Accused

THIRTY-ONE

At the time of his death, Trey Rawlins was the fifth-ranked professional golfer in the world. In less than two years on tour, he had won four tournaments and $9 million in prize money. He had earned $11 million more in endorsements and $4 million more from corporate outings and appearance fees. After commissions, caddie fees, and taxes, he had $12 million in disposable income-and he had disposed of it. He had a beach house in Galveston, a condo in California, and a ski lodge in Colorado. He had a Bentley, a Hummer, a BMW racing bike, and a yacht. He had an expensive cocaine habit and a $500,000 debt to his dealer. And he had a $15-million debt to the mob.

"We were gonna cut him loose."

Twenty-one days before trial, Nick Madden was ready to confess.

"Why?"

"The bad Trey."

"Explain."

"There was the good Trey-the way he played golf, the commercials, the charity appearances, the chocolate milk… When he was good, he was very good. But when he was the bad Trey… He had a dark side. A lot of athletes do."

"Why?"

Nick rubbed his face. He seemed genuinely upset even though Pete Puckett had won the San Antonio Open, the first back-to-back wins in his long career. Two and a half million dollars in winnings in two weeks. Scott was back in Nick's Houston office the Monday after the tournament.

"I don't know, Scott. I was reading a golf magazine, they had an interview with Trevino, asked him what his prized possession was. He said his Ford Mustang. They asked a young tour player the same thing. He said his hundred-foot yacht, but he was whining because Tiger's yacht is fifty feet longer. It ain't the ball and the big drivers that changed the golf tour, it's the players' attitudes. Same with all athletes now. Like Goose said, they think they're entitled. Course, you tell a kid every day he's special from the time he's ten 'cause he can play ball, time he's twenty he's gonna believe it, figure the rules don't apply to him, that he doesn't have to live like everyone else. One time Trey sat right there and said to me, 'Nick, the only rules I follow are the Rules of Golf.' What makes a guy think like that?"

He shook his head.

"Now you know the bad Trey-cocaine and porn, gals and gambling."

"Hard to believe he could lose fifteen million gambling," Scott said.

"You read Daly's book? He said he lost fifty million gambling, had to send his endorsement checks straight to the casinos."

"So why were you dropping Trey? You were still making money off him."

"There was more to it."

"What?"

Nick picked up the remote and pointed it at the big TV on the wall. The screen flashed on to a menu. Nick scrolled down the menu then clicked.

"This."

Trey Rawlins' image filled the screen. He was young, he was handsome, and he was putting.

"Eighteenth hole, Bay Classic in California, early March. He makes this putt, he wins the tournament and one million bucks. A fucking three-foot putt."

Trey missed the putt.

"He didn't miss three-foot putts," Nick said.

Nick clicked through to another tournament and another putt to win.

"Five weeks later. Miami Open. A two-foot putt to win."

Trey missed the putt.

"Not even close," Nick said.

"The drugs?"

"The mob."

"The mob? "

"He was throwing tournaments."

"You're kidding? People gamble on golf tournaments?"

Nick chuckled. "Hell, yes, people gamble on golf tournaments. Big money. And when the difference between winning and losing comes down to one putt, it's an easy game to rig. How many times have you watched a tournament and seen a pro miss a short putt and think, how could he possibly have missed that? All you need is one player in your debt. A really good player, someone who's going to have one putt to win. Or lose."

Nick turned up the tape. The announcer was saying that the pressure got to Trey Rawlins.

"The mob got to him."

"To repay his debts?"

"That's what I figure."

"But if he'd made the putt and won, he'd have made a million bucks, paid that to the mob."

"Half that after taxes. But by losing, he probably made the mob five, six million in bets. Tax-free."

"Why wouldn't he have just played badly and missed the cut?"

"Doesn't work that way. For gamblers to make big money, they've got to win against long odds. But that means they've got to bet against the star winning, because in golf odds are the stars are gonna win every time. So the star has to be in the hunt at the end, otherwise no one's putting up any money. I mean, would you ever bet against Tiger? Neither would the mob. But the next best thing would be someone like Trey, a player who could win but who owed a big debt. He misses a short putt, you can't prove anything. Could've been nerves, a ball mark on the green, a bad putt. It happens. But not to Trey. I knew it. And I knew if he was our client-my client-when the shit hit the fan-and shit like this always hits the fan-SSI-and me — we'd always be linked to the golfer who threw tournaments. WM squared don't like that shit, Scott."

"So you were dropping him?"

"Like a bad habit." Nick exhaled. "Drinking and drugs, that's just part of the job description for a pro athlete today. But throwing tournaments-that's prison time, even for Trey Rawlins. That's a criminal trial. That's SSI-and me-dragged into court, on TV, in the newspapers, and for all the wrong reasons."

