful, with scenic trees lining the fairway and a sprinkling of white bunkers. The motto of the course was “Golf: As Good as it Gets.” Which was why, no matter what survey is taken or what year, Pebble Beach consistently scored as number one in the country.

Drake Rivenbark’s ball lay three hundred and two yards down the center of the famous fairway, and he pulled out a three-iron for his second shot. He was in his first year as a touring pro. It could be a trying time for a rookie, surrounded by the most difficult golf courses and competing against the best players in the world.

Currently, Drake ranked 87^th on tour. While the number did not seem impressive, he was happy to be under one hundred. The official PGA ranking went to 150, and he was pleased with his standing.

He peered toward the green as the slight wind rippled across the fairway. A good-sized crowd stared at him sympathetically. Most of the golf fans rooted for the rookie because they knew the rigors of the tour. He looked around in the crowd, but didn’t see April. He had joined him on this part of the California leg of the pro tour because wanted to see Pebble Beach. Usually, she walked the holes with him but he didn’t spot her today.

He stepped behind the ball and took a practice swing. He had a natural hook, which was beneficial. If he put the ball on the green, he probably had a sure birdie. He had played well the first day. Jordan Spieth had regained his old form. He was not only making medium and long-range putts, but he was pounding the ball on the tee and sending it an easy three hundred yards. He was six under during his first round and was three under today as he played the ninth hole. Drake was four under, which placed him sixth after the first day. It was the highest he had ever been on the second day of a tournament. He wanted to be sixth or better on the third day of the tournament, too.

He rubbed his hands on a towel. They were getting a little sweaty. This was a key shot. He took one more practice swing.

“Just take it easy,” he mumbled under his breath. “Take it easy. Don’t get rushed. A smooth, easy swing, just like it was on the driving range.”

He swung and the smooth motion flowed gracefully, and he heard the firm smack denoting a good shot. The white ball soared toward the green. It flew straight then curved right during the last twenty yards of the flight. It bounced on the front of the green and rolled rapidly toward the cup, which was located toward the back. It kept rolling until it stopped about ten feet from the flag.

He breathed a sigh of relief and clenched his fist, banging the air with it. He had a sure birdie and perhaps an eagle. The crowd clapped and cheered. He nodded to the fans.

Well, he shouldn’t say a sure birdie. There was no such thing as a sure birdie on a golf course.

“Great shot, Drake,” said Austin Rielto. Rielto was another rookie on tour and was having an up-and-down year. He had missed three or of five cuts, but had placed 17^th in one of the tournaments where he qualified. He drove the ball well and his putting was a little better than fair, but he was having trouble with his short game.

“Thank you.”

Rielto had already made his shot and it had landed just short of the green, leaving him a forty-foot chip or putt, if he decided to use his putter.

Drake looked at the leaderboard. Spieth, who he had met and liked, had made a birdie and pushed his score to minus ten. But with an eagle, he would be at minus six. The front nine at Pebble Beach was easier than the back nine. A player had to score well on the first nine holes and hope to hold that score on the black nine. There were definitely some birdie holes on the first nine, but not many on the last nine.

He thought he saw April dashing through the crowd, but she disappeared again. Must be important, he thought. She always likes to see me play.

At the green, he pulled out his putter and hoped for a straight shot. While the putt was only ten feet, there were some ten-feet putts on the PGA tour that could curve twenty feet if one don’t hit them carefully. There were some curvy greens on the tour that could make Everest look level. Drake walked on the green and checked it while Rialto pulled out his putter. He bent down quickly and got a shot of elation when he saw the putt was steady. He picked up the ball and put down the small yellow marker.

He walked to the back of the green as Rielto studied his chip. He swished his club through the fairway then stepped back. For a man who had trouble with his short irons, the short was perfection. The wedge didn’t hit the ball as much as it caressed it, lifting it from the grass and sending it flying toward the cup, plopping it gently about twelve feet from the goal. It rolled nine more feet and stopped just above the cup.

“Very nice chip,” Drake said approvingly.

“I may get the hang of this game yet.”

Drake strolled to his putt and bent down to double-check the line. It still looked straight to him. It was every golfer’s dream. A short, straight birdie putt. He eased behind the ball, took a breath, and tapped the ball. It rolled into the middle of the cup. Eagle.

