Rita Mae Eddington picked up on the fourth ring. Damn. I’d hoped Jack would answer so I could set up an interview with him alone. The only number I had for him was his home phone. I hadn’t told Buckley I’d planned to talk to him. That way he couldn’t tell me not to and I could avoid defying him.
“Thanks for the cookies. Just what I needed.”
“Oh, it’s the least I could do.” Warm. Grandmotherly. Real. “Are you feeling better? Do you need some more cookies?”
I had half a tin left. That would last me two days, max. I thought about asking for more.
“I’m good for now. Thanks.” I had some sense of decorum. “May I speak with Jack?”
“He’s up at the golf course.”
“La Jolla Country Club?” I’d wait out Jack until he finished his round, then talk to him alone.
“No. We haven’t been members there for years.” Sad. “He’s up at Torrey Pines. He likes to use the putting green when he doesn’t golf with his friends. Should I tell him you called?”
Those country club monthly fees add up when you don’t have the cash flow from stealing from your own company anymore.
“I’ll call back. Thanks.”
“Is it about Randall? We sure appreciate all you’re doing.”
I doubted she’d appreciate it if I told her why I wanted to talk to Jack. “No. It’s nothing important. Thanks.”
Afternoon on a weekday, and I still had to circle the Torrey Pines Golf Course parking lot for five minutes until a space opened up. Financial setbacks, probably Jack’s gambling habit, had forced the Eddingtons to give up their membership to one of the most exclusive country clubs in Southern California. Now, Jack had to play the muni tracks like the rest of us. But if you have to play a public golf course, Torrey—with its ocean views, cool sea breezes, and rare Torrey pine trees—is hardly slumming it. The PGA holds a tournament at Torrey every year, and the USGA held the 2008 US Open there with another scheduled for 2021.
Two large, sloping, practice putting greens sat between the parking lot and clubhouse. I spotted Jack on the northernmost one. He practiced alone, putting three balls back and forth between two holes. He wore brown slacks and a sweater sporting the Eddington Golf logo. He didn’t wear the logoed clothes at home but did in public. The company he’d founded, built into an empire, and then been kicked out of by his son.
His murdered son.
“Hi, Jack.”
He popped his head up with a ready smile for whoever recognized who he once was. He saw me and the smile repositioned with less wattage. “Hello, Mr. Cahill.”
“Do you have a minute to talk?”
“Sure.” He stooped down and picked up his golf balls. “Let’s go over to the café.”
The café opposite the clubhouse had a red brick patio, and we sat at one of the outside tables.
“You enjoying your retirement?” I panorama-ed an arm. “Not a bad place to spend it.”
“Yes.”
“You still a member at La Jolla Country Club?” Conversational.
“No.” Wary.
“That’s too bad. I know the waiting list is a mile long for people wanting to join. Why did you give up your membership?”
“Does this have anything to do with Randall’s case, Mr. Cahill?” A vein pulsed under the wrinkles in his neck. “Because I’m not much for small talk.”
“Yes, it does.” I leaned across the table invading his space. “How many trips to Koreatown did you make before your son caught on and forced you to retire from Eddington Golf?”
I expected a reaction. Just not the one I got.
Jack reached into his pocket, and for a second, I thought I might have made a dangerous mistake. He pulled out a coin and placed it on the table between us. It had “Gamblers Anonymous” and “5 Years” on it.
“I’ve got five years without laying a bet of any kind.” His ears flashed red and his eyes challenged me. “I use that coin as a ball mark when I play golf to remind me that I can’t play in a game of skins or even make a Nassau bet. Anything else you’d like to know that will help free my grandson from prison, Mr. Cahill?”
“Yes.” So, Jack got straight three years after his son had been murdered. Didn’t mean he hadn’t hired the killer. “Who took the phone call from Trey Fellows about Steven Lunsdorf’s confession?”
“I did.”
My phone rang just as I left the parking lot. Buckley. That didn’t take long. I answered.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” No folksiness, just raw anger.
“Searching for the truth.”
“Fuck you and your truth. I told you to stick to the plan. The confession and the murder weapon are our only path to a new trial.” A swallowing sound. The desk drawer with the bottle of Maker’s Mark must be open. “The rest can be investigated if we ever get the damn trial. Pissing off Jack Eddington does nothing to further the cause of getting his grandson out of prison.”
“Did it ever occur to you that if Jack did hire Lunsdorf to murder his son, that he might try to sabotage your effort to free his grandson at some point?”
“You don’t give me much credit, son. Thanks for the work. Expect a check in the mail tomorrow.”
“Hold off on the check, Buckley. I’m taking Trey to find the murder weapon tomorrow. If we don’t find it, I’ll walk. The case will be over anyway.”
If I walked now, I’d still have my steady, good-paying job. If I followed the case to its conclusion, I might not. All for a case I wanted no part of less than a week ago. But I couldn’t quit now. Buckley’s words from the first night he approached me hung in my head: “a case that matters.” I finally had my teeth into one and I couldn’t let go now.
“It’s done, son.” The anger was gone. He just sounded tired now. “Jack wants you off the case.”
“Just get me a day, Buckley.” A hint of desperation hung off my words and surprised me. Maybe I needed this case more than I even knew. “Tell Jack you need me and that I won’t talk to him again. I need to see this thing through.”
“Sometimes being a truth seeker can be a hard journey.” Silence. I waited. Then, “I’ll get you a day. Then, no promises.”
“Thanks, Buckley.” I let go a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. A day might be all I needed. The case hung on finding the murder weapon. “Also, I’m going to need an extra set of hands to videotape the search tomorrow.”
“I’ll be in court tomorrow for another client. I guess I could hire the detective I was fixin’ to replace you with for just the day.”
“Fine. Tell her I’ll pick her up in front of your office tomorrow at nine-thirty.”
“How do you know I’m hiring a woman?”
I thought of Moira MacFarlane and her machine-gun voice.
“Just a hunch.”
She might get more work than just the one day if Trey Fellows didn’t back up Jack Eddington’s version of their first phone call.