"Did you tell him?"

"They killed him first."

"You think the mob killed him?"

Nick nodded.

"Why would they kill him if he was throwing tournaments so they could win their bets?"

Nick clicked through to another tournament. "Atlanta Open. Back in May."

On the screen, Trey was stalking the green and studying a putt.

"Sixty-three-foot putt for eagle on the eighteenth hole," Nick said. "He's down by one. He makes it, he wins. Misses and he's got a long putt back for birdie to tie."

The ball sat at the back end on the high side of the green; the hole was at the front end on the low side. The announcer explained that the ball sat three feet higher than the hole, so the ball would be rolling fast down the slope. It would either go in or continue twenty feet past the hole. Trey crouched over the ball, placed his putter behind the ball, and made a smooth stroke. The ball rolled across the green, hit the big slope halfway across the green, then took a sharp turn down and picked up speed. It was rolling fast when it hit the back of the cup, popped up, and fell in. The camera cut to Trey. He appeared shocked. Nick hit the remote to freeze the frame on Trey's face.

"That's not the face of a winner. That's the face of a loser."

"What do you mean?"

"I think he was supposed to lose that tournament. When he started the final round leading by four, the betting was heavy on him-I checked. Which means the mob could bet against him and make big money if he lost. So they bet big on him to lose-but he didn't lose. He won. I figure that putt cost the mob maybe ten million, and he knew it. That's why he looks like he does."

"How do you know this?"

"I don't. I think it. If I knew someone in the mob, I'd ask."

"That's exactly what happened," Gabe Petrocelli said after his goons had patted Scott down. "But that putt cost the Vegas boys twenty million, not ten." He shook his head. "I was watching it on TV. Big breaker, no way he makes that putt. When that ball dropped and they showed Trey's face, I said, there's the face of a dead man."

"So the mob did kill him?"

"I think your wife beat them to it."

"My client."

"Can't let her go, huh?" Gabe gave Scott a knowing nod. "They get to you, don't they? It was like that with my first wife, she drove me fucking nuts every fucking day. So we split up and I started drinking 'cause I missed her." He sighed. "Don't be a drunk 'cause of a woman. Be a drunk over something important, like baseball."

"The mob wanted him dead? Trey?"

"Yeah, they were severely pissed, no question about it."

"But you had nothing to do with his death?"

He held up an open hand. "On my mother's grave. Cops here, they know me, we grew up together. A lot of them bet with me. They know what I do and what I don't do. I book… I don't kill."

"Will you take a polygraph?"

Gabe smiled. "I don't do polygraphs either."

"But how can you lose twenty million on a golf tournament?"

"Easy. Three Brits bet eighty grand each, won nineteen million on a long shot named John Daly to win the British Open in ninety-five. Scott, today, you can win or lose millions betting on anything, not just the stock market."

"But if Trey were making so much money, why didn't he just pay off his debt?"

"Fifteen million at twenty-five percent interest, that's a tough debt to repay."

"The mob charges twenty-five percent interest?"

Gabe shrugged. "Credit card companies charge thirty percent. Shit, twenty-five years ago, there were laws against that sort of thing. Banks couldn't charge more than ten percent interest. That's where we came in. Now, the sky's the limit. They took our loan-sharking business and made it legal. Same thing with gambling. Hell, ten years from now, there'll be a casino in every town in America-all the businessmen in Galveston want one here, make this place Sin City again. What's next? Drugs? Prostitution? Before long, you won't be able to make a dishonest living 'cause every vice is gonna be legal. We're expanding into Medicare fraud and your other white-collar criminal activities, but it's damn hard to compete with Wall Street."

"So what was the repayment deal?"

"Trey would throw five tournaments. He'd win some, too, and the boys would up their ante slowly, so as not to attract any attention. First two tournaments went like clockwork, the boys made a killing and Trey reduced his debt by six million. But then he made that putt. A twenty-million-dollar putt." Gabe shook his head. "The boys got greedy, bet real big. Too big."

"Trey would get to keep the money when he won?"

"Nope. Everything was divvied up. Trey got one-third."

"One-third of everything? Including the mob's winnings?"

"Yep. More money than he would've made winning those tournaments, and tax-free, the best kind of money."

"How do you know?"

"Because I made the payoff myself. At his house. Three million cash. Hundred-dollar bills."

"Why would the mob pay him when he owed them?"

"They figured on this being a long-term investment." He shrugged. "Once you're in the mob, you're in it for life."

"I wonder where that three million is now?"

Gabe shrugged again.

"Trey won the California Challenge a week before he was murdered. Didn't that make some money for the mob?"

"Not twenty million."

"I take it you wouldn't care to testify at the trial?"

"No, I don't testify either."

"I could subpoena you."

"That would be a mistake. Look, Scott, I'm a nice guy, I run a clean business, I try to be helpful. But right here, this is where I talk. Not in a courtroom. Okay?"

"I could subpoena your bosses."

"You could get yourself killed. Scott, defend your wife and get her off, I don't care. But don't go chasing after the boys in Vegas. Nothing good will come of that."

"What do you know about the Muertos? "

"Animals. See, the mob never kills for the sake of killing. It's always a business decision. And we never kill women or children or innocent bystanders. We're civilized. They're not. They give crime a bad name." Gabe nodded thoughtfully. "So gambling wasn't Trey's only vice?"

"No."

"You looking at Benito for his murder?"

Scott nodded. "And you."

Gabe smiled.

"You know Benito?"

"It's a small island. We keep tabs on our competitors for your discretionary entertainment dollars. Benito likes the horses."

"He bets with you?"

"He utilizes my services. But I don't utilize his."

"Smart."

"Benito's not a killer."

"The Muertos are."

Gabe nodded, and Scott stood to leave. "You said a lot of pro athletes gamble?"

"Yeah. From every sport. So?"

"So does the mob have other pros on the payroll, throwing football and baseball and basketball games?"

Gabe smiled. "Trade secrets, Scott."

Scott walked away. He was to the bar when Gabe called to him.

"Scott!"

Scott turned back. Gabe was pointing at the TV above the bar. Scott looked up and saw Renee Ramirez's face on the screen.

"Watch out for her, Scott. She's like a rattlesnake-pretty but deadly."

"Who killed Trey Rawlins?" Bobby said. "Pete Puckett, the Muertos, or the mob? Three prime suspects for one murder, each with a good motive."

"You're forgetting Rebecca," Scott said.

"No, I'm not."

"She's the only one without a motive."

"Why would Trey call Pete Puckett thirteen times the last week and three times on the day he died?" Karen said.

They were at the table on the back deck. Karen was reading down Trey's cell phone bills. The D.A.'s office had run the calls and identified each caller.

"He didn't call Pete," Scott said. "He called Billie Jean."

"The list says Pete Puckett."

"Phone's registered in his name, but it's Billie Jean's phone. Family plan, like the girls want."

"First call to her was on May fourteenth."

"Three weeks before his death. That's when their affair started."

"Last call was at twelve-ten P.M. that Thursday, same day he was killed." Karen tapped on her laptop keyboard. "My notes say Billie Jean was in Austin that day, and Pete was in Florida playing at the Atlantic Open tournament."

"They both lied. They were here. Billie Jean drove down from Austin in her black Mustang. She was calling Trey to tell him she was here because he left the club just after noon. Trey lied to Rebecca about practicing at the country club all day while she was shopping in Houston. He was here with Billie Jean. Pete flew in from Florida, confronted them at the house."

"If Pete was in Florida," Bobby said, "how'd he know Billie Jean was here?"

"I don't know. Karen, find out what flight Pete took that day."

She nodded then said, "Is Rebecca still willing to take a polygraph?"

"Yeah. I've asked everyone else involved to take one-Pete, Benito, Gabe-no one else wants to."

"No one else is charged with murder," Bobby said.

"I'll set it up," Karen said.

"Anything else?"

"The endorsement contracts. I reviewed the big one with Golf-a-zon. com… golf company. He endorsed their products, they paid him millions. Ten million guaranteed over two years, another ten million in performance incentives. He stood to make twenty million under that contract."

"But once they found out about his drugs and gambling, they would've terminated the contract."

Karen shook her head. "They couldn't. The contract is iron-clad."

"There's always a way out of a contract."

"Only one way out: 'Article Twelve: Termination upon death of Athlete.' "

"Trey's sponsor wanted out of his contract," Nick said.

Scott had called him from the back deck. "Why?"

"Trey showed up at their big ad party flying higher than a kite. Stumbling, couldn't speak a complete sentence, mauling their wives. Fucking fiasco. I had to drag him out of the place. They were pissed."

"But they couldn't fire him?"

"Nope. They were stuck with him."

"Unless he died."

"And he did."

"Did they terminate the contract?"

"I got an email five minutes after his death hit the news. They saved about ten million, twice that if he met his performance incentives."

"That's a pretty good motive."

"To kill Trey? Shit, Scott, take a number. The motive line is long with Trey Rawlins."

"Why didn't you tell me this?"

"You didn't ask."

"Damnit, Nick, this is a murder investigation. And we've got three weeks till Rebecca goes on trial. You need to tell me everything you know."

"I have… now."

"Where's the tour this week?"

"Austin. We're doing the Texas Waltz: Houston, San Antonio, Austin, and Dallas. I'll be there tomorrow."

"I'll find you. I want to talk to his sponsor."