A roar went up from the crowd.

He slapped hands with his caddy and slipped his putter back into the bag. April appeared out of the audience and waved to him, walking over.

“Great putt, honey.”

“Thank you. Hope all the putts are that easy today.”

“Got some news for you. The Circuit Court ruled against Withers. Almost unanimous.”

“Really? Well, that’s good news. We were waiting to hear that.”

They walked toward the next tee, a par four that was not a difficult hole. Most of those were on the back nine.

“He was pulling games until the end. But it’s over now.” She blinked. “I think. Isn’t it?”

“Should be. His lawyers can appeal the case to the Supreme Court, but I don’t think the court will take it up. I don’t think there’s any outstanding legal issue involved in the case. Usually, that’s needed for the Supreme Court to take it on. But since it’s such a high-profile case, they might give it a look… but it’s doubtful.”

They moved to the third tee. Withers, always one to be sneaky, had waited until the last day it was legally available and withdrew his plea deal. He’d demanded a trial. What advantage there was in that, Drake had never understood, but Withers clearly thought there some advantage it. He had the best lawyers that money could be and possibly his high-priced attorneys could at least get one juror out of twelve to come back with not guilty.

But he couldn’t. The jury convicted him of several dozen of the charges against him, and the judge had sentenced him to life in prison. His lawyers had appealed to the Federal Circuit Judges. There were 15 of them on the Fourth Circuit bench.

April was whispering, but Drake held up his hand. Since he’d made an eagle, it was his honor to tee off first. He took his driver and teed up his ball. The golf course managers raised their sticks, indicating they wanted quiet on the course. The fairway was straight. No special shot was needed. Drake could hook or slice a ball if he wanted, but all that was needed on this hole was a straight shot. On the pro tour, however, you never get overconfident. One bad swing could cost you at best a stroke or two—or, at worst, the tournament.

The ball shot down the fairway like a rocket. It bounced once and stayed still. Drake estimated it had gone about two hundred and ninety yards. He watched as Rialto hit his drive. It looked like it was going right, dangerously close to the rough, but it straightened out and landed safely on the fairway.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt you,” Drake said. “Please, continue.”

“Well, it took eight months, but the decision finally came down today. The circuit has a couple of openings, so there’s just thirteen on the appellate bench right now. The vote was 11-2 to confirm the conviction. So Withers is still stuck in federal prison.”

“Good. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

“Oh, by the way, remember Barry Largent?”

“The CIA guy who interviewed us… for hours and hours?”

“Yes. He was very thorough. Did I tell you he hit on me?”

“No, but since you are incredibly lovely, amazingly talented, and a vivacious personality—with a great butt—I’m not surprised. But I’m glad you didn’t shoot him.”

“I was tempted but no, I didn’t. He was doing some follow-up interviews. You won’t be able to guess—”

She stopped when Rielto walked behind his ball. He only needed an eight iron to get to the green. He lifted the ball and it sailed toward the pen. Sailed too much toward the pen. It hit just three feet from the cup, then bounced hard and rolled past fifteen feet.

Drake was ten yards ahead of his playing partner. He took a wedge. The pen was in a good position, almost in the center of the free, accessible to the golfers. He bounced his ball twenty feet in back of the pen, but he spun it and the ball rolled back 10 feet, giving him another good opportunity for a birdie.

“Hold that thought until I get back,” he asked April. He grabbed his putter and walked toward the green.

The crowd groaned when Rielto’s ball rolled toward the cup but, at the last second, swirled right and lipped out. Drake sighed. No golfer liked to see that happen. He stood over his own putt and gave it a firm tap. It veered slightly left, which Drake did not expect. He’d thought it was a straight putt, but sometimes, the greens could fool you. The ball stayed left and went an inch wide as it passed the cup. Drake walked to it and putted it the last two inches into the cup.

“Shucks,” he said. A golf pro needed every putt he could make in a tournament. He hated to let one get away from him. But then again, he couldn’t make them all. Only Tiger Woods in his prime could do that.

“You want to talk now? We can wait until the round is over. Figured you’d want to hear the news as soon as possible,” April said.

