Page 96 of Wild Fever
Barclay sat at his desk and tapped a few keys to wake up his all-in-one computer. After he entered his password, he pulled up the feeds from the parking lot.
Barclay invited me to take a look, and we huddled around the screen. “What time frame are we looking at?”
I told him, and he scrubbed through the footage. We watched multiple feeds.
“There!” I said, spotting Preston.
Barclay zoomed in, and we watched the events unfold.
A wide-angle lens above the pro shop captured a view of the cart staging area, bag pickup and drop off, and the parking lot beyond.
Preston hurried out of the pro shop, looking over his shoulder with a nervous glance. From the way he acted, it looked likesomeone was following him. He glanced around the area, then dropped something into a golf bag hitched to the back of cart #7, which was waiting on the path. Preston continued a brisk walk through the parking lot to his car.
A moment later, two gentlemen emerged from the pro shop, wearing dark suits. They glanced around, spotted Preston as he got into his car, and followed him into the parking lot.
An instant later, Lance Wentworth stepped out of the pro shop, hopped into cart #7 with his golfing buddy, and zipped down the path for his last round.
I asked Barclay to export the clip and send it to me.
He did. “This is the same footage the FBI guy wanted. What’s this all about?”
“I’m not sure, but I have ideas. Do you know if Lance kept his bag here after the round?”
“Usually, but I’m pretty sure he took it this time. We checked when the FBI guy was here. He seemed interested in the same thing you are.”
I had my doubts he was FBI. “Are you sure he was a fed?”
Barclay shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess. He flashed some credentials, but I didn’t pay much attention. Like I said, we’ve had so many law enforcement types around since the senator’s death. I just give them what they want. It’s easier. I don’t need a bunch of pissed off cops after me.”
I thanked him for the info, gave him a card, and hurried back toward the parking lot. I called Vanessa along the way. “Hey, sorry to bother you so early. I think I know what those peoplewere after. You wouldn’t happen to have your dad’s golf clubs, would you?”
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“Yeah,” Vanessa said. “Why would anyone be after my dad’s golf bag?”
“I’ll explain later,” I said. “Where is it?”
"His clubs are in the trunk of my car. I was so afraid my brother would come over and steal them and they'd end up in a pawnshop."
"Are they still there?"
"Last I checked, why?"
"Where are you? I'm coming over."
"I’m at my condo.”
"I'll be right there."
I ended the call, straddled the crotch rocket, and zipped out of the parking lot. I headed over to the Trident and pulled up to the valet. Vanessa met me there, and we had the valet pull her car around. She drove a pearl white Mercedes C-class.
I waited with bated breath as she popped the trunk. Anybody could have bribed the valet—if they knew the bag was in the trunk.
The lid lifted, and to my relief, the clubs were still there.
I pulled the bag from the trunk and started removing the clubs. I set them in the trunk for the time being.
“What are you looking for?” Vanessa asked with a wrinkled face.