“It’s a fair walk to the next tee. Go ahead and tell me the rest of the story.”

“Withers’ intention was to sell his company to the Chinese, after they had sold off the equivalent of Fort Knox. An investigation revealed they had already heavily penetrated the CSG corporation. A lot of the important information was already being siphoned off to China.”

“That doesn’t exactly surprise me. China has been hacking us for years.”

“But hacking goes both ways. The government doesn’t want to the public or the Chines to knew, but they moved in quickly and are now hacking information from the Chinese.”

“Do tell.”

“I do. Or rather, he did. He was very conversant.”

“Government agents are not supposed to do that.”

“Well, I was interested in those details, and he liked my legs. He just began talking and didn’t stop for a while.”

“That is interesting. And the government kept all the national security stuff out of the trial, which I thought was a wise decision.”

“So, with the court decision, this finally wraps up. Unless the Supreme Court takes it up, and I doubt that very much.”

“Hear this on the Internet?”

“Yes, this morning the ruling was released,” April confirmed.

“I gather he never confessed.”

“Nope. That’s a shame, because in addition to being, let’s be honest, highly skilled in technology, he is also a highly skilled criminal. It had to take a mastermind to put all of that together.” She smiled and tapped Drake on the shoulder. “Just think what he could have achieved if he just used his talents for good. Would have been a much happier life for him. And he could have won the admiration of his colleagues instead of spending the rest of his life in prison.”

“That’s true.”

“He only made one mistake when he tried to build his criminal mastermind creation.”

“One mistake?”

“Yes, honey. He invited us. He might have gotten away with it if he had just chosen two other guests. Do you think he really wanted to match wits with us?”

“He might have. Some criminals are egotists and they do like to challenge and try to best people. Some of them have egos as big as the orb of Jupiter.”

“Guess he didn’t think how good we really were.”

“We were a bit lucky, too. Let’s not get cocky. I will say that to myself if I ever walk down the 18^th hole with a lead in a tournament. I won’t get cocky. I will be very, very cautious, though.”

“Your shot, Drake,” Rielto interjected.

The sixth hole at Pebble Beach may have been the most beautiful and breathtaking in all of golf. It was a par three, but the tee/fairway stretched only about fifty yards. Then, the fair took a steep—very steep—drop, straight down. The par three green was about four stories down below, on a ledge cut out of a mountain. The green had the Pacific Ocean on three sides of it, with waves crashing into the rocks. It was stunning to look at but, of course, the pro golfers at Pebble Beach were less concerned with the beauty than navigating their ball straight down onto the green where they could get at least a par, if not a birdie. It was a particularly difficult hole when there was a strong wind blowing. If so, prayer is highly recommended to get a par. On a calm day, however, a golfer could make a good shot if he was steady. The shot was not difficult per se, but remained intimidating due to the geography.

Drake pulled a wedge out of his bag. The flag was at the back of the green, close to the Pacific. He took one practice swing, then, feeling comfortable, he placed his club behind the ball. April thought he looked very graceful when he swung. The ball rose slowly and flew over the edge of the tee before easing down and bouncing on the middle of the green. But it only bounced once, moving just about three feet. Drake was still about twenty feet from the flag. Which he didn’t mind. He should make a two-putt par, a score most professional golfers would accept on top-flight courses.

“Nice shot, Drake,” Rialto said.

“Any shot that doesn’t go in the Pacific Ocean this hole is a nice shot. Now it’s a long walk down.” He smiled and looked at April. “One good thing about pro golf is you get a caddy to carry your bag.”

She laughed.

“How is the transition coming? Is the shop in your own name yet?”

“We just have to sign the papers. Tequesta decided she wanted her own shop, and I admit, I wanted to be the sole owner of ‘Treasures.’ With money from the antique books I received, I was able to buy her out. There will still be a little money I owe her, but 90 percent of the sale is made. The papers are ready. All we have to do is sign. It’s a very amicable breakup. Both sides are very happy, and we are still best friends, and always will be. But it will be… kind of a new start in life.”

“But I’m sure you will be very successful.”

“And let’s put our detective days behind us. No more catching crooks. We will be respected businesspeople.”

Drake smiled. “Sounds good to me.”

THE END